Quirks in Wizarding World

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- Diagon Alley, London -

- June 22, 1991 -

The pouch of galleons, sickles, and knuts jingled in Arthav's hands as they stepped out of Gringotts and back into the bustling chaos of Diagon Alley. The afternoon sun shone brightly, making the cobbled street gleam. Vendors called out their wares, students ran excitedly from shop to shop, and the air thrummed with barely restrained magic.

Emily glanced at her son, noting the spark of excitement in his eyes. "Let's start with your uniform," she said, steering him toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

The bell chimed softly as they entered the shop, which was lined with rows of neatly arranged robes. The scent of fresh fabric lingered in the air.

A squat, cheerful witch In deep purple robes bustled toward them. "Ah! Hogwarts first-year?" she asked brightly.

Arthav nodded.

"Stand right here, dear." She gestured toward a small platform, where a floating tape measure immediately set to work. It zipped around him, noting measurements as bolts of fabric floated from the shelves.

Emily took a seat nearby, watching as Madam Malkin hummed to herself while adjusting the fit. Within minutes, three sets of standard black Hogwarts robes were ready, each one embroidered with "Arthav C. Nair" on the inside collar in delicate silver stitching.

"I added a slight enchantment to prevent fraying," Madam Malkin mentioned as she packed them. "Young wizards can be rough on their robes."

Arthav grinned. "Thank you."

With his robes in hand, they made their way to Flourish and Blotts.

If the rest of Diagon Alley was lively, the bookstore was its own kind of chaotic. Stacks of books teetered precariously, some floating mid-air as employees struggled to shelve them. The scent of parchment and ink filled the room. Students were already picking out their required reading, but Arthav wasted no time diving into the shelves.

He found the standard first-year books easily: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), Magical Theory, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration—all the essentials. But he wasn't done.

His hands trailed over books on enchantments, ancient runes, alchemy, and magical theory beyond his year. He grabbed several extra texts, some meant for third or even fifth-years.

Emily, watching from the side, smirked. "You remind me of myself," she said, taking a particularly thick tome from his pile. Advanced Magical Applications: Theories and Practices. "Ravenclaws are insatiable when it comes to knowledge."

Arthav grinned. "Can't hurt to be ahead."

They left the shop with several heavy bags, much to the amusement of the cashier, and moved on to the apothecary.

The pungent smell of herbs and potion ingredients hit them immediately. Dried plants hung from the ceiling, vials of colorful liquids lined the shelves, and jars filled with strange creatures in various states of preservation glowed under enchanted light.

A wizened old wizard behind the counter handed over a standard potion kit containing basics like bezoars, dried nettles, and unicorn horn shavings. Arthav also selected a sturdy pewter cauldron, not wanting to risk the cheaper collapsible ones.

Next was a set of brass scales, glass phials, and a telescope from a small shop tucked between two larger ones. Each item was carefully packed away until all that remained was one final stop. He didn't waste his time and money for getting a pet or owl as he knew that the owls here will not survive Indian weather much longer and he didn't liked keeping pets like cats or toads. Moving onwards, they reached the place he long awaited and was genuinely exited for.

Ollivanders.

The wandmaker's shop stood at the end of the street, its dusty window displaying a single, faded wand on a purple cushion.

The moment they stepped inside, the noise of Diagon Alley seemed to vanish. The air was thick with something indescribable, almost expectant. Thousands of long, narrow boxes lined the shelves from floor to ceiling, each holding a potential destiny.

A quiet shuffling sound echoed from the back, and moments later, an elderly man with silvery eyes emerged. His gaze swept over Arthav with an unreadable expression.

"Ah, another first-year," Garrick Ollivander murmured. "And… something unusual, I see."

Arthav tilted his head. "Unusual?"

Ollivander didn't elaborate. Instead, his eyes drifted away from Arthav, a knowing glint in them as they landed on Emily. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Ah, Emily Carter. It feels like only yesterday that you were here, a bright-eyed first-year yourself, seeking your first wand." His voice was soft, nostalgic, yet there was an unspoken recognition in his gaze.

Emily smiled, her eyes softening with the memory. "Yes, it was. Time does have a way of slipping away." She placed a gentle hand on Arthav's shoulder, looking down at him fondly. "This is my son, Arthav."

Ollivander's expression shifted, his curiosity piqued. He gave Arthav a long, appraising look, as though weighing something invisible in the air. "Your son, you say?" He turned, his movements purposeful as he went to one of the shelves and began pulling down boxes with a delicate touch, as though each one held a unique story.

"The wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. He opened the first box and handed a wand to Arthav. "This one is made of willow and phoenix feather. Try it."

Arthav took the wand in his hand, feeling the wood cool against his fingers. It felt… wrong, somehow. The air around him didn't hum with potential, and the wand itself seemed to resist his touch. And with his unique sight he couldn't see the spark between them. He set it aside without hesitation.

Ollivander's eyes flickered with a strange interest. "Interesting," he muttered, as he pulled down another box. This time, he handed Arthav a wand made of elder wood with a dragon heartstring core.

Arthav held it in his palm, his brows furrowing as he concentrated. The wand twitched slightly but then went still, its magic dormant. He exhaled quietly and placed it back.

The wandmaker seemed intrigued but said nothing. He moved with practiced efficiency, fetching a few more wands—each with different materials and cores. There was one with vine wood and a griffin feather, another with mahogany and a basilisk fang. Each time Arthav tested one, he could feel it—an odd sense of disconnect, as though none of the wands could truly resonate with him.

Finally, Ollivander retrieved a particularly unusual box from a high shelf. Inside was a wand crafted from the wood of a Bodhi tree, the pale wood smooth and slightly translucent in the dim light. He handed it to Arthav with a knowing look. "Bodhi wood, with a core of prana—energy that connects the mind and spirit. It is said to be particularly sensitive to a person's essence."

Arthav closed his fingers around it, and for the first time, something shifted. The air hummed faintly, a whispering sensation skimming across his skin. He concentrated, feeling the subtle energy that flowed through the wand and into him. It was like a natural extension of his own magic, the vibrations attuned to his presence.

But there was a hesitation, a feeling that something was still incomplete. The wand responded, but not fully.

Ollivander watched him intently. "It seems you are sensitive to the prana in the wood. But the core…" He let the words hang in the air, almost as if contemplating. "We may need to try different combinations. Something unique, I suspect."

Arthav held the wand for a moment longer, feeling the connection flicker again, and then let it go. The room fell into silence. Ollivander's eyes remained on him, filled with the quiet certainty of someone who had seen this many times before—someone who knew that this wasn't the end of the search, just the beginning.

Emily watched her son, understanding the weight of the moment. She offered a soft, encouraging smile. "It's alright. We'll find it."

Arthav nodded, but in the back of his mind, something stirred—a sense that his wand, his true wand, was waiting somewhere beyond the rows of ordinary choices.

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