August 1991
Sean sat at his new desk, its polished oak a stark contrast to the splintered wreck of its predecessor.
He flipped through the worn notebook Gideon had given him, his brows knitting tighter with each page. With a heavy sigh, he snapped it shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.
The notebook was a treasure trove of Gideon's conjectures and magical insights from his school days through young adulthood. Its contents were remarkable—spells, theories, and experimental charms scrawled in a confident hand.
For a wizard of Gideon's caliber, it was a testament to decades of mastery. But for Sean, it was a riddle wrapped in a headache.
The notes were dense, disorganized, and maddeningly abstract.
Gideon had jotted thoughts as they came, assuming a reader with his own deep magical knowledge. The early pages offered simple charms Sean could grasp, but the later sections—riddled with arcane symbols and cryptic references—were impenetrable.
To understand them, he'd need years of Hogwarts training and a solid foundation in magical theory.
Other time travelers probably mastered wandless magic by age ten, Sean thought bitterly. Me? I'm stumped by a notebook.
Clearly, I'm the discount model of reincarnated wizard.
Grumbling to himself, he set the notebook aside and stood, stretching his stiff limbs. He needed a break from deciphering Gideon's scribbles.
Yesterday, an owl had swooped through their window, delivering a parchment sealed with the Hogwarts crest.
Sean's acceptance letter had arrived, confirming his place at the school. He'd shrugged it off—another step in this strange new life—but Adrian and Margaret had been ecstatic, their eyes shining as if they were the ones bound for the castle.
Sean understood their joy.
As Squibs, they'd spent their lives on the fringes of the wizarding world, yearning for the magic they could never wield. His admission to Hogwarts was their dream fulfilled by proxy, a chance to bask in the glow of a world that had shunned them.
Their excitement was infectious, though Sean kept his own anticipation tightly leashed.
He changed into a crisp shirt and trousers, then stepped into the living room.
Adrian and Margaret stood by the door, dressed in their finest—a tailored coat for Adrian, a deep green dress for Margaret.
Their eager smiles suggested they were more impatient than Sean to begin the day's adventure.
Adrian and Margaret knew Diagon Alley well, having visited in their youth despite their lack of magic. They led Sean to the Leaky Cauldron with practiced ease, navigating the bustling Muggle streets until the dingy pub came into view.
A barmaid, her apron stained with butterbeer, tapped the correct bricks in the alley wall, and the archway to Diagon Alley yawned open.
The cobblestone street buzzed with life. Muggle families, wide-eyed and clutching Hogwarts letters, mingled with wizarding parents in flowing robes.
Children darted between shops, their arms laden with parcels.
The air hummed with chatter, the clink of Galleons, and the occasional hoot of owls perched on shop signs. Muggle-borns outnumbered wizarding families, as many pure-bloods and half-bloods had already stocked up on supplies, needing only textbooks before term began.
Shopping, Sean discovered, was a universal delight, even among wizards.
The family threw themselves into the task with gusto. At Gringotts, they exchanged Gideon's gold-embossed parchment for a pouch of gleaming Galleons, the wizarding bank's vaults echoing with the clatter of coins.
Margaret fussed over a set of tailored robes for Sean, ensuring the fit was perfect, while Adrian staggered under a stack of heavy tomes from Flourish and Blotts, muttering about the weight of knowledge.
Their final stop was the one Sean had anticipated most: Ollivanders Wand Shop.
Tucked on the south side of Diagon Alley, the shop's faded sign and dusty windows belied its importance. Through the glass, Sean glimpsed towers of wand boxes stacked to the ceiling, each holding a spark of potential.
As the family stepped inside, the cramped space felt even smaller, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and old magic.
Sean approached the counter, clearing his throat. "Excuse me, is anyone here?"
"Good morning," came a soft voice. An old man emerged from the back, his silver hair slightly disheveled, his eyes glinting like starlight.
He nodded at the family. "Hogwarts students, I presume?"
"Yes, sir," Sean replied. "I need a wand."
"Naturally. Every Hogwarts student requires a wand suited to their spirit." Ollivander retrieved a ledger from beneath the counter, dipping a quill in ink. "Your name, please?"
"Sean Bulstrode."
At the surname, Ollivander's gaze flicked upward, studying Sean briefly before recording the name. "Hold out your dominant hand."
Sean extended his right hand. Ollivander produced a measuring tape, which moved with a life of its own, sizing Sean's arm, wrist, and fingers with unnerving precision.
Satisfied, he turned to the shelves and selected a slender box.
"Every Ollivander wand is unique," he said, almost to himself. "We measure carefully to find the perfect match. A wizard always finds their wand here."
Sean's lips twitched. Did Ollivander rehearse this speech for every customer? The man's pride in his craft was practically a spell of its own.
"Silver lime and unicorn hair, twelve inches," Ollivander announced, opening the box. "Ideal for divination and memory charms."
Sean took the wand, but before he could wave it, Ollivander shook his head, snatching it back. "No, not quite right. A good fit, but not perfect."
Muttering, he climbed a ladder to a high shelf, retrieving a dusty box. He brushed it clean and opened it with care.
"Blackthorn and dragon heartstring, eleven and three-quarter inches. A warrior's wand, brimming with power. Its wielder will grow formidable."
Sean grasped the wand and gave it a tentative wave. A shelf to his left exploded, wand boxes cascading to the floor in a chaotic clatter.
He froze, then carefully returned the wand to its box, avoiding Ollivander's gaze.
The shopkeeper, far from upset, beamed as if Sean had passed a test. "Fascinating," he murmured, seizing Sean's hand to inspect it again. "A discerning customer. I'll find your match."
As Ollivander rummaged through his shelves, Sean's attention drifted.
A wand box, dislodged in the earlier explosion, lay near the counter, its lid ajar.
The dark wand inside seemed to hum with energy, drawing his gaze. Compelled by an instinct he couldn't name, Sean reached out and gripped its handle.
A spark leapt from the wand's tip, singeing the box with tiny arcs of electricity.
Sean waved it gently, and blue sparks traced a shimmering arc through the air, casting fleeting shadows on the shop's walls.
Ollivander, holding a new box, turned just in time to witness the display. His eyes widened, the new wand forgotten in his hand.