Wands

Well Well, look who decided to upload again

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The massive door creaked open, revealing the vault's interior bathed in a soft, golden light. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the sudden glow. Inside, treasures glittered in neat piles—coins of gold, silver, and bronze stacked high against the walls, mingling with ornate jewelry, ancient tomes, and artifacts that seemed to hum faintly with magic.

It was overwhelming. My gaze darted from one corner to the next, taking in the wealth and history compacted into this space.

"Is all of this…" My voice trailed off as I gestured vaguely toward the hoard.

Grimgore nodded with a toothy grin. "Indeed, Mr. Hufflepuff. The accumulated legacy of the Hufflepuff line lies before you. Everything here is yours by right."

I glanced back at McGonagall, whose expression was equal parts awe and stern approval. She nodded slightly, as if encouraging me to step forward. Taking a deep breath, I crossed the threshold into the vault, feeling the faint hum of magic brushing against my skin as I entered.

The coins, while dazzling, weren't what drew my attention. A small chest nestled on a low table at the center of the room.

"What's that?" I asked, nodding toward the chest.

Grimgore followed my gaze and let out a low chuckle. "Ah, the chest of Hufflepuff's legacy. It contains enchanted items that have been passed down through generations of the family. Only the rightful heir can open it."

That caught my attention. Slowly, I made my way toward the chest. It was made of dark wood, bound with bands of gold, and etched with the Hufflepuff crest. As I approached, the air around it seemed to grow warmer, almost expectant.

"Go on, Mr. Hufflepuff," Grimgore urged. "Place your hand upon it."

I hesitated for a moment, the weight of history pressing down on me. Then, with a deep breath, I reached out and rested my hand on the lid. The moment my skin touched the wood, a soft golden glow emanated from the chest, and the lock clicked open.

The lid lifted on its own, revealing the contents within. Inside was a collection of items: a wand that pulsed faintly with magic, a leather-bound book, and a small golden key. My fingers hovered over them, unsure of what to take first.

I picked up the wand carefully, my fingers brushing against the polished surface. The wand was smooth but felt ancient, like it had absorbed centuries of history within its grain. Its wood was a deep, golden-brown hue, with faint, almost imperceptible runes carved along its length. A vine-like pattern spiraled delicately toward the tip, where it flared ever so slightly. Near the base, a small crest was etched into the wood—the Hufflepuff insignia, unmistakable.

As soon as I wrapped my fingers around it, a strange warmth spread through my hand, almost like a pulse, steady and alive. It wasn't just a piece of wood—it felt aware, as if it was acknowledging me. The weight was perfect, balanced in a way that made it feel like an extension of my arm.

I gave it a small wave, and golden sparks shot out of the tip, scattering like fireflies into the air. The light danced around me before fading, leaving behind a faint shimmer that lingered for just a moment longer than it should have.

McGonagall cleared her throat behind me. "A remarkable artifact, Mr. Hufflepuff. But be cautious; wands of such antiquity often have unique properties."

I nodded, gently placing the wand back into the chest. Next, I picked up the book. Its cover was embossed with the Hufflepuff crest, and its pages seemed to shimmer faintly, as though alive with magic.

I couldn't help but feel a thrill at the thought of delving into its pages. The key, however, remained a mystery. It was small and unassuming, its golden surface unmarked by any engravings.

"What does this open?" I asked, holding it up.

Grimgore shrugged. "Its purpose has been lost to time, but if it's within this chest, it is meant for you. Its significance will reveal itself in due course."

Great, a magical mystery to add to the pile. I slipped the around key my neck, figuring I'd deal with it later. I grabbed the wand and stuffed it into my belt for now until I could get a wand holster. Looking down at the book wondering if I would ever be able to read it. I stopped myself from being lost in my thoughts, I grabbed the book and put it into a pouch I had found laying on the table.

As I closed the chest and stepped back, Grimgore looked at me with a satisfied expression. "The vault is now officially yours, Mr. Hufflepuff. You may access it at any time."

I nodded. "Thank you," I said, my voice quiet but sincere.

Grimgore inclined his head. "It is your birthright. Treat it wisely."

With one last glance at the vault, I turned and followed McGonagall back to the cart. As we climbed in and began the long ascent back to the surface, my mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead.

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By the time we exited Gringotts, the bright sunlight outside felt almost jarring. I shielded my eyes for a moment before glancing down at the heavy pouch of galleons tied securely to my belt. It felt surreal to be carrying so much money—around a thousand galleons. It was far more than I'd ever need, but better safe than sorry.

McGonagall wasted no time leading me through Diagon Alley, stopping at shop after shop to gather my school supplies. With my newfound wealth, I insisted on the best of the best, from top-quality robes to the finest cauldron and potion ingredients. Each purchase was another step closer to the reality of this new life, and I found myself smiling a little despite the whirlwind pace.

Eventually, we arrived at Flourish and Blotts, its large windows filled with stacks of books that made my fingers itch to dive in. As we stepped inside, the scent of parchment and ink was intoxicating. McGonagall turned to me near the entrance.

"Wait here, Cassius. I have some business to attend to," she said, her tone as brisk as always.

I nodded. "I'll be fine. Take your time."

She left quickly, disappearing into the crowd outside. I turned back to the shop and wandered through the aisles, gathering the books on my school list. The Hogwarts-required titles were easy enough to find, but I couldn't resist browsing the shelves for more. Books on magical theory, history, and charms soon joined the pile. A few caught my eye with titles about ancient magic and magical artifacts—topics I knew would be fascinating and, perhaps, useful.

By the time McGonagall returned, I'd already purchased everything on my list and more. She raised an eyebrow at the stack of books in my arms but said nothing, just gestured for me to follow.

As we stepped out of Flourish and Blotts, McGonagall suddenly paused mid-step. Her sharp gaze flicked around as if searching for something, and I stood silently, waiting. Then, with a faint nod to herself, she turned and gestured for me to follow her.

We made our way down the cobbled street, weaving through the bustling crowd until we stopped in front of a small, older-looking shop tucked between two taller buildings. Its age was evident in the weathered wood of the door and the peeling paint of the trim. Above the entrance, a sign swung gently in the breeze, reading: "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC."

I stared at the shop with a mixture of curiosity and wonder. 

McGonagall pushed the door open with a soft creak, and we stepped inside. The air within was cool and smelled faintly of wood polish and old parchment. The room was narrow and dimly lit, the only light coming from a few flickering candles perched on wall sconces. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with slim, narrow boxes that seemed to stretch endlessly into the shadows. The entire place had an aura of mystery, as though it had seen more than its fair share of stories over the centuries.

The floor beneath my feet creaked slightly as I moved further into the shop. A single desk stood near the center, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Behind it was an open doorway that led to what looked like a workshop or storage area, where faint glimmers of light flickered from within. Every sound in the shop seemed amplified by the stillness: the rustling of my robes, McGonagall's steady footsteps, even the distant hum of the street outside seemed muffled by the thick, expectant silence of this place.

As we stepped further into the shop, the soft creak of the floorboards was interrupted by a calm yet oddly commanding voice.

"Minerva McGonagall," it said, carrying a touch of fondness. "Still using the fir wand, nine-and-a-half inches, dragon heartstring core, if I'm not mistaken?"

I turned to see an older man stepping out from the shadows of the back room, his pale, silvery eyes gleaming like moonlight as he studied us. His movements were deliberate, his bearing stately, as though the very act of walking was an art form. His robes, though plain, had an ageless quality, much like the shop itself.

McGonagall inclined her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Still as sharp as ever, Mr. Ollivander."

He gave a small, satisfied nod. "Of course. I remember every wand I've ever sold." He turned his piercing gaze toward me, and I felt as though he was peeling back layers I hadn't even known I had.

Ollivander turned to me, his silvery eyes practically alight with excitement. "Well then, Mr...?"

"Smi-," I started automatically, but then hesitated. Something tugged at me, a quiet insistence in the back of my mind. I corrected myself, "Hufflepuff. Cassius Hufflepuff."

Ollivander's silver brows lifted slightly, and his expression shifted into something both curious and contemplative. "Hufflepuff, you say?" He rolled the name over in his mouth as though testing its weight, his keen gaze studying me intently. "Well, now. It has been quite some time since I've sold a wand to a Hufflepuff heir. Let us find the wand that chooses you, Mr. Hufflepuff."

With a flourish, he pulled out a long tape measure that seemed to move of its own accord. He began measuring me without asking—across the width of my shoulders, the length of my arm, the distance from my wrist to the tip of my middle finger. The tape even darted toward my forehead, apparently taking the circumference of my skull.

I blinked, startled. "Is all this really necessary?" I asked, watching as the tape measure spiraled around my head like it was enchanted to size me up.

"Oh, most certainly," Ollivander said, his voice mild but unrelenting. "Every detail matters. The wand chooses the wizard, after all, but we must ensure the wand has everything it needs to make the perfect match."

He muttered something under his breath, and the tape measure zipped back to him, coiling up as though exhausted from the effort. Ollivander clapped his hands together and stepped toward a series of shelves that lined the shop, each stacked with thin, rectangular boxes of varying lengths. His fingers danced along the edges of the boxes, muttering the occasional "No, not quite," and "Hmm, too rigid."

Finally, he plucked one from the top shelf, almost reverently. "Let us try this one," he said, removing the lid and presenting a wand to me. It was a simple thing at first glance—sleek and dark, with a faint spiral carved into the handle. "Black walnut, twelve inches, phoenix feather core. Unyielding."

I reached out to take it, and the moment my fingers closed around the wood, the shop was plunged into chaos. A stack of boxes exploded in a puff of parchment, and a nearby lamp shattered as though struck by an invisible force.

"No, no, definitely not," Ollivander said, snatching the wand back with surprising speed. He didn't even flinch at the destruction. "Black walnut requires a wizard of absolute self-assurance, but you, my boy, have an element of mystery—perhaps even conflict. We'll need something more nuanced."

I stood there awkwardly as he continued the process, pulling out wand after wand. Each one reacted differently—one sent a gust of wind through the shop, another made the tape measure leap off the counter and dance a jig. Ollivander seemed utterly unfazed by it all, muttering to himself as he grew more and more intrigued.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his hand hovered over a box on a lower shelf. "Ah," he said softly, almost to himself. "Perhaps this one."

He drew out a wand that looked different from the others. The wood was pale and smooth, almost luminous, with a faint silvery sheen to it. The handle was subtly carved with a leaf-like pattern that caught the light.

"Hornbeam, eleven-and-a-quarter inches, with a unicorn hair core," Ollivander announced, holding it out to me. "Supple. Ideal for an inquisitive mind."

I hesitated, then reached out to take it. The moment my fingers wrapped around the wand, a warmth spread through me, starting in my hand and radiating outward. A soft, golden glow lit up the tip, and I felt a rush of something—power, maybe, or connection.

"Ah, there we have it," Ollivander said, smiling with genuine satisfaction. "Hornbeam wands are known to seek a wizard with a single-minded pursuit of their ideals. Very rare and very loyal, this one."

I looked down at the wand in my hand, feeling its weight and balance. It was...perfect, even more so than the wand I'd found in the vault.

"Thank you," I said, still a little awestruck.

Ollivander nodded, his silver eyes gleaming. "Take good care of it, Mr. Hufflepuff. A wand like that will serve you well—if you do the same for it."