I didn't sleep.
Not truly.
I closed my eyes, sure. Listened to the occasional howl of the wind outside. Shifted under the covers. Counted the soft ticking of Mum's enchanted grandfather clock downstairs—each tick too slow, each tock far too loud.
But sleep? No. My mind was too busy rehearsing everything I was about to see. Everything I might become.
Witchcraft. Wizardry. Hogwarts.
I kept whispering the words like a secret chant under my breath.
When morning finally came, it did so gently. The faint glow of dawn slipped through my curtains and painted my desk in pale gold. The letter still lay on the wooden surface, right where I'd left it. Unfolded. Treasured. Real.
I touched the wax seal again, tracing it slowly.
H.
I hadn't imagined it.
---
By the time I stumbled into the kitchen, Mum was already up, levitating two cups of tea and scribbling in a floating notebook with her usual look of absent-minded genius. She wore her dark curls tied up in a lopsided bun, her green Ministry of Magic robes half-buttoned and draped in ink stains. Her glasses were perched at the very tip of her nose.
"Morning, Rowan," she said without looking up. "Still buzzing?"
My yawn answered her.
Dad sat at the other end of the kitchen table, bleary-eyed and wrapped in a cozy brown jumper that read "Muggle Studies Department – Never Underestimate Toasters." He was staring at his tea like it had insulted him personally.
"You look like you slept under a troll," he grunted.
"Thanks, Dad."
Mum snapped her fingers and a plate of toast floated over, landing softly in front of me.
"Eat," she said. "We've got a big day ahead. Diagon Alley won't wait forever."
"Is it really called that?" I asked, already biting into warm, buttery toast.
Dad grinned behind his mug. "Diagonally, actually. But only if you're in a hurry."
Mum groaned. "Ignore him. Diagon Alley is where you'll get all your school supplies—robes, books, ingredients, maybe even an owl if you behave."
"And a wand," I whispered, voice dropping slightly as the weight of that word settled on me again.
They both looked at me.
"Yeah," Dad said, smile softening. "And your wand."
---
We traveled by Floo Powder.
Let me tell you something: it sounds magical, and it is—if you enjoy the experience of being thrown into a spinning tornado made of soot and anxiety. I stood in our living room fireplace, clutched a pinch of green powder, and shouted "The Leaky Cauldron!" with all the confidence of someone who had never done this before.
The next thing I knew, I was tumbling through green flame, bouncing between stone fireplaces, catching glimpses of strange shops and people mid-tea before finally being spat out onto a dusty, creaking hearth.
I stumbled out coughing, covered in ash.
Mum landed gracefully behind me. Dad tripped and fell flat on his face.
Business as usual.
---
The Leaky Cauldron was dim and warm, filled with murmured conversations and floating candlelight. No one seemed particularly surprised by our sudden arrival, though a wizard in a purple cloak did eye my soot-covered jumper and mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "First-years."
We didn't stay long.
Mum led us to the back courtyard, where she tapped a brick wall with her wand in a precise pattern.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap-tap.
A faint tremble moved through the wall like something ancient waking up—and then the bricks began to shift. Slowly, steadily, folding inward like puzzle pieces rearranging themselves until they revealed—
Diagon Alley.
---
Magic lives here.
It hums in the cobblestones. It sings through the air. The colors are too bright, the sounds too sharp, the smells too strange to belong to the ordinary world.
Everywhere I looked, something new tugged at my attention.
A witch with rainbow-colored hair sold ice cream that changed flavor mid-lick. A pair of twins chased a floating top hat that kept teleporting above them. Broomsticks hovered in shop windows, rattling their handles as if impatient to be ridden.
A cauldron outside Slug & Jiggers Apothecary was bubbling with a potion that hissed and glowed lime green.
A sign nearby warned, "Do Not Sniff Too Closely Unless You Like Exploding Eyebrows."
I couldn't help grinning. "This place is… insane."
"Isn't it brilliant?" Mum said, tucking her arm around my shoulder.
---
But no shop held my attention like Ollivanders.
It was narrower than I expected. Older. Quieter. Tucked between larger, flashier storefronts, but somehow more alive than all of them. A single window held one wand on a velvet cushion, as though even one was enough.
When we stepped inside, the world hushed.
The air smelled like cedar and old secrets. Tall, thin shelves ran from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with slender wand boxes. Thousands of them. And yet it felt like the whole shop was holding its breath. Watching.
Then—
A soft voice.
"I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Mr. Everglen."
I turned. An elderly man stepped forward from between the shelves, his silver-white hair as wispy as mist. He wore long robes and moved like someone who belonged to the walls themselves. His eyes—cloudy, pale, but oddly piercing—studied me with quiet intensity.
"I am Garrick Ollivander," he said. "And you are here for your wand."
I nodded, unsure if speaking would disturb something sacred.
Ollivander moved with eerie speed. Boxes floated toward him as he murmured numbers and materials to himself.
"Let's try… nine inches, beechwood, unicorn hair. Firm."
He placed the wand in my hand.
It did nothing.
No warmth. No tingle. Just a stick.
Ollivander snatched it away before I could even wave it.
"No, no. Not that one. Perhaps… elder wood with dragon heartstring? No… no, no…"
Wand after wand.
One gave off a puff of smoke.
Another buzzed like a startled bee.
One even cracked a nearby lamp.
I was starting to sweat.
Then Ollivander paused.
A strange look crossed his face—something like curiosity. Or reverence.
He whispered to himself, "Curious…"
He reached up, higher than he had for any other wand. A dusty black box slid gently into his waiting hands. He opened it slowly, as if afraid of waking whatever was inside.
"Rowan wood. Eleven and three-quarters inches. Phoenix feather core. Supple."
He looked at me. "Go on. Try it."
---
The moment my fingers curled around the wand—
The room shivered.
A soft pulse of golden light spiraled from the tip, dancing up my arm like warm lightning. The air thickened, charged with something ancient. My hair lifted. My heartbeat quickened.
It was like the wand was recognizing me. Not just touching my hand, but reaching somewhere deeper. A whisper beneath the skin.
Ollivander smiled. A rare, knowing smile.
"Ah," he breathed. "Phoenix feather. There it is."
I stared at the wand. "What… does that mean?"
Ollivander stepped closer, voice low, deliberate.
"Phoenix feather cores are rare. Difficult. Powerful. The creatures themselves only give a few feathers in their lifetime. Wands with phoenix cores are known for their versatility—and their independence."
"Independence?"
"They choose their masters more carefully than any other core. And they may not perform well for anyone else. Ever."
He paused, letting that settle.
"They bond deeply. Unusually. Often, their owners are destined for great things… though not always in the way they expect."
I swallowed hard. The wand felt alive in my hand.
"Rowan wood," he added, "is known for wizards and witches with a clear sense of purpose, often ahead of their time. When paired with a phoenix… well." He smiled faintly. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Everglen. And this one chose you."
---
We stepped outside into the sun.
I still held the wand, unable to let go. Its warmth hadn't faded. It hummed softly against my skin, like it was still breathing with me.
For the first time in my life, I felt like something had finally found me.
Like it had been waiting.
Like it already knew where I was going—even if I didn't.
---