The narrow, dusty shop of Ollivanders stood like a relic from another time, wedged between larger, brighter storefronts. Its crooked windows and flaking gold lettering gave it the air of something ancient. Myrddin paused on the threshold, the weight of something unspoken curling around him like mist.
He stepped inside.
The scent of wood, wax, and something faintly electric filled the air. The door shut behind him with a quiet chime, and almost immediately, the silence changed. The air seemed to pulse. The walls—lined from floor to ceiling with thin wand boxes—shivered.
Not metaphorically.
They shivered.
Several boxes rattled in place. One clinked softly as if it had jumped a fraction of an inch. Another gave off a low hum.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "That... doesn't happen often."
"Do they always do that?" Myrddin asked.
"Not quite like this," she admitted.
From the gloom beyond the counter, a voice emerged.
"Ah. Curious. Very curious."
The man who stepped forward was both older and sharper than Myrddin had expected. Garrick Ollivander's silvery hair caught the light like moonlight on water, and his pale eyes seemed to see more than sight should allow.
"You must be Myrddin Wyllt."
Myrddin frowned slightly. "How do you know that?"
"I know every witch and wizard who passes through my door. Either because I knew their parents, or their grandparents. And for those I do not—" he smiled faintly "—Albus Dumbledore provides me a list before each school year. Helps with preparation. Though truthfully, I have enough wands here to outfit Britain twice over."
He paused. "But some wands... some are waiting for someone very specific."
Myrddin glanced at the shelves. "They moved. When I walked in. Why?"
Ollivander's head tilted. "Because some of them thought they might be yours."
He moved with the grace of someone who had done this thousands of times, pulling down boxes, opening lids, offering wands.
Ash, eleven and a half inches, unicorn hair. Too brittle.
Maple, nine inches, phoenix feather. Rejected him violently.
Alder. Hazel. Hawthorn. They sparked, flared, fizzled.
Each one left a residue in the air, something unsatisfied. Like a lock resisting the wrong key.
Myrddin began to feel something strange—not frustration, but anticipation. The sense of circling something important.
Ollivander paused, rubbing his chin. "Hmmm... no, no, not quite."
Then he turned, his eyes brightening.
"One moment."
He vanished into the back of the shop.
McGonagall arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
Myrddin shifted his weight. The hum in the air hadn't gone away. It pressed against his skin like static, whispering.
Ollivander returned a moment later, holding a wand box that looked older than the rest. The wood was darker, more richly grained. He opened the lid slowly.
The wand within was a masterpiece. Eleven inches. Chestnut wood, carved into a flowing, organic pattern—almost like overlapping leaves near the base, tapering into a smooth shaft. It gleamed subtly in the light.
[Wand]
"Chestnut," Ollivander said softly. "Eleven inches. Nice and supple. The core is... thestral tail hair."
McGonagall's eyes widened. "You don't use thestral hair."
Ollivander nodded. "I don't. This wand was not made by me. It was crafted by a dear friend. Sean Caine."
At the name, Myrddin felt a shift in the world.
A lurch in his gut.
The shop held its breath.
But only he seemed to feel it.
McGonagall blinked. "Sean Caine? I've never heard of him."
Ollivander smiled wistfully. "Most haven't. He was... a bit mad. Brilliant, but quite mad. One day, he walked in and said he was bored of life and wanted to see what The Veil would do to him."
McGonagall's eyes snapped to him.
"The Veil?"
"At the Department of Mysteries, yes. The one behind which Death is said to reside. He simply walked through it. Never came back."
McGonagall shuddered. "Foolish."
"Or brave," Ollivander said softly.
Everything slowed. His ears rang faintly. In that moment, a sound cut through it: a feminine giggle. Soft. Distant. Followed by a man's voice whispering in his sleep:
"I love you, my death."
The words made no sense.
And yet they eased something inside him. Like a chain had quietly unlocked and fallen away.
Olivander turned to Myrddin.
"Try it."
Myrddin took the wand.
Warmth bloomed through his fingers like a pulse. Not fire. Not light. Earth.
Leaves.
Rain.
He lifted it instinctively and gave a light flick.
A burst of golden-green sparks leapt from the tip, forming for a moment the shape of a leaf spiraling in wind before fading.
Ollivander let out a long breath. "Yes. That's the one."
Myrddin stared at the wand.
It felt like home.
Like the forest.
Like the cat.
Alive.
He didn't speak. Just nodded.
McGonagall said nothing at first. Then quietly, "Unusual wand. Unusual wizard."
Ollivander just smiled.
"The wand chooses the wizard, Mrs McGonagall. But sometimes... it remembers why."
They left the shop shortly after, the door chiming gently behind them. The weight of the wand at his side was comforting, but more than that, it listened. He could feel it. It didn't just obey—it understood.
Myrddin said nothing of the vision. Or the voice. Or the name Sean Cain. He didn't want McGonagall asking questions he couldn't answer.
But deep down, something had changed.
A door had opened.
He had stepped through.