"This is…"
Ollivander, his earlier search forgotten, set down the wand he'd been holding. He glided towards Sean, his silvery eyes fixed on the wand now clutched in the boy's hand. A soft click of his tongue conveyed genuine admiration, a rare flicker of profound emotion crossing his ancient face.
"Mr. Ollivander", Sean began, a little awed by the wandmaker's reaction, "is there something special about this wand?"
"Amazing," Ollivander breathed, his voice a reverent whisper. "Truly amazing. This wand… it is crafted from ebony, with a phoenix feather core, thirteen and three-quarters inches in length. It is suited to any type of magic, yet it particularly amplifies combat enchantments and transfiguration. As for what makes it truly special…"
Ollivander's eyes, usually distant, now sparkled with an inner light as he smiled warmly at Sean. "This wand is indeed exceptional. It was the final piece my father crafted before he passed. The ebony hails from the heartwood of an ancient, venerable tree, and the phoenix feather at its core is one of the most magnificent he ever collected. This wand… it has always been incredibly particular. It has never chosen a wizard before today. Honestly," he confessed, "I had begun to believe it never would. But it has chosen you, Sean Bulstrode."
Blinking, Sean couldn't shake the feeling that Ollivander reminded him of those elderly street vendors from his previous life—the ones who'd spin tales of priceless family heirlooms for unsuspecting customers. He made a silent vow: if Ollivander quoted an outrageous price, he'd simply place the wand back and select another. Surely, amongst the thousands in the shop, another would suit him.
Clearing his throat, Sean met Ollivander's gaze. "So, Mr. Ollivander, how much does this wand cost?"
"It is, as I said, very special and holds extraordinary significance," Ollivander affirmed. "However, in this establishment, a wand is a wand. Its value is determined by its inherent qualities, not by any additional sentiment. Eleven Galleons, if you please. Thank you for your patronage."
A wave of slight embarrassment washed over Sean, and he reflexively touched his nose—a habit he had. He paid the sum without further hesitation, his new, glossy black wand feeling unexpectedly perfect in his grip as he and his parents exited Ollivanders.
"Sean, what do we need to buy next?" his father, Yad, asked, his voice still buzzing with a quiet pride.
Sean considered for a moment. The gold notes Gavin had pressed into his hand were indeed generous. Though Gavin had claimed it was the standard allowance for magical children from the family's peripheral branches, the amount was clearly far greater, affording Sean the luxury of purchasing many things he truly wanted.
He pulled out the shopping list, his eyes scanning it briefly before lifting to the vibrant, bustling shops around them. "I still need a cauldron, a set of quills and parchment, and—while I'm at it—a pet. I think I'll get an owl."
"Sean," Martha, his mother, interjected gently, "I remember the list saying you can only bring one pet to Hogwarts, dear."
"This owl will be for home," Sean explained. "You can use it to write letters to Grandma and to contact me. Even if I keep it in my dormitory at Hogwarts, I doubt anyone will mind much."
Yad and Martha were trusting parents. The funds Gavin had provided were for Sean, so they naturally let him manage his own school expenses. The three of them continued their shopping, soon laden with bags, large and small. Only the pet and the owl remained on the list before they could call it a day and head home.
Truthfully, if Sean hadn't been concerned about a new pet or owl becoming anxious from being caged for too long, he might have chosen to acquire them first.
After a good while longer navigating the packed alley, the family decided to take a well-deserved break. They found a table at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, each indulging in a delicious, cooling treat as they let the weariness from their shopping spree melt away.
For a blissful moment, everything was peaceful and pleasant—the three of them basking in a rare, uncomplicated happiness together.
"Father, we really shouldn't frequent places like Florean Fortescue's anymore. Consuming the same fare as those low-class Squibs… it hardly befits the noble status of pure-bloods."
Sean frowned, his head snapping towards the source of the jarring, arrogant voice. It belonged to a boy about his own age, clad in robes that were ostentatiously expensive. Standing just behind him, a smirk on his face, was Borell—a man Sean recognised instantly. That meant the boy addressing Borell as "Father" could only be…
Millicent Bulstrode. His cousin.
That was right. Borell, Yad's younger brother, had married and had children long before Yad, the elder, despite being only three years his junior. Consequently, Millicent was a few months older than Sean.
Martha cast an uneasy glance at Yad, but he gently squeezed her hand, a silent reassurance. He then looked at his son, his voice soft but firm. "There's no need to engage with them, Sean. We just need to be ourselves."
For Yad, such insults had been a constant companion since childhood, ever since he was labelled a Squib. They had followed him until he finally left the family as an adult, escaping that suffocating environment.
Now that his son possessed magical ability, Sean would inevitably re-enter the sphere of the Bulstrode family. In Yad's mind, he had to ensure he never became a source of trouble for Sean. If those people wished to spread their venomous gossip, let them.
But Borell, clearly indulging his son's snobbery, had no intention of letting the matter rest. Seeing his Squib brother remain outwardly calm and silent only seemed to stoke his own anger. The resentment from a recent punishment—likely family-related—still simmered within him, and the sight of Yad provided the perfect outlet for his festering frustration.
"Hogwarts declines with each passing year," Borell sneered, his voice loud enough to draw looks from nearby tables. "They accept patronage from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, yet all they seem to produce are Mudbloods and the offspring of Squibs, polluting our magical world…"
By deliberately lumping Squib children with Muggle-borns in his tirade, Borell's malice towards Sean was unmistakable. Had the insult been aimed solely at himself, Yad might have found the strength to ignore it, to swallow his pride as he had countless times before. But Borell was now targeting Sean directly, using the harshest, most demeaning terms to attack his own nephew. Yad could no longer remain silent.
His patience had always been a shield for Sean's future, a hope that his son would transcend the bigotry that had shadowed his own life. But if he couldn't protect his son's present, what future was there to speak of?
Yad shot to his feet, his movement abrupt and decisive. He ignored Borell's hand instinctively inching towards his wand and strode directly up to his younger brother. His voice, when he spoke, was dangerously low, each word laced with cold fury. "Borell, do you dare to draw your wand? Here? Do you dare risk the attention of the Aurors patrolling this alley, the censure of the Ministry of Magic, and even the wrath of Father by performing magic in a place teeming with Muggle parents? Do you dare?"
Yad's words, sharp as shattered glass, made Borell freeze, his hand hovering uncertainly over the bulge of his wand beneath his robes. Just as Yad had said—he didn't dare. The potential repercussions were too severe.
Seeing Borell's hesitation, the fear flickering in his eyes, Yad pressed his advantage. "You cannot bear the consequences, so you dare not draw. But unlike you, Borell," Yad's voice was a growl, "I can bear the consequences. And so, I dare to throw a punch!"
With that, Yad's fist shot out, connecting squarely with Borell's arrogant face.
***********
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