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Chapter Text

Diagon Alley was a living, breathing marvel of magic.

The cobblestones beneath Harry's feet were warm from the sun, smoothed and dimpled by generations of witches and wizards. The air shimmered with enchantment. Laughter spilled from the open doors of Flourish and Blotts, owls hooted from cages stacked high at Eeylops Owl Emporium, and the scent of toffee and treacle tart wafted from the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. Somewhere nearby, a self-stirring cauldron was bubbling merrily in midair, and a wizard in emerald robes was arguing with a hat that wouldn't stop singing.

It was dazzling. Overwhelming. Wonderful.

Harry wandered wide-eyed through the crowd until he found himself standing before a narrow, crooked shop nestled between a robe boutique and a dusty apothecary. The sign above the door was old and faded, the gold lettering flaking at the edges:

Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

The display window held only a single wand resting on a threadbare cushion of deep purple velvet. Dust floated in the sunlight like tiny stars.

Harry hesitated, then pushed open the door.

A small brass bell chimed overhead, and the noise of the street was immediately swallowed by silence. The air inside was cool and dry, thick with the scent of polished wood, old parchment, and something faintly earth. It felt like stepping into a forgotten forest wrapped in cobwebs and memory.

Tall shelves stretched to the ceiling, each one crammed with slender wand boxes stacked neatly in what looked like organized chaos. Ladders rolled silently along the walls, and beams of dusty sunlight slanted down like ghostly spotlights. No one appeared to be present.

Harry stepped inside cautiously, the floor creaking beneath his feet.

Before he could call out, a soft voice reached him from somewhere in the shadows.

"Grandfather's out at the moment," the voice said, low and melodic. "But I can help, if you like."

He turned.

A girl had stepped into the light, and for a moment, Harry wasn't sure she hadn't simply materialised out of thin air. She was his age with skin like porcelain and long silvery-blonde hair that fell in waves down her back, catching the light like strands of moonlight. Her robes were a soft gray trimmed in violet, worn with quiet elegance. Her eyes, a soft storm-gray, studied him with a gaze that was neither shy nor bold, but impossibly calm - as if she saw something in him he hadn't noticed himself.

She moved like mist - graceful, unhurried, as though the stillness of the shop clung to her and obeyed her rhythm.

"I'm Celeste," she said, voice like velvet and falling snow. "Celeste Ollivander."

Harry's mouth opened slightly. "I'm… Harry. Harry Potter."

Something flickered in her eyes - not the abrupt flash of shock, but the warm glow of deep recognition. And something else. A kind of solemn kindness.

"I thought so," she whispered, almost as if confessing a secret to the gentle silence. "Grandfather wondered when you'd be coming for your first wand."

Before he could reply, she turned and walked toward one of the shelves. Her fingers glided delicately over the assortment of boxes, the light touch reminiscent of a master musician caressing the strings of an unseen harp. Occasionally, she paused, her head tilting inquisitively as if tuning her senses to a private melody no one else could hear.

"Wands aren't simply made," she murmured tenderly, still facing the shelves. "They're felt. Heard. Understood. My grandfather always says they possess their own songs - if only one knows how to listen."

With a slow, deliberate motion, she retrieved a box, opened it to reveal the wand within and extended it towards him. "Rowan and unicorn hair. Ten inches. A bit rigid. Try this one, give it a wave."

Harry took the wand. The moment it touched his fingers, an odd pressure seemed to swell in the air. He waved it hesitantly - and in that moment, a resounding crack broke the quiet. A vase on the counter shattered into glittering shards, and a sudden gust nudged a long-forgotten scroll from a distant shelf.

"Absolutely not," Celeste murmured, her voice low and determined as she swiftly selected another option.

The next wand was shorter - maple and dragon heartstring. As Harry raised it, an unexpected cascade of boxes tumbled from the shelves, clattering to the floor like a chaotic cascade of dominos. In a fluid motion, Celeste caught one box in midair, her composure as steady as a calm sea in twilight, as if Harry wasn't causing chaos within the shop.

"No. Not at all."

The third wand was slender and pale, its surface etched with delicate runes. Phoenix feather, again. "This one's sensitive," she warned.

Harry barely had time to tilt his wrist when the wand burst into erratic sparks. A nearby shelf shuddered, and even a lone quill burst into flame. Quick as a flash, Celeste retrieved it from him with both hands.

"Temperamental," she murmured as she carefully nestled the rebellious wand back into its box. "It seems more suited to someone who likes setting things on fire."

Harry exhaled, his cheeks warming with embarrassment. "Is this normal?"

Celeste's smile was subtle and knowing. "Perfectly normal. You're not choosing the wand - it's choosing you, and trust me, they have very strong opinions."

With renewed determination, she turned and moved along the aisles with an air of certainty. Her hand reached out, paused as if sensing an electric hum in the atmosphere, and gently freed a box from a high shelf. Her eyes sparkled with quiet triumph.

"This one," she whispered reverently.

Returning to him, she cradled the box with both hands. The wand inside was crafted from smooth holly wood, its surface unadorned and simple, yet the space around it seemed to shift, charged with an unspoken promise.

Harry accepted it, and as his fingers curled around its shaft, a tender warmth blossomed up his arm. It wasn't a burst of sparks or a sudden clamor, but rather, a soft, golden luminescence radiated from the tip, gracefully curling into the air like stardust-wreathed smoke. The shelves whispered in quiet approval, the motes of dust settled like tiny confetti, and an almost sacred stillness embraced the shop.

"That," Celeste breathed, her voice quiet, "is the one."

Harry's eyes widened in wonder as he gazed at the wand. "I think... I think it likes me."

Celeste remained silent, her eyes fixated on him with a ponderous, searching look. She had witnessed moments like these before, yet never quite so vividly. The wand didn't just choose him. It recognised him.

"You were always meant for it," she said softly. "Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Supple. The core... comes from a very special phoenix. One that gave only one other feather."

At that moment, a slow creak at the front of the shop announced someone's arrival. The bell above the door chimed a soft, subtle note, as if it too acknowledged the profound gravity of the moment. Celeste's gaze drifted toward the entrance, her expression warming.

"Grandfather."

An old man stepped into the shop with a kind of quiet gravity, moving like someone who belonged not just to the room, but to the very air it breathed. His silvery hair was brushed back, his eyes pale and sharp beneath heavy lids that missed nothing. There was a kind of magic in him that didn't need to be seen to be felt - woven into every gesture, every quiet breath.

"Ah," Garrick Ollivander said, his voice a thoughtful murmur as he gazed at Harry. "I see you've finally arrived, young Mr. Potter."

He advanced slowly, his gaze lingering on the wand cradled in Harry's hand. His deep, unreadable eyes, honed by witnessing countless generations of wizards, scanned Harry with a mix of curiosity and timeless understanding. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as they landed on the wand in Harry's grasp. His fingers hovered in the air, not quite reaching for it.

"Holly and phoenix feather," he murmured thoughtfully. "Eleven inches. Supple. Very curious... very curious indeed. Celeste… are you certain?"

Celeste tilted her head slightly, a teasing glimmer dancing in her eyes, though her voice remained quiet and respectful. "Grandfather, you of all people should know - the wand chooses the wizard."

She held his gaze for a long, silent heartbeat before adding, "But yes. I'm certain."

A pause passed between them, something old and unspoken. Then Ollivander gave the faintest nod - approval or curiosity, it was hard to say - and turned his full attention to Harry, who felt very confused at the apparent significance of the wand he now held.

"Sorry, sir… but what's curious?"

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter," he said. "It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather - just one other."

Celeste stood silently beside him, watching Harry closely, her expression unreadable but gentle.

"It is curious that you should be destined for this wand," Ollivander continued, "when its brother gave you that scar."

Harry's breath hitched in his throat. "And who owned that wand?"

Celeste shifted slightly, her gaze flicking to her grandfather as she bit her lip. This was a rather delicate subject.

"We do not speak his name," Ollivander said softly.

A silence fell. The wand in Harry's hand pulsed gently, warm and watchful.

"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. It's not always clear why," Ollivander went on, his voice reverent, "but I think it is clear that we can expect great things from you."

He leaned in just slightly, pale eyes gleaming. "After all… He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible… yes. But great."

Celeste's voice followed, soft and steady in the quiet that lingered as she offered him a small smile. "You'll do great things, Harry Potter," she said gently. "Just... don't forget who you are while you're doing them."

✧⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ˙✧

The steam exhaled in a soft, lingering sigh from the scarlet engine as Celeste stood on the bustling platform, her small fingers wrapped firmly around the timeworn handle of her trunk. Just moments before, her grandfather had pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, his voice low and earnest as he whispered, "Listen closely. Magic speaks when it matters most."

Now he had blended into the crowd - a silver silhouette among the throngs at platform nine and three-quarters. Though she stood alone, she felt no fear.

Before her, the train loomed majestic and alive, its vibrant red body pulsing with movement. Students leaned excitedly from windows, trunks thudded robustly on waiting steps, and the air was filled with a symphony of enthusiastic noises - owls hooting from intricately fashioned cages, robes swirling with every step, and cats adding soft mews to the cacophony of laughter and the occasional hiccup. With a quiet resolve, Celeste boarded the train, her heart beating in tandem with its rhythm.

She passed open compartments full of chattering students, sliding doors rattling in their frames, until she found one that was empty except for a slumbering tabby curled on the bench. She sat beside it carefully, placing her small trunk on the floor and drawing her knees up beside her on the seat.

The cat didn't stir. It snored faintly.

Outside the window, the station started to blur as the train began to leave, and then soon, the city fell away into fields and sky and colour. Celeste leaned her forehead against the cool glass, letting the rhythmic clatter of the train lull her thoughts into motion. She could still feel the quiet hum of wandwood on her fingertips, the way her own wand - willow and unicorn hair - had pulsed gently in her hand when she first touched it. Gentle, like a heartbeat.

Her grandfather hadn't said much when it had chosen her. Just a soft, "Yes. That's right," and a touch to her shoulder that said the rest.

The landscape streamed by in streaks of green and gold. Celeste opened her satchel and pulled out a slim, navy-blue notebook. Inside were carefully inked sketches of wand cores and magical trees, annotated with thoughts in her looping, deliberate hand. She didn't draw anything new - just turned the pages, letting the familiar shapes soothe her excited nerves.

She had never been away from her grandfather for more than two nights.

She had never worn school robes before.

And she had never seen Hogwarts.

Her chest fluttered at the thought.

The door to the compartment slid open with a soft clack. A girl with bushy brown hair peeked inside, her cheeks slightly flushed.

"Oh, sorry! I thought this one was empty."

Celeste shook her head gently. "It's alright. You can come in, if you'd like."

The girl stepped inside, visibly relieved. "Thank you. Everywhere else was full. I'm Hermione Granger."

"Celeste Ollivander."

Hermione blinked. "Ollivander? As in the wand shop?"

Celeste nodded, tucking her notebook closed.

"Wow," Hermione said, clearly awed. "You must know everything about wandlore."

A soft, knowing smile graced Celeste's lips. "Not everything. But I listen well."

They made themselves comfortable, with Hermione taking a seat opposite Celeste. A light, breathless laugh escaped Hermione as she enthusiastically recounted her summer discoveries. "I read everything I could find about wands this summer. Unicorn hair cores are the most reliable, but dragon heartstring is more powerful in dueling - and phoenix feathers are rarer but unpredictable, right?"

"Mostly true," Celeste said, folding her hands in her lap. "But wands don't always behave how books expect them to."

Hermione blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Magic is like a melody," Celeste said, eyes gleaming with quiet certainty as she explained. "You can study it, learn it - but sometimes, it surprises even the most careful listener. A wand doesn't merely mirror its wizard or witch - it learns them, grows with them."

Hermione looked thoughtful, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I never thought of it that way."

Celeste tilted her head, her voice soft but certain. "It's not always about strength. Sometimes, it's about harmony."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. Then, with a spark of curiosity, she asked, "What's your wand?"

"Willow and unicorn hair," Celeste replied, with a note of quiet pride. "Twelve inches. Quite bendy."

She reached carefully into her satchel and drew out a slim, pale wand from a soft velvet wrap. It was simple, elegant - carved from a gently spiraled piece of willow wood, faintly polished to a sheen that shimmered in the compartment's soft light. She passed it to Hermione with both hands, reverently.

Hermione took it as though it might sing to her. "It's beautiful."

Celeste smiled. "Thank you. It was the second one I ever touched. The first… snapped in half when I picked it up."

Hermione blinked in surprise. "Really?"

"Mm. Grandfather said the wand was being dramatic. But sometimes, that's how they say no."

Hermione let out a soft laugh. "I can't imagine choosing a wand like that."

"You don't choose it," Celeste said gently, reclaiming hers and slipping it back into its wrap. "It chooses you. Though sometimes… it needs to make a bit of a scene first."

The girls shared a soft laugh - nervous, but real, and somehow grounding. The kind that settled something inside Celeste's chest. It felt good to laugh with someone her own age, someone who didn't treat her like a curiosity or a name on a shop sign. Hermione opened her mouth, about to say something else, but before she could speak, the compartment door slid open with a sudden clack.

A boy with a round, earnest face and flushed cheeks stood in the doorway, slightly out of breath and holding a crooked wand in one hand.

"Sorry," he said, blinking at them. "Have either of you seen a toad? I've lost mine. His name's Trevor."

Celeste and Hermione exchanged glances, and then Hermione answered.

"No, but I could help you look, if you like?"

The boy blinked. "Really? Thanks! I'm Neville - Neville Longbottom."

"Hermione Granger," she said quickly, already standing and brushing a wrinkle from her robes.

Celeste gave them both a small smile. "Celeste Ollivander."

Neville blinked at her. "As in - Ollivander's? The wand shop?"

She nodded once, accustomed to the spark of recognition that often flickered in people's eyes at the mention of her family's name.

Hermione turned to Celeste. "Do you mind staying here? Just in case someone else tries to take the compartment."

"Of course," Celeste said, already settling back into her seat. "I'll keep it safe."

Hermione gave her a grateful smile. "We'll be quick!"

The two disappeared down the corridor, voices fading into the hum of the train and the rattle of wheels beneath them. Celeste leaned back into her seat, the velvet of the cushion soft beneath her palms. The compartment was silent again, save for the gentle snore of the tabby still curled next to her and the distant murmur of voices beyond the door.

She traced the edge of her wand case with her fingers, feeling the faint warmth of the willow through the fabric. Somewhere, in the gentle rhythm of the train, she felt a pull - familiar and distant all at once. Not fear. Not even nerves. Just... a quiet knowing. Like something inside her had been waiting for this journey longer than she'd realised.

Soon, she'd see the castle her grandfather had spoken of in hushes and reverence. The place where her parents once studied. The place where she would begin - not as Celeste Ollivander, granddaughter of the wandmaker - but hopefully, just as Celeste.

She was looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

The train exhaled one final, hissing breath as it came to a halt, its steam twisting upward in delicate spirals like ghostly silk ribbons over the platform. Celeste stepped down onto wet stone, the crisp air infused with the clean aroma of pine and freshly fallen rain. She followed the meandering stream of chattering first-years across the platform, folding her hands together. Lanterns glowed above them, painting the world in amber and shadow.

"Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!" a voice boomed, echoing across the mist like a gentle yet mighty stormcloud rolling in from a far-off horizon. Celeste looked up - and there he stood.

Rubeus Hagrid, the half-giant Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, loomed large next to the fog. His towering frame dwarfed everything around him as he raised a lantern high, its light spilling around like liquid gold. His wild, bushy beard tumbled down his chest in unruly curls reminiscent of bramblewood, and his eyes shone with the inviting warmth of a hearthfire. Her grandfather had spoken of the giant fondly.

Without hesitation, she and the other students trailed behind Hagrid as he led them down a winding, moss-slicked path, illuminated solely by his swinging lantern. The surrounding world hushed into serene silence, punctured only by the soft crunch of wet stones underfoot and the gentle whisper of swaying robes. As they continued their descent, the dense trees gradually yielded to reveal an awe-inspiring sight. Celeste halted in her tracks.

Before them unfurled a vast, ink-dark lake, its surface as still and reflective as a giant mirror, edged by an embrace of ancient forest and kissed by the glitter of starlight. Rising in the distance, majestic and surreal, was Hogwarts Castle. Its towers clawed into the night sky, windows glowing gold and warm against the navy-blue twilight. The castle's magnificent reflection on the lake shimmered delicately, conjuring visions of an alternate, enchanted world.

Celeste felt like she couldn't breathe for a moment. It was beautiful.

"This way!" Hagrid bellowed, his voice echoing off the lake. "Boats, four to a boat!"

Dozens of small, low wooden boats bobbed gently in the shallows, each creaking softly as if awakening from a long slumber, yet steady without a paddle or pole. Celeste climbed into one with Hermione, Neville, and a quiet boy who hadn't said a word since the wooden boat groaned faintly under their weight, then settled into a comfortable embrace. The chill of the night air brushed Celeste's cheeks, and the water, dark and mysterious, glimmered like spilled, midnight ink.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called again. "Right then - forward!"

With that, the boats began their gentle journey.

No one rowed. No one steered. Without a single oar or rudder in sight, they seemed to glide effortlessly, smooth and silent, drifting like delicate leaves carried on a whispered breeze. Celeste's gaze remained riveted on the castle, drawing closer with every silent moment. The closer they came, the more vibrant it appeared - owls winged their way gracefully between the towering spires, candles flickered playfully in high windows, and, somewhere in the distance, a large bell tolled slowly and deeply, like the steady heartbeat of a slumbering giant.

Not a soul spoke - not even Hermione, who for once was so enraptured by the magic around her that words seemed superfluous.

Passing beneath an arch of ivy-draped stone, Celeste's eyes caught sight of a small landing bathed in the soft glow of torches. Hagrid was already there, boots planted wide on slick stone, holding out a meaty hand to help them off.

"Mind yer step, now," he advised in his deep, reassuring tone.

Celeste's boots hit stone and echoed slightly. The air smelled of lakewater and old moss. The boats slid away behind them, vanishing into the dark like they had somewhere else to be.

"Follow me!" Hagrid called, leading them through a short tunnel carved into the rock. The walls dripped with condensation, and strange symbols - runes, maybe - had been etched into the stone, nearly worn smooth with age.

They emerged into a long corridor lit with flickering torches. The floor was polished to a mirror-like sheen. A chill ran up Celeste's spine - not of fear, but reverence.

Then she was there.

Hogwarts.

The group clustered together, damp and breathless. Footsteps echoed around them like whispers.

At the far end of the hall, a tall woman in deep green robes approached. Her expression was sharp and unreadable, lips thin, gaze stern behind square spectacles.

Celeste straightened instinctively.

Professor McGonagall.

She looked them over with the air of someone who had seen centuries of first-years and remained entirely unimpressed by the lot.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said briskly, voice clipped and clear. "In a few moments, you will pass through these doors into the Great Hall, where you will be sorted into your houses."

She paused, letting the words settle.

"The Sorting is a very important ceremony. While you are here, your house will be like your family. You will have classes with your housemates, sleep in your house dormitories, and spend free time in your house common room."

Her gaze moved slowly over the group, lingering on a student who looked like he might faint.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each has a noble history and has produced outstanding witches and wizards. Your triumphs will earn your house points. Any rule-breaking will lose them. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup - a great honour."

Her tone softened ever so slightly, as if sharing a secret counsel. "I suggest you do your best to make a good first impression."

And with that, she gave them a curt nod. "I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."

She turned and swept away, robes billowing behind her like emerald storm clouds.

The group fell into an uneasy hush.

Celeste stood near the edge, fingertips brushing the stone wall. Her heart was steady, but her mind was racing. Four houses. One choice. Or not a choice at all. Her grandfather had said the Hat sees things you don't. That it doesn't just read your mind - it hears your magic.

She wondered what hers sounded like.

As she contemplated this, Celeste lingered near one of the intricately carved stone pillars, her fingertips lightly brushing over the delicate grooves into the surface. The corridor pulsed with the low hum of whispered anxieties and the shuffling of nervous feets, as groups of students exchanged hushed speculations - some murmuring about the mythical Sorting Hat, others trading eerie tales of ghosts.

Then, as though emerging from a shadow, he stepped forward.

A pale-haired boy with sharply defined features and a smirk that seemed permanently etched upon his face approached with an air of effortless superiority. Behind him, two thick-set boys loomed like silent sentinels - burly forms of muscle and indifference, their presence as imposing as a wall of granite. But the pale boy's gaze was not upon her. It was fixated entirely on Harry Potter.

"So, it's true then," the boy declared, his voice imbued with both smooth confidence and a resonance strong enough to carry throughout the hall. "What they were saying on the train. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts."

Harry merely nodded, his expression guarded as if weighing each word with caution as the other students whispered around him, many of them with awe. Celeste's eyes captured the subtle tension in Harry's posture - shoulders drawn tight, chin defiantly raised ever so slightly.

Continuing with deliberate flair, the boy gestured to his silent entourage. "This is Crabbe and Goyle," he announced, nodding toward the hulking figures. "And I'm Malfoy - Draco Malfoy."

At the sound of the name, a small twist churned in Celeste's stomach like an unsettling ripple in still water. The Malfoy lineage, steeped in tradition, had walked through Ollivanders for generations, each wand chosen with an uncanny precision - a choice as controlled and as chilling as a winter frost.

Draco's cool gaze flickered over to Harry once more, then swung to the red-haired boy standing nearby who had snorted at his pompous introduction. "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask yours," he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "Red hair, and a hand-me-down robe? You must be a Weasley."

Ron's face turned a deep, embarrassed shade of red, yet he offered no retort, and Celeste felt the air thicken as tension rippled through the group like static electricity dancing before a storm. Draco's attention soon returned to Harry. His voice, smooth but cutting, filled the corridor with a thinly veiled threat. "You'll soon discover that some wizarding families are simply better than others, Potter. You wouldn't want to end up making friends with the wrong sort." He extended his hand, palm open and inviting - a mock gesture of assistance. "I can help you there."

A pregnant pause fell over the assembly, time seemingly suspended as the offered hand hovered in the air. Harry's eyes shifted from the outstretched palm to his friend Ron, searching for unspoken support.

"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks," Harry replied, his voice as steady as a metronome amid the charged silence.

The words lingered between them, heavy as a spell that had just been cast. In that fleeting moment, Celeste felt a spark of admiration ignite within her, a radiant ember fuelled by the truth in his tone - the same elusive note often heard when the perfect wand sang in the rightful hand. Draco's hand remained suspended just a heartbeat too long before he slowly lowered it, his smirk dissolving into an expression as sharp and cold as shattered ice. Mercifully, before the Malfoy heir could say anything else, Professor McGonagall returned from the Great Hall, forcing Draco back into the student crowd.

"We're ready for you now," she declared.

A ripple of anticipation passed through the gathering - as though everyone collectively held their breath.

"Form a line," she ordered crisply, her tone leaving no room for debate. "Follow me."

And so they did - some with trembling hands that betrayed their inner uncertainty, others with straight backs exuding a facade of staunch confidence. Celeste found herself positioned between Hermione and a quiet boy named Finn, who had uttered no more than five words since the long train ride. She kept her hands neatly folded in front of her, her calm gaze belying the tumult of emotions pulsing like a caged spellbird within her chest.

Then, with a dramatic creak, the great oak doors swung open, and the world transformed before their eyes.

The Great Hall stretched before them like a cathedral carved from candlelight. The ceiling arched high above them, bewitched to mimic the midnight sky - a deep, velvety navy canvas punctuated by shimmering stars, and a full, golden moon that rested low like a silent guardian. Hundreds of candles floated in midair, casting a warm, gentle radiance that danced delicately across polished wooden floors and immaculate goblets, each glow enhancing the hall's enchanted ambiance.

Four long tables spanned the length of the hall, laden with older students clad in somber black robes; their faces, a mixture of awe and gentle curiosity, were fixed intently upon the newcomers. At the far end, the staff table commanded attention from its elevated perch, exuding a quiet but unmistakable authority. Amidst it all, Celeste's eyes were drawn to a silver-bearded wizard seated at its center, his eyes sparkling with an inner light as though they harbored a universe of secrets. Albus Dumbledore.

Yet, her gaze wandered next to a modest, time-worn stool near the front - a pedestal crowned by the frayed, battered hat.

The Sorting Hat.

It looked like it had once been elegant, but had since given up on appearances in favour of wisdom. One patch was carefully stitched in delicate gold thread, a subtle hint of its bygone glory. Another bore a char mark that hadn't been cleaned. Celeste had seen many magical artifacts in her grandfather's workshop. Celeste recalled the myriad magical artifacts in her grandfather's workshop, yet none had ever pulsed with life as vividly as this ancient, seemingly sentient hat.

They paused before the stool as Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her expression both stern and kindly as she unrolled a parchment-scroll with deliberate precision.

"When I call your name," she said, "you will step forward, sit on the stool, and place the Sorting Hat on your head. It will assign you to your House."

Her eyes scanned the parchment.

"Abbott, Hannah."

Celeste watched as a fair-haired girl, her cheeks blooming with a delicate flush, wobbled forward. She gently sat upon the stool, and with a swift movement the hat descended over her eyes. In mere seconds, the hat's voice boomed across the hall:

"Hufflepuff!" it declared, prompting an eruption of cheers and claps from the table on the far left, where a wave of warm acceptance swept over the gathering of Hufflepuffs.

One by one, the names were called. Some were sorted quickly, some took a long while - one boy sat for nearly a full minute, the Hat humming and muttering to itself.

Celeste's name hadn't been called yet.

She tried not to fidget. Her palms were warm.

"Granger, Hermione."

The girl beside her drew in a breath and marched forward with a determined expression. Celeste smiled softly, already certain of the result.

Sure enough, the Hat didn't take long.

"Gryffindor!"

Hermione beamed and nearly bounced off the stool.

"Longbottom, Neville."

The poor boy, tripping slightly on his way forward, elicited a gentle snort from someone at the Slytherin table. He took longer than most - but eventually the Hat bellowed: "Gryffindor!"

Then—

"Ollivander, Celeste."

A beat of silence followed the name.

Celeste felt all eyes turn to her - not with the buzzing excitement Harry had received in the entrance corridor, but a quieter kind of attention. Curious. Expectant.

With measured steps that echoed softly in the vast hall, Celeste moved forward. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears as her every footfall resonated with the enormity of the moment. She sat on the stool, and as the Sorting Hat was placed upon her head, the aged fabric exuded a faint scent of dust and woodsmoke. Gently, she pulled it down over her ears.

And in that instant, everything paused - the world fell into a tranquil stillness.

Ahhh… interesting. Very interesting.

The voice curled inside her mind - not loud, not invasive, but ancient and thoughtful, like old leaves turning in autumn wind.

Ollivander blood. I know your grandfather. Met your great-grandfather too. Loyal wandmakers, all of them. Listeners. You're a rare one, Celeste. Quiet power, humming beneath the surface. You could go far in Hufflepuff… and I see great potential for leadership in Slytherin… but where to put you?

She didn't answer but her thoughts pulsed quietly.

She didn't want power. She didn't want to lead.

She wanted to understand.

Ah. Yes. You're not here to speak. You're here to hear. And perhaps… to teach.

A pause. Then, almost fondly:

"RAVENCLAW!"

The Hat shouted the last word aloud, and the hall broke into polite applause. A scattering of cheers rose from the table beneath a navy and bronze banner.

Celeste lifted the hat from her head and stepped down with quiet dignity and allowed herself a small smile. As she settled into her seat at the Ravenclaw table, she neatly folded her hands in her lap. To her left, a prefect with a kind, slightly upturned smile greeted her, and she returned the gesture with a gentle radiance. The applause had just subsided when a new name rang out into the enchanted hall.

"Parkinson, Pansy."

"Slytherin!"

"Patil, Padma."

Then, the Sorting Hat's voice resonated as it announced, "Ravenclaw!" prompting Celeste to shift slightly and make room for the new arrival - a girl whose face shone with a beaming smile as she joined the table.

The list moved on - students shuffled forward, the hall alive with shifting tides of applause and groans from hopeful friends pulled into rival Houses.

Celeste's eyes wandered to the tall, imposing hourglasses that silently tallied the House points, all empty for the moment, and then drifted back to the Sorting Hat. Just then, Professor McGonagall's measured voice cut through the murmurs with a single name that hushed the entire room.

"Potter, Harry."

The boy stepped forward slowly, jaw set in a determined line even as his eyes darted nervously toward the tables. Whispers fluttered through the hall like leaves in a gentle breeze.

"That's him-"

"Did you see the scar?"

Celeste sat very still as he approached the stool. In that moment, a familiar hum - one she had sensed in the wand shop - returned to her. It was a subtle vibration, not ostentatious or loud, but it resonated deeply, like a delicate tuning fork striking softly within her chest.

He settled onto the stool and the Sorting Hat was gently lowered over his eyes. A hush fell over the gathered crowd.

Celeste could not hear the voice inside Harry's head, but she could sense it. The indecision. The push and pull of two opposing instincts. Harry looked tense under the Hat's brim, fidgeting. A long pause. Celeste found herself leaning forward ever so slightly, caught in the moment.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat bellowed in a booming, decisive voice and the hall erupted in wild cheers, the loudest coming from the Gryffindor table.

Celeste's eyes followed Harry as he removed the hat from his head, his wide eyes and flushed cheeks revealing both shock and relief. With a small hurried smile, he darted into the welcoming arms of the Gryffindor table, where Hermione, Neville, and Ron eagerly clapped him on the back like a cherished, long-lost friend.

As the applause faded and Harry slid onto the bench beside Ron, the Sorting Hat called out a few more names - Smith, Zacharias… Turpin, Lisa… - but Celeste barely heard them.

She was watching Harry. Not in awe, the way so many others seemed to be. Not with suspicion, like the Slytherins. Just… watching. He looked overwhelmed, slightly dazed, and maybe even a little lost in the tide of celebration and attention. Then, his eyes wandered - searching the other tables, scanning the room with that same cautious curiosity she'd seen in the wand shop.

Their eyes met briefly across the flickering candlelight and the enchanting, floating stars on the ceiling. In that suspended second, Celeste did not look away. She offered him a small, shy smile. Not one reserved for fame - but the kind you give someone you recognise. Someone you remember.

Harry blinked - and then returned it. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. But it was there.

The moment passed. The Sorting continued.

But something had settled, soft and certain, in Celeste's chest.

The Sorting came to a close with the Hat's final shout - "Zabini, Blaise – Slytherin!" - and Professor McGonagall rolled up her parchment with a sharp snap of the ribbon. The stool and Sorting Hat were carried away by magic - vanishing behind the doors as if they had never been there at all. In a heartbeat, the ceremony was over.

House tables brimmed with a vibrant crowd of newly sorted students, and all eyes gently shifted to the staff table where Albus Dumbledore, majestic and timeless, slowly rose to his feet. Celeste had seen him before - on chocolate frog cards, in portraits, in a flash once through the shop window when he visited Ollivander's in her childhood.

Now, as he stood before them, warm and impossibly ancient, she felt the room hush without being told to. He didn't command silence. He invited it. He opened his arms, smile wide beneath his silver beard.

"Welcome!" he said, voice ringing off the enchanted ceiling. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!"

Scattered applause rose but quickly quieted as he continued, eyes twinkling.

"Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are:

Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then laughter rippled through the hall, confused but delighted.

Celeste didn't laugh but her lips curled slightly. Her grandfather had said once, "Dumbledore's brilliance often arrives dressed in nonsense."

Patiently waiting for the laughter to subside, Dumbledore's tone turned soft but firm as he continued, "Also, a few start-of-term notices: First-years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all students. And the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is strictly out of bounds... to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death."

A heavy silence followed. Celeste blinked, absorbing the gravity of those words. A few students laughed, dismissing it as a joke, while others exchanged worried glances and furrowed brows. A sense of genuine alarm fluttered in some eyes. Celeste merely tilted her head as she sensed the atmosphere subtly shift - a delicate undercurrent of tension beneath the absurd phrasing. Beneath the odd words, an unmistakable warning had been uttered.

With a cheerful clap of his hands, Dumbledore brightened the mood once again. "Now—let the feast begin!"

In an instant, the tables began filling with golden platters overflowing with richly roasted meats, glistening buttered vegetables, towering pitchers brimming with pumpkin juice, luminous puddings, and steaming, savory pies. The hall filled with laughter, the clatter of plates, and the joyful buzz of chatter as even the nervous first-years reached eagerly for rolls, their fingers smeared with butter and wide-eyed in wonder.

Yet Celeste remained momentarily still. Her thoughts lingered on Dumbledore's stark warning.

"…does not wish to die a most painful death."

The phrase echoed softly within her, like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending subtle ripples that managed to outlast the fading laughter and sumptuous delights of the feast. She didn't know what was on the third floor corridor… but she knew the difference between a joke and a warning.

At last, she reached for a spoonful of warm squash, taking a careful bite as the flavors - rich and golden - mingled on her tongue. Around her, her tablemates chatted, laughed, swapped names, and mused over wand lengths, yet her eyes drifted back once more toward the staff table where Dumbledore now reclined, a serene smile playing on his lips, as though he hadn't just tossed a dagger into the center of the room.

Celeste was not afraid; rather, she was listening - attentively and quietly - to everything that had been said and all that remained unsaid.

Chapter Text

The candles in the Great Hall burned low by the time the feast drew to a close, their golden flames flickering feebly like dreaming stars on the verge of sleep. Bellies were brimming with rich food, laughter had mellowed into drowsy murmurs, and the ancient castle itself appeared to exhale - a deep, weighty sigh that softened its proud walls and stretched its shadows long beneath an enchanted ceiling. As the revelry subsided, the first-year students were gently summoned from their tables, each one gathering quietly around their newly appointed prefects. In that hushed moment, Celeste rose with calm determination, slipping gracefully beside a girl sporting deep brown curls and ink-smudged fingers, who reciprocated with a faint, sleepy smile.

The Ravenclaws moved as if they were a constellation come to life - a soft, deliberate stream of hushed voices and thoughtful eyes. They wound their way through corridors, then up and up they climbed, staircases shifting beneath their feet, portraits muttering greetings or soft snores as they passed.

Celeste spoke little, choosing instead to listen. She attuned herself to the sound of measured footsteps echoing on timeworn stone, to the resonance of whispered spells that seemed baked into every ancient wall as well as listening to the murmurs of her new housemates as they climbed.

At last, they reached a tall, gleaming door devoid of any handle or visible keyhole. Their prefect's eyes shone with secret delight as she announced, "There's no password. You must first answer the riddle."

With a graceful turn toward the door, a soft, smooth, lilting voice cascaded from a bronze knocker, intricately formed in the likeness of an eagle's head.

"I speak without a mouth, and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?"

Uncertain glances passed among the first-years until Celeste stepped forward gently. Her voice, quiet yet resonant, filled the space as she answered, "An… an echo."

In response, the door swung open without a sound.

The Ravenclaw common room was unlike anything Celeste had imagined - and she had imagined it often. It was high in one of the castle's towers, and as they stepped inside, the space opened like the sky. A vast domed ceiling arched overhead, its surface adorned with meticulously painted stars that shimmered softly in the torchlight; the constellations seemed to drift slowly across the inky expanse. Tall windows framed the curved walls, offering breathtaking views of distant, mist-wreathed mountains and a tranquil, slumbering lake far below. Elegant bookshelves curved along the room's perimeter, some arranged with meticulous order while others brimmed with ancient scrolls, delicate sketches, and glass jars holding inky elixirs and stray feathers. Cushions fashioned in the shape of crescent moons lay invitingly among quills that appeared suspended midair, and one solitary globe turned slowly of its own volition.

Yet, it was the deep, living quiet that settled in Celeste's chest like a scattering of starlight. It was not the absence of sound but a vibrant, thoughtful silence - as if the very room were meditating upon the mysteries of the ages.

Their prefect then smiled warmly and said, "The girls' dormitory is up that winding spiral staircase. Boys, your dormitory is up that other staircase. There's tea if you desire it, and the fires have all been lit. Sleep well."

Celeste ascended the spiral staircase slowly, her fingertips grazing the cool, worn stone banister as she climbed. At the summit, the dormitory revealed itself as a small, circular haven. Beds were artfully draped with soft blue hangings, sheets neatly turned down, and quilts folded with care, while a gentle fire crackled within a low hearth crafted like a nest of interwoven branches, casting soft flickering shadows upon the curved ceiling.

Her trunk stood waiting at the end of one of the beds, her wand case resting on top of it. Celeste sat on the edge of her bed, exhaling slowly. This was her space - distinct from the busy shop, from the crowded shelves, and from the whispered stories woven into wandwood by her grandfather over time.

Above her, an arched window unveiled a tapestry of stars so vivid and close that it felt almost within reach - as if her fingers might brush against the shimmering belt of Orion itself. Methodically, she changed into her night robes, brushed her hair in slow, languid strokes, and tucked her wand carefully beneath her pillow. Just before sliding beneath the covers, she pressed a gentle palm to the quilt and whispered, "Thank you."

She wasn't quite sure why.

But the castle heard her anyway.

✧⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ˙✧

Celeste woke before the others.

The dormitory was still draped in dawn-shadow, a pale violet light creeping through the high arched window. For a long moment, she simply lay there - blankets pulled to her chin, wand still beneath her pillow, heartbeat soft and steady.

She could hear the castle breathing.

Not with lungs, but with slow creaks and settling stone, with the delicate sighs of wind brushing against the tall tower windows and the low hum of wards woven into the walls. It was like waking inside an old instrument, every surface strung with tension and resonance.

Rising with a grace that spoke of many such mornings, Celeste dressed with deliberate care, her actions smooth and practiced like an old ritual. She had always been an early riser and her first full day in Hogwarts was no exception.

She joined her fellow Housemates as they gathered downstairs, their common room slowly coming alive with the unhurried stretch of limbs, sleepy yawns, the ritual fastening of robes, and the low murmur of conversations about daily schedules.

By breakfast time, the Great Hall had transformed into a lively tapestry of sound - plates clinking, timetables being swapped down long rows, to be scrutinised and compared between friends and the hum of youthful voices mingling with the clatter of porcelain and cutlery.

Celeste found herself seated beside a thoughtful boy named Anthony and a girl who carried the faint, lingering scent of ink. Though she said little, her attentive ears absorbed the flow of conversation like a quiet, observant stream.

Their first class of the day was Charms with Professor Flitwick—a sprightly lesson held in a sun-dappled room on the third floor where brightness spilled in generous torrents. Celeste settled near the window, her wand resting delicately atop her parchment, as if patiently waiting for its moment. At that, the diminutive yet exuberant Flitwick bounded to the front with infectious energy and a grin that nearly rivaled the height of the desk behind him.

"Today!" he exclaimed in a high, cheerful squeak, "we begin our introduction to basic incantations - light, levitation, and intent!" With a swift flourish, he demonstrated by uttering a perfect Lumos, causing the tip of his wand to burst into a warm, golden glow.

Around her, students all tried their magic with varying success. Some wands flickered hesitantly, others sparked erratically, and a few remained stubbornly inert. Celeste's own wand obeyed without delay - her Lumos shone with a soft, steady brilliance, the light imbued with a comforting warmth, and the hum beneath her fingertips resonated with quiet assurance.

Yet even as the class practiced, Celeste's keen senses picked up subtle discrepancies. In one corner of the room, a boy's wand discharged a flash that was jarringly loud and sharp - a sudden crack of light that felt more like a snapping twig than a gentle glow. It fizzled out almost immediately, leaving him to frown in dismay and murmur an apology for his poor technique under his breath.

Across the room, another student named Lisa executed her charm with precision, yet her wand's tip continued to emit a feeble glow long after she had whispered the counter-charm Nox. It was a quiet aberration, easily overlooked amidst the enthusiastic commotion, as Flitwick moved busily between desks with his characteristic cheer, offering praise and adjustment, while other students focused on outdoing each other with their magical prowess.

Celeste cradled her wand in her hand, tilting it slightly as she listened intently to the ambient murmurs of enchantments. Something in the wands themselves felt… off-kilter. Not broken. Just unsettled. Like a violin out of tune - not enough to notice unless you already knew the song.

Their next class was Herbology, held outside in the tender embrace of a soft September morning. Celeste worked quietly beside Hermione and Neville, who spoke in nervous bursts about his worry over "killing the plants accidentally." Celeste smiled, murmured a kind reassurance, and gently patted the soil around her own seedling with bare fingers. The earth beneath her touch was steady - a contrast to the unsettled energies lingering in their wands.

Later, in History of Magic, the soft, ghostly tones of Professor Binns, whose voice dwindled like a fading wind, lulled most of the class into a drowsy reverie. But Celeste took notes - not of what he said, but of what she felt.

Wand activity.

As she documented the various occurrences she'd seen throughout the day, a wand was dropped two rows ahead of her and before it even hit the floor, it sparked - just briefly. No spell had been cast. The student muttered an apology, picked it up, and Binns droned on. Celeste, on the other hand, jotted a new line into her notebook, angled away from curious eyes:

Wand in third row sparked when dropped. No incantation. It reacted on its own - like it was responding to something. Possible nerves? Reacting to ambient magic? Unclear.

She didn't know what any of it meant. She was only sure that it wasn't nothing.

Later, between classes, she passed a group of Hufflepuffs trying to practice a floating charm in the corridor. One girl's wand refused to respond at all - until, frustrated, she shouted the incantation too loudly, and the feather exploded into a puff of downy fragments. Celeste's own wand hummed against her sleeve.

She froze.

It felt… restless.

Of course, not everything was unusual. They were all new to casting. In Transfiguration, Celeste had tried to turn a matchstick into a needle - and instead set hers vibrating so violently that Professor McGonagall had to steady it with a flick of her own wand.

That had been nerves. Concentration. Hesitation.

Some of these mishaps were just first-week mistakes. She could admit that.

But not all of them.

Some of the wands weren't just misfiring - they were resisting. Or reaching for something else entirely.

✧⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ˙✧

By the time the sun dipped low and shadows stretched long across the stone floors, Celeste sat alone at a window seat tucked behind a bookshelf in the library. Her books were open, parchment covered in careful notes and quiet questions - but her quill had long since stilled. Her gaze drifted beyond the glass, to the lake rippling gold beneath the sinking sun. She should have been reviewing wand movements. Re-reading Flitwick's list of casting postures. Memorising incantations.

But her thoughts were circling one thing.

The wands.

Not just her own. Not just one or two.

Enough of them.

They weren't just misfiring - they were responding. But to what? To fear? To excitement? To the presence of so many new casters gathered in one ancient place? Or to something else entirely?

She thought of the sparks. The resistance. The way her own wand had hummed in her hand before the Hufflepuff's feather had exploded midair. The memory itched behind her ribs like a puzzle missing its centre piece.

Celeste drew her notebook toward her, trailing a finger down her list of observations. Some were ordinary, easily explained. Others weren't. Her matchstick mishap in Transfiguration had made sense. But that wand in History of Magic - it had sparked before it was even touched.

A reaction with cause. Or maybe… without an obvious one.

She ran a hand across the worn leather of her notebook and closed it gently. She didn't have answers. She wasn't even sure she had the right questions yet. But she knew the feeling wands gave when something was wrong and this?

This wasn't nothing.

She gathered her books and tucked her wand into her sleeve.

Whatever was going on with the wands, she wasn't going to figure it out tonight - not on her own. But maybe…

Maybe a letter to her grandfather could help.

As she turned to leave, she nearly collided with someone rounding the corner of the shadowy row of bookshelves.

"Oh - sorry," the boy said quickly, stepping back with a startled expression.

She looked up, her eyes widening slightly.

Harry Potter.

He blinked in recognition, his gaze sharpening. "You're… Celeste, right? From the wand shop."

She nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "And you're Harry. Still in one piece, I see."

A faint smile tugged at his mouth, the corners lifting gently. "So far."

They stood in the quiet for a moment, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and ink. Beyond the shelves, the rustle of parchment and the delicate scratch of quills echoed faintly, the rhythm of a castle that never truly slept.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked, his tone curious rather than accusatory.

Celeste tilted her head slightly, her eyes thoughtful. "Listening."

"To what?"

She hesitated, then glanced at the wand peeking subtly from his robes. "The wands," she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. "Something about them feels… different. Off-balance. Did yours feel strange in class today?"

Harry frowned, his brow furrowing in thought. "No. Not really. It did what I told it to. Why?"

"Some didn't," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of unease. "They sparked when they shouldn't. Fizzled when they should've caused flight. Some ignored their owners altogether."

"Maybe they're just nervous," Harry offered with a shrug. "It's only our first day."

"Maybe," Celeste said, though her voice suggested otherwise, a subtle undertone of doubt.

Harry looked at her for a moment longer, his eyes studying her intently. "You really do listen, don't you?"

Celeste didn't reply. She didn't need to. Her silence spoke volumes.

He smiled faintly, adjusting the strap of his bag. "Well… let me know if any of them try to set the curtains on fire."

She almost smiled, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. "I will."

As he turned to go, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder, his expression thoughtful. "I'm glad it was you that gave me my wand."

Celeste blinked, momentarily taken aback.

"Most people just see the scar," he added quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You didn't."

Then he was gone, his footsteps soft against the stone as he disappeared into the corridor.

For a long moment, Celeste stood in the hush he left behind. The library felt softer now, like the air had shifted just slightly - warmer at the edges.

Then, she smiled to herself - soft and unexpected.

The kind of smile that came from being seen, if only for a moment.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The grass still held the lingering weight of the early morning mist as clusters of first-year students gathered on the field. Their robes danced softly in the gentle wind, dew clinging to the edges of their shoes. Every blade of grass carried droplets of moisture that caught the light like individual, shimmering stars. Overhead, the sky spread vast and pale, its delicate expanse streaked with thin, fast-moving clouds, as if they were in pursuit of the day. 

Near the fringe of the assembly stood Celeste, arms crossed loosely over her chest as if shielding herself from more than just the chill of the air. The cool atmosphere brushed against her skin with a crispness heightened by an oddly metallic tang - a telltale mark of nearby, potent magic. Before her, twenty school brooms were arranged in two meticulous rows on the sodden grass. Their bristles were sadly frayed, and the handles smoothed away by generations, reflecting the nervous energy of countless students. A few of the brooms even twitched in the soft breeze, reminiscent of restless insects attempting to free themselves from unseen constraints. Celeste’s eyes moved slowly across them - not just observing, but listening. Their magic was shallow, jittery, more reactive than resonant. Not like wands. Where wands hummed with purpose, these buzzed, like magic caught in the wrong shape.

“Everyone stand by a broom!” Madam Hooch’s voice rang out, sharp and insistent, her boots sinking into the damp earth as she hurriedly commanded the group. “Come on, quickly!”

With quiet determination, Celeste gravitated toward a broom that appeared marginally straighter than the rest. As if acknowledging her presence, it twitched slightly upon her approach, then settled into a reluctant obedience.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom and say, ‘Up!’” Madam Hooch instructed.

“UP!” came the unified chorus of voices, Celeste’s included. Yet her broom did not answer in kind. It quivered with uncertainty, rolling languidly on the wet grass before settling once more into inert stillness. Nearby, Harry’s broom shot up into his hand on the first try and Ron’s broom defied expectations by leaping upward with an abrupt snap, colliding with his face in a comical yet painful encounter. He emitted a muffled yelp, clutching his nose while laughter rippled through the crowd. 

“Keep those fingers steady!” Madam Hooch admonished, her tone brooking no nonsense. “You’ll lose an eye if you’re not careful!”

Celeste’s lips pressed into a determined line as she refocused her attention. She could feel the restless hum of magic coursing through the broom - a subtle energy skimming just beneath its surface, elusive as water slipping through outstretched fingers. 

“Up,” she murmured again, this time softer and coaxing as though persuading the broom to embrace her control. The broom wavered for a moment longer, then gave a grudging little bounce before settling back onto the grass with a muted thud. Around her, the scene slowly transformed into one of small triumphs; a dark-skinned girl lifted her broom to hover steadily at knee level, her expression alight with delight, while a nearby boy had already snatched his broom from the air, holding it aloft like a prized trophy. The field buzzed with excited chatter, punctuated by scattered shouts of celebration.

Celeste, however, was lost in her own world. She crouched beside her obstinate broom, studying every fine detail - the grain of the wood, the quivering tremor in its delicate twigs - almost as if she believed it might eventually confess the secrets of its nature under her unwavering gaze. A flush of heat crept up her cheeks as she sensed the successful displays of her peers, the embarrassed awareness of her own struggle blooming within her.

“Need some help?” Ron’s voice piped in, still tinged with the remnants of his earlier mishap as he glanced over, his tone half-chiding and half-concerned.

Celeste didn’t spare him a glance. “No. Just being stubborn,” she replied curtly.

“Maybe it doesn’t like you,” Ron teased with a weak laugh, then winced as he gingerly touched the bruise forming beneath one eye. “Looks like we’ve got something in common.” Though his words carried humour, there was an underlying shared exasperation that resonated with her. A brief twitch appeared at the corner of Celeste’s mouth - a silent acknowledgement of the absurdity of it all. 

Taking a renewed breath, she said, “Up,” a bit firmer this time. The broom wobbled and seemed to hesitate as though weighing her resolve, pausing momentarily, then slowly, almost begrudgingly, arched upward into her outstretched hand. Celeste clutched it tightly, feeling the rough, natural texture of the wood settle reassuringly beneath her palm. It buzzed as if alive - a small creature captive within its own constraints, held still merely by a lack of better alternatives.

“Well done, everyone!” Madam Hooch’s voice cut through the murmurs as she surveyed the class with piercing, hawk-like eyes. “Now let’s see if you can keep them in the air.”

Celeste tightened her grip around the broom, acutely aware of the wild, fleeting energy pulsing just beneath the surface of the wood - quick and untamed, waiting to burst free. Instinctively, her hand shifted, adjusting to the broom’s subtle language.

“Mount your brooms!” Madam Hooch called next. “Grip tightly - you don’t want to be sliding off the end. When I blow my whistle, you’ll kick off, hover for a moment, and then come back down nice and slow. Understood?”

Nods rippled through the group as the instruction sank in. “Three, two—” Hooch began counting even as tension filled the air. Before the whistle could pierce the stillness, Neville Longbottom’s broom leapt into action.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t deliberate. Like a coiled spring finally released, the broom surged upward, propelled by pent-up energy. Neville clung desperately to it, his legs swinging wildly beneath him, his cloak billowing dramatically in the sudden rush of motion like tattered sails in a tempest.

Madam Hooch’s whistle shrieked sharply, belatedly punctuating the chaos. “Mr Longbottom!” she bellowed. “Everyone else - stay put! Do not move!”

As Neville’s broom jerked and twisted violently beneath him, it began elevating him higher with each frantic adjustment. He screamed - a high, reedy, terror-stricken sound - and the broom, no longer a graceful instrument, whirled in a frantic spiral, each twist and turn tightening its grip on his fate. Celeste watched, transfixed and frozen, her hand inching toward her wand as though preparing to intervene, though what could she do? 

The broom was not behaving with wild rebellion - it wasn’t aiming to toss him aside - but rather it was trying to escape the confines of control. Deep within her, she sensed it: a thread of magic pulled tightly, resonating with a note too profound and louder than any audible sound. It was as if the broom was mirroring not just Neville’s terror, but a larger, all-encompassing force. Neville’s ascent became a series of jerky, staggering arcs; his arms flailed wildly in a desperate bid for equilibrium. The entire class gasped in unison as he twisted sideways, a momentary lapse sending him into an inevitable, heart-stopping fall. Time seemed to hang in suspended silence as he plummeted toward the earth.

There was a heavy, resounding thud as Neville hit the grass, his misbehaving broom falling with him and landing with a thud next to him. A hush fell over the field, thick and heavy, as if the world had momentarily exhaled in collective shock.

Madam Hooch was at Neville’s side in an instant, her wand drawn, her voice low and urgent as she worked quickly with measured precision. Though Celeste couldn’t catch the words, she noted the reassuring gentleness in Madam Hooch’s touch and the swift flicker of magic that danced in the air. Neville groaned as he clutched his injured arm, the pain mingling with the raw shock of the incident.

“Broken wrist,” Madam Hooch announced grimly, eyes hardening as she addressed the still-gathered students. “Everyone stay where you are.” She turned sharply to face the class, her gaze stern and unyielding. “If I see a single broom in the air,” she warned, her voice slicing through the silence, “the one riding it will be out of Hogwarts faster than you can say ‘Quidditch.’”

The warning settled over the students like a chill, and a few stiffened noticeably, while the grounded brooms around them twitched as if chastened for their earlier misbehaviour. Madam Hooch draped her arm firmly around Neville’s shoulder, ushering him away with brisk determination, her cloak snapping behind her like a trailing reminder of discipline.

In the wake of their departure, whispered speculations bubbled among the remaining students. 

“Did you see his face?” someone murmured in awe. “He looked ready to faint!” 

Another whispered, “I thought he was going to be sick.” 

Despite the murmurs, Celeste remained silent, her gaze fixed on where Madam Hooch and Neville had walked away, her hand resting protectively on her sleeve where her wand was tucked away.

It was not merely fear that had surged through the air that day. The magic had flared around Neville’s broom in a warning glow - a vivid signal that resonated deeply within her. And even as the field began to stir again, the lingering echo of that wild, untamed energy hummed softly in the cool, misty morning air.

As the crowd shifted, Celeste stood still, her thoughts weaving through memories long buried. She felt them surface like reluctant apparitions: afternoons in the Ollivander workshop, the rustle of pages carrying her grandfather’s voice - the first to tell her about their family’s peculiar sensitivity to certain kinds of magic.

“An affliction,” her grandfather had said once, with a soft smile that tried to be reassuring. “Or a talent, depending on how you look at it.”

Then, Draco Malfoy’s voice split her thoughts like a shard of glass shattering on cold stone. “Did you see his face?” he called out, his tone cutting through the voices of the other students, his eyes alight with malicious amusement. “It looked just like a squashed toad falling from the sky.”

A few students exchanged hesitant, brittle chuckles that fluttered in the air but carried no warmth. Celeste remained silent, her gaze moving to gaze at Neville’s broom, now carelessly lying askew in the dewy grass where it had fallen. The broom’s bristles trembled ever so slightly in the gentle breeze, yet its handle lay unnervingly motionless, as if it had surrendered its life after a hard-fought struggle. Bending just a fraction lower, Celeste feigned interest in inspecting her own broom, all the while keeping her attention locked on the one Neville had ridden. Something about it exuded an inexplicable energy. It wasn’t that it appeared cursed or scarred by any dark magic; it seemed simply different, as though it were reacting to an unseen pressure, spooked by forces unknown.

Her musing was interrupted as Draco moved again, his sharp, tinkling laugh drawing her attention like a lure. He crouched near the spot where Neville’s cloak, crumpled and discarded, lay in a tangled heap on the ground. With a flourish, Draco plucked an object from the grass.

“Oh, what do we have here?” he sneered, twirling the item between his perfectly manicured fingers, holding it aloft for all the onlookers to see. “Looks like dear Longbottom dropped his little toy.” 

It was the Remembrall, radiating a soft glow that shimmered in the early light, its inner red pulse mimicking a heartbeat frozen in time against glass.

“Give it back, Malfoy,” came a steady, firm tone from Harry - his voice laced with a calm warning rather than heat. Immediately, Celeste straightened, her heart skipping as she looked between the boys. 

Draco turned the sphere in his fingers, eyes dancing with mischief. “I think I’ll leave it somewhere for him to find,” he declared with an arch smirk. 

Celeste, still standing at the edge of the gathered class, spoke up. Her words were soft, yet carried an undeniable clarity and resolve. “He dropped it. You took it. That’s not clever - it’s petty.”

Draco’s smirk wavered for just a heartbeat as he turned toward her with a glint of displeasure, only to find her expression unwavering - like someone calmly observing a minor, disappointing misfire of magic. Harry stepped forward once more, his jaw set in a tight line. “I said, give it here,” he demanded.

Rather than listening to Harry, Draco moved to his broom and mounted it with a grace that belied his usual arrogance. “Come and catch it if you can, Potter,” he sneered.

In a sudden burst, he kicked off from the grass, his figure blurring as he soared away. Celeste’s heart leapt as she realised he had flown exceptionally well, clearly no stranger to flying on a broom. The Remembrall continued to glint ominously in Malfoy’s grasp.

“Malfoy, no!” Harry shouted, his eyes flashing with both fury and determination. Harry swung a leg over his broom, preparing to take off after the Malfoy heir. 

Beside him, Hermione hissed a furious admonition, “Don’t you dare! You’ll get expelled! Besides, you don’t even know how to fly!”

But even as she spoke, Celeste interjected softly - her voice low yet precise, reaching Harry’s ears clearly: “You should fly. If anyone can catch it, it’s you.”

Harry hesitated, his grip tightening on the broom handle. The tension in the air shifted.

Hermione rounded on Celeste, her brows drawn tight in disbelief.

“Why would you encourage him?” she whispered sharply. “That’s reckless. He could fall, he could break his neck - he could get expelled! ”

Celeste met her eyes, calm as ever.

“Because Malfoy’s the one who broke the rules first, ” she replied simply. “Harry’s just putting it right.”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again before letting out a frustrated noise.

Before either of them could say more, Harry mounted his broom and kicked off the ground, the air rushing up around him like it had been waiting. As he reached Malfoy, he slowed to a hover. “Give it here, Malfoy, or I’ll knock you off your broom!”

“Is that so?” Draco asked him, tossing the Remembrall up and down. “Have it your way, then!”

Then, with an easy flick of his wrist, Draco tossed the Remembrall into the air. It traced a graceful arc, catching the sunlight like a jewel, spinning lazily as it ascended, its surface glinting with a soft, alluring red glow. For a moment, it seemed suspended, just out of reach, tauntingly elusive. 

Then it began its descent. The world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

And Harry moved.

His broom responded instantly to his slightest lean, dipping sharply forward before his hands had time to guide its motion. He shot forward and downward in a breathtakingly steep dive, his cloak billowing like a banner behind him, eyes locked onto the falling sphere with unwavering determination.

Gasps erupted across the field, a chorus of disbelief and awe. Celeste's heart leapt into her throat, a mixture of fear and exhilaration. Harry wasn’t flying like a first-year student. He was flying as if he had been born with wings, as if the sky had always been his domain.

The Remembrall spiraled toward the ground, mere seconds from a shattering collision—

—and then, miraculously, Harry’s fingers closed around it with the precision of a seasoned Seeker.

He pulled up sharply, just feet from the earth, skimming the grass in a daring, low arc before landing in a fluid, sliding stop that sent a flurry of damp leaves swirling in his wake.

For a heartbeat, the world was silent, suspended in the aftermath of the spectacle.

Then the air erupted with excited cries, a cacophony of cheers and stunned exclamations.

Celeste, however, remained silent. Her focus hadn’t been on the Remembrall. She had been watching the broom. It hadn’t merely obeyed him; it had trusted him, responding to his every thought and movement as if it were a living extension of his will, like magic rising to meet him before he even asked. The memory of it blazed in her mind, bright and unsettling. That kind of flying, she realised, didn't come from lessons at all.

Then—

“POTTER!”

Celeste flinched at the sharp call. Professor McGonagall was striding across the lawn, her emerald robes snapping in the wind, her face a mask of unreadable sternness.

“Follow me,” she said crisply, taking Harry by the arm with an urgency that brooked no argument, and without waiting for a reply. They disappeared through the castle doors, and the excitement of the other students turned quickly to nervous whispers.

Celeste didn’t join in. For the first time since she’d spoken, doubt crept in.

She had told Harry to fly and he had. 

Now, watching the doors swing shut behind him, she wondered-

Had she been wrong to do so?

✧⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ˙✧

The sun was beginning to dip behind the majestic towers when Celeste discovered Harry sitting alone beneath one of the towering, ivy-laced windows just outside the courtyard. The golden light was slanting downwards, casting elongated shadows across the worn flagstones. Harry sat with his knees drawn up, his chin gently resting on them, and his arms loosely wrapped around his legs. Celeste paused at the corner of the archway, the air around her filled with the warm glow of the setting sun, then gracefully stepped into the light. Harry glanced up at her arrival. Words did not immediately pass between them; instead, she simply settled herself beside him - carefully, quietly, smoothing her robes beneath her as she sat.

Together they watched the breeze play with the ivy, the leaves dancing lightly in the warm air, now tinged with the first cool breath of evening. After a moment, Harry broke the silence. “She didn’t expel me.”

Celeste turned her gaze toward him, curiosity piqued.

“She took me straight to some fifth-year called Wood. He’s the Gryffindor Quidditch captain,” Harry continued, his voice tinged with disbelief. There was a pause before he added, “She’s making me Seeker.”

Celeste blinked in surprise. “Truly?”

Harry nodded, a grin beginning to spread across his face. “First-year. Youngest in a century, she said.”

He laughed softly, a sound filled with a mix of amazement and disbelief. “I didn’t even know what a Seeker was this morning.”

Celeste allowed a faint smile to touch her lips. “You do now.”

“Catch the snitch. Try not to die,” Harry quipped.

Another silence settled between them, rich with shared understanding rather than awkwardness. Harry leaned his head back against the cool stone wall and looked up at the sky, still smiling - a smile that was softer now, as though the full reality had yet to entirely sink in.

“I thought I was going to be expelled,” he confessed again, the weight of the earlier fear lingering in his words.

“I worried I might have caused it,” Celeste admitted, a hint of concern in her voice. “By telling you to fly.”

Harry shook his head, a firm resolve in his denial. “You didn’t. I would’ve done it anyway.”

She studied him for a long moment, then said, “Come with me, I think there’s something you should see.”

✧⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ˙✧

Harry didn’t ask where they were going. Celeste guided him through the expansive corridors of the castle, as the last warm hues of daylight faded behind the intricate stained glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the stone floors. The halls were eerily silent, devoid of any other presence, save for the occasional flicker of torches that lined the walls and the distant, muted murmur of voices drifting from the Great Hall. The quietness enveloped them like a soft cloak, comforting and undisturbed. It was a silence that felt right for Celeste. It felt right for Harry too.

They turned into a winding corridor that snaked around the trophy room - a place steeped in history, its echoes faint and its shelves lined with plaques and photographs that whispered of triumphs from decades long gone. Celeste moved with a lightness in her step, her fingers briefly brushing against the cool stone wall, until she paused before a long row of House team photographs.

She pointed with intent. “Here.”

Harry leaned closer, peering through the glass. There, preserved yet lovingly maintained, was an image of the Gryffindor Quidditch team from two decades prior. At the center stood a boy with a wild, infectious grin, his arm casually draped around two of his teammates, a broom slung confidently over his shoulder.

James Potter – Chaser

Harry’s eyes widened as he stared, a mixture of awe and disbelief in his voice. “That’s my dad?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Celeste nodded gently, her eyes softening. “James Potter.”

Harry's gaze fixed on her, his mind momentarily frozen. Words eluded him, and for a lengthy moment, silence wrapped around them both. “I didn’t know he played,” he murmured at last, his voice a delicate whisper - not tinged with sorrow, but cautious, as if he were handling something exquisitely fragile. Celeste allowed the silence to linger, respecting its weight.

“He looks… happy,” Harry observed quietly.

“He was a Chaser,” Celeste explained, her words carrying a hint of admiration. “My grandfather mentioned him. After you left the shop with your wand. Just once. Said he flew well.”

Harry moved closer to the glass that framed the photo, his eyes drinking in every detail, as if trying to etch them permanently into his memory.

“I never really knew anything about him. Just that he and my mum… died,” he confessed, his voice trailing off.

Celeste’s voice was gentle, laced with understanding. “He flew. So do you.”

Harry remained in front of the photograph, his thoughts swirling silently, his heart caught between the past and present. Celeste stood by him, her presence calm and unobtrusive, sensing that this moment was his alone.

Finally, in a voice just above a whisper, Harry admitted, “It’s strange. Seeing him like that. Like he really existed.”

Celeste's gaze returned to the image of James Potter, her own expression reflective. “He still does. A little. In you.”

Harry didn’t respond, but she noticed a subtle relaxation in his shoulders, a slight easing of the tension he carried.

The torchlight flickered gently behind the glass, casting warm illumination on the photograph. In the picture, James Potter's laughter was caught mid-action, his eyes crinkling with joy at something a teammate had said, and he playfully wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead.

“He looks like someone who loved flying,” Harry said, his voice filled with a quiet sense of connection.

Celeste nodded, her eyes meeting his. “You’re not so different.”

A small, lopsided smile appeared on Harry's face, a reflection of shared lineage. “Maybe I’ve got Quidditch in my blood.”

Celeste tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “Or maybe the magic just remembers.”

He gave a soft laugh, looking down at his shoes. “You talk about magic like it’s a person.”

Celeste shrugged. “Sometimes it listens like one.”

They lingered in that moment a little longer before slowly turning back toward the main corridor. The distant hum of dinner from the Great Hall reached them, warm and inviting, yet neither felt the need to rush. As they walked, the echoes of their footsteps whispered softly across the stone floor.

“You were right,” Harry said abruptly, breaking the gentle silence.

Celeste glanced sideways at him, curiosity in her eyes.

“I should’ve flown.”

She didn’t reply with I told you so. There was no need. Instead, she simply said, “I’m glad you did.”

Chapter Text

The rain had been falling steadily since the break of dawn, casting a gentle veil over the landscape. Unlike a tempest that rattled windows or drummed against rooftops, this rain was a soft, persistent drizzle. It blurred the edges of the castle, making the ancient stone walls glisten like polished wet slate. The sky above was a heavy, unbroken expanse of grey, lending a somber, muted atmosphere to the Great Hall. The flickering candlelight seemed to dance with a weary, subdued rhythm, casting small pools of golden glow that struggled against the encroaching dimness.

Celeste sat quietly at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of peppermint tea. The warmth seeped into her palms, offering a small comfort against the chill in the air. Her breakfast lay almost untouched before her - a single piece of toast, half-eaten, and a few slices of bacon, now gone cold and unappealing. Her appetite had waned along with her thoughts, which had become a chaotic jumble, unusually loud and scattered.

Something in the air had changed.

She couldn't articulate it to anyone else, not even if she tried, for it was not knowledge gleaned from books or whispers overheard in the corridors. It was an instinctive feeling, a sense that everything was slightly off-kilter. Spells misfired unpredictably, with wands sparking at odd intervals. During a Transfiguration class, a classmate's quill had erupted into violet smoke, a bizarre spectacle that left everyone startled. Her own wand had unexpectedly sent a puff of cold air up her sleeve when her mind had wandered elsewhere.

The change wasn't menacing or dangerous. It was simply… different, a subtle shift in the fabric of the familiar world around her.

The owls arrived in a slow, sweeping tide of wings, pulling Celeste from her thoughts. Dozens of them dipped and circled beneath the high, vaulted ceiling, their claws clutching parchment and packages. Most students sat up straighter, their eyes wide with anticipation, eager for letters from home that carried the warmth of familiar words across the distance. Celeste didn't join them in their excitement.

Instead, her gaze fixated on a single barn owl, its flight deliberate and graceful, wings spread wide like sails billowing in a gentle breeze. The bird descended toward her with a quiet majesty, landing beside her plate with barely a whisper of sound, its eyes, dark and unreadable. Tied to its leg was a thick envelope, and beneath it, something heavier, encased in protective oilskin. The seal on the letter was instantly recognisable - not the emblem of the shop, but the personal mark of her grandfather: a slender wand elegantly crossed beneath a crescent moon. With careful fingers, Celeste untied the bindings, her heart pausing in its rhythm as if the world itself held its breath.

"Thank you," she murmured softly to the owl. The creature blinked at her, solemn and still, its gaze unwavering, as if acknowledging the gravity of the moment. Reaching for a strip of bacon from her plate, she laid it gently on the wood beside the owl's taloned feet. It bent down and accepted the offering with a delicate grace.

As the owl savoured its treat, Celeste unfolded the letter with tender care. The parchment was heavy and textured, and the handwriting was unmistakable: Garrick Ollivander's, crisp and elegant, like wand wood carved with intention.

Dearest Celeste,

You are right to listen, even when others do not hear it. Wands respond to many things - but few more deeply than imbalance.

I have felt it too. Not in the bones, as you do, but in the materials. Phoenix feather that flares too quickly. Unicorn hair that tightens in defence. The grain of ashwood that won't take polish, as though it resents the light.

There are murmurs in the timber. Subtle dissonances. Threads pulled taut beneath the ordinary. But not every sound is a song to follow, and not every flicker is a flame.

Some wands wake not from danger, but from memory.

I have sent you a book. It's not a tool. It isn't a guide, either - not in the way you might hope but it has been carried through our family's hands for a long time, and though it hasn't spoken in years, I suspect it might speak to you.

Keep listening but keep your feet on the ground.

And remember, some answers do not appear until the wand is ready to choose.

Your grandfather,
G. Ollivander

She read it twice, her eyes tracing each line with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Then, with a gentle touch, she folded the letter along its original creases, the paper whispering softly as it complied, before slipping it carefully back into the envelope.

She wasn't sure whether she felt reassured… or slightly unnerved.

The owl had gone without a sound.

The parcel remained on the table - wrapped still, dark and solid and strangely expectant. With deliberate care, Celeste unwrapped it, revealing the book inside.

It was old, bound in cracked leather, unlabelled and unadorned. Just a faint scent of smoke and varnish and something older than parchment. The pages were uneven and hand-cut. There was no title on the cover. No author etched into the spine. Just a faint embossing, half-worn to nothing, that might once have been a wand... or a tree... or a sigil long forgotten.

She opened it carefully, expecting text.

The first few pages were blank.

Then a table of contents, or so Celeste assumed, but it was disordered, unfinished, and half in shorthand. She turned the page and found diagrams: wand cores drawn in delicate ink, cross-sections labelled with odd notes in the margins. One page detailed the pairing difficulties between ash wood and unicorn hair. Another listed wand lengths and their behavioural shifts depending on the caster's dominant hand.

Celeste turned the page again. The book did not read like a book. There were no chapters. Just fragments. Sketches of wand cores beside lines of poetry. Star charts woven through wand diagrams. Another bore a single phrase: "When the wood forgets the song, it sleeps."

She turned another page.

More diagrams. Notes in several hands. A feather drawn in charcoal. A wand split lengthwise like an anatomy sketch. The grain inside curled like something that had been grown, not carved.

It was wandlore. Practical wandlore. But not only that.

Some pages were covered in looping, nonsensical scribbles - wand resonance mapped on what looked like musical notation, sketches of wands twisted like spirals, fragments of poems that faded mid-line. She couldn't tell if they were experiments, theories, or mistakes. Some of it she couldn't even begin to comprehend.

She turned to another page: "If a wand sings out of tune, is it the wand or the hand?"

With a confused frown and a slow blink, Celeste closed the book gently. Her grandfather had certainly been correct when he'd mentioned that the book was no guide. It seemed to be filled with the scribblings of Celeste's apparently utterly mad ancestors.

There was only one place to start with a book as strange and unknown as the one Celeste now held and so, she finished her tea in two small, deliberate sips. Tucking the book securely beneath her arm and picking up her satchel, she slipped quietly from the Great Hall, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor.

The library waited.

✧⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ˙✧

The library was unusually still.

It was a Saturday morning, and while the castle bustled faintly with the clatter of late breakfasts and murmured plans for the afternoon, the library remained a place apart - cool, hushed, and ever so slightly dust-scented. Outside, the rain showed no signs of stopping and the fine drizzle continued to tap softly at the tall, arched windows. Celeste moved through the aisles with practiced care, her fingers trailing lightly along spines as she passed. She wasn't entirely sure what she was looking for. Something foundational. Something that might help make sense of what her grandfather had sent her.

She selected four books in total. All of them were pulled from the ordinary shelves - a few titles she recognised from her reading before Hogwarts, others that simply felt like they belonged. The Fundamentals of Wandwood Compatibility. Cores and Conductivity. Constructing the Magical Channel: A Beginner's Guide. Resonance: Notes on Wand and Caster Alignment.

Clean. Academic. Well-categorised. Nothing like the book under her arm.

She settled into a quiet alcove near one of the tall windows, far from the main tables, where the candlelight floated lazily and the stone was cool beneath her boots. The table bore faint scars of use - quill marks, softened grooves, a few scattered ink stains. She liked it.

Celeste unwrapped the oilskin once more and laid the old book gently at the centre of her workspace. It looked older in this light. Not simply aged, but enduring, like something that remembered being made.

She opened it again.

The first few pages were familiar now. Core tests. Wand length trials. Margins filled with questions. There were sketches and symbols she didn't recognise, ink faded and overlapping in places. Some of the writing had been annotated by different hands. One note had been struck through three times, but not replaced. In contrast, the modern books looked too clean. Their diagrams were standardised, their tone certain. They explained wands like objects - measured, controlled, sorted into boxes.

Her grandfather's book did none of that. It wandered.

She turned to a page near the centre and found it headed Binding Errors. The entries were more like diary confessions than data.

Core slipped mid-bind. Hair curled and smoked. Wand looks fine, but it won't lie flat in the drawer.

Wood resisted polish. Repeatedly spat the varnish off. Recut it shorter. Behaviour stopped.

Lost sleep after the dual-core split. It screamed in the cupboard for two nights.

In the margin, a note written sideways: "Wands remember failure. Handle the broken ones gently."

Celeste exhaled slowly, turned a couple of pages until reaching a new section headed Unusual Woods.

Blackthorn: wand splintered under strain. Too tightly bound? Suggested reattempt during waning moon.

Silver lime: unusually silent during bonding. Responded only after prolonged stillness. Possible affinity for Seers?

Hornbeam: overreactive to ambient emotion. Wand refused to cast unless the bearer calmed themselves entirely.

Then beneath, in a line pressed almost into the binding: "Wood that no longer grows still remembers what it was."

A few more pages were turned and then came Emotional Imprints.

Maker in mourning. Wand absorbed it. Bearer never cast a joyful charm.

Rebound during joy-state. Charm burned the rug. Laughter can burn, too.

Celeste paused, reading that last line twice. On the following page, she found notes on Reclaimed Cores - cores salvaged from broken or abandoned wands. Most of the notes were cautious, a few reverent.

Phoenix feather (3rd use): refused to bond. Vibrated until extracted.

Unicorn hair: silent for 12 days. Responded faintly to touch, but not magic.

Dragon heartstring: returned to original wand. Response immediate. Loyalty?

A folded slip of parchment was tucked between these entries, almost as if it had been hidden rather than misplaced. Celeste unfolded it, surprised to see that the ink was darker. Newer.

If you are reading this, and the book has not shut you out, then it still listens.

The rules it knows are not the ones we write in schoolrooms. They are older.

Let it speak. Let yourself answer slowly.

Celeste stared at the final line of the hidden note, the words swimming just slightly as her eyes lingered too long before she closed the book with care. Her hand rested on the cover, fingers splayed across the soft, worn leather. It felt warm - not magically, but as if it had been held for years and remembered every touch. She let out a quiet breath she hadn't realised she was holding.

The truth was, she didn't understand most of it.

Some things she recognised - terms she'd heard her grandfather mutter while testing wands behind the counter, notations similar to the ones on pieces of parchment on his workbench. She'd helped him prepare wand cores before. Had carefully laid unicorn hair into hollowed wandwood, had watched phoenix feather shift like light beneath varnish. She knew the scent of fresh ash shavings and the quiet crackle of wood reacting to a binding charm.

But she'd never crafted a wand. She hadn't even tried.

For all she had grown up among wand boxes and polished counters and half-finished designs, she had only ever observed the work that came after the choice had been made. The shaping, the binding, the refinement. She had never been asked to choose the wood. To hear it. To decide what kind of magic it might carry.

The book felt bigger than her. Not in weight, but in memory.

It wasn't just wandlore. It was generations of wandmakers - their doubts, their discoveries, their strange and singular moments when the wood had spoken back.

Celeste folded her arms on the table and let her forehead rest lightly against them.

She wasn't sure what her grandfather had been thinking, sending her this. It was fascinating, yes. Beautiful. Wild. But it wasn't a guide. It wasn't something a first-year could simply read through and understand. She didn't even know if she was meant to. Surely only someone half-mad could make sense of half the scribblings inside.

Outside, the rain continued to fall in fine, slanting lines, soft against the tall windows. Somewhere nearby, a page turned. A quill scratched faintly on parchment.

Celeste lifted her head again and looked down at the closed book, a thoughtful look in her eyes. Perhaps she'd never understand half of what was written in the ancient book but she could at least try, she supposed.

A shifting of footsteps drew her attention away from her curious book. Not sharp and measured like Madam Pince's, but light, uneven, and whispering across the flagstone floor. Two boys rounded the end of the row - one with his cloak half-on, the other clutching a book upside down.

Harry and Ron.

They stopped when they saw her.

"Oh—er—sorry," Ron said quickly. "Didn't know anyone was back here."

Celeste blinked, then offered a small nod. "You're fine."

Ron nudged Harry with his elbow. "This okay?"

Harry gave her a questioning look. "Do you mind if we…?"

Celeste closed the book gently and slid it to one side, clearing space with a quiet movement of her hand. "Not at all."

They sat down, rustling parchment and shifting chairs. Ron carelessly dropped his worn leather bag with a dull thud that echoed through the silence, muttering under his breath about having forgotten his ink bottle once again.

"We're meant to be working on that Cheering Charm essay," Harry explained, setting down his wand and textbook. His voice carried a mix of exasperation and determination. "Neither of us have gotten very far."

Ron's face broke into a lopsided grin as he flashed a scrap of parchment. "I've got a title," he boasted. "It says 'Cheering Charms' and that's it."

Celeste arched an elegant eyebrow, her gaze piercing yet gentle. "Technically accurate," she remarked, the soft tone of her voice layering a hint of amusement over the seriousness of their task.

"Technically failing," Ron shot back with a smirk, his words vibrating with playful irreverence.

They fell into a companionable shuffle of parchment and whispered complaints. Harry's fingers flipped through his book with measured urgency, his brow furrowed deeply with concentration., while Ron muttered about needing biscuits just to survive the assignment. Celeste watched them for a moment, then turned her eyes to Ron's half-written draft.

"Intent and emotion aren't interchangeable," she said quietly. "That's where your second paragraph goes off."

Ron leaned in, his eyes alight with curiosity. "Wait—what's the difference, then?"

"Intent is what you mean to do. Emotion is how you feel while doing it. Magic listens to both, but reacts differently depending on which is stronger."

Harry blinked in surprise, his voice hushed as he asked, "Where'd you learn that?"

Celeste hesitated for just a moment, then replied, "My grandfather," her voice blending humility with a hint of pride. "Mostly."

Harry's gaze drifted to the old, leather-bound book that she had gently pushed aside with a delicate hand. "Is that from him too?"

She nodded once, a small, quiet affirmation that spoke volumes.

Observing the peculiar volume, Ron peered over, eyes alight with caution. "It doesn't look like a normal book. Is it cursed?"

A faint, knowing smile tugged at Celeste's lips. "No, it isn't cursed but I suspect it can be rather temperamental."

Harry returned the smile, a quiet chuckle forming as he quipped, "Like a wand?"

"Exactly like a wand," Celeste confirmed, more seriously.

They settled into a rhythm - not quite focused, but not unproductive either. Celeste read quietly between questions, occasionally nudging Harry's quill when he drifted too far off-topic. Ron attempted a paragraph, scowled at it, and then tried again in larger handwriting as if sheer size might make the logic sound more convincing.

"Do you think Professor Flitwick actually reads all of these?" Ron asked eventually, stretching his legs under the table.

Celeste's eyes never left her notes as she replied without looking up, "He marks them. I don't know if that counts as reading."

Ron mused thoughtfully, "He's so small. Do you think he uses a ladder to reach his desk?"

A stifled laugh bubbled from Harry, who interjected, "He uses magic, Ron."

Ron shrugged in humorous resignation. "Still, wouldn't blame him if he just tossed our essays out the window and guessed the grades."

Celeste smiled, but said nothing. Instead, she turned to her notes and quietly corrected a small error in Harry's incantation explanation. Harry watched her work, admiration clear in his soft voice.

"You're really good at this," he said with sincere appreciation.

She merely shrugged modestly. "I've read a lot," she replied, the simple admission laced with quiet pride.

"No, I mean…" Harry frowned, trying to find the words. "You're good at noticing things. Like what's actually important."

Celeste glanced up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. "I try," she murmured after a pause, her voice almost as gentle as the flutter of parchment in the still room.

Ron looked between them. "You know, you're not like the other Ravenclaws."

Celeste arched an eyebrow once more. "In what way?"

"They're all…" Ron waved his hands vaguely. "Fast. Showy. Quoting twelve books before breakfast."

"She listens," Harry said quietly. "That's different."

Celeste wasn't sure how to respond to that. So she didn't.

Instead, she asked, "What house do you think you'd be in if not Gryffindor?"

Harry blinked slowly, a puzzled mixture of thought and uncertainty washing over him. "I… I don't really know."

"Slytherin," Ron said, with mock gravity. "We'd all be evil by now."

Celeste snorted softly.

Harry glanced at her. "What about you?"

"I never really thought about it," she said truthfully. "I always assumed I'd be in Ravenclaw. My mother was. And my grandfather. And nearly everyone in my family."

Ron wrinkled his nose in feigned sympathy. "No pressure, then."

"Not from them," she said with a half-smile. "The pressure comes from the wands."

They looked at her.

She didn't elaborate.

Ron glanced sideways at Harry. "That sounds like my lot. Every Weasley's been a Gryffindor. If I'd ended up in Hufflepuff, Mum might've had a heart attack."

Celeste gave a soft laugh, not unkind.

Then, with a dramatic sigh, Ron gathered his things. "Alright, I've scribbled a full ten inches of text. That's enough."

Celeste carefully collected her own notes and slowly eased the oilskin-wrapped, temperamental book back into her worn satchel. As they rose from their shared workspace, Harry paused, his voice tinged with hopeful uncertainty.

"You're coming back next time, right?" he asked softly, his eyes lingering on her.

Celeste met his gaze, and in that moment - amid the muted lamplight and the lingering smell of parchment and ink - she felt something shift inside herself for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, a warmth blossoming in her chest. "Yes," she replied with quiet conviction, "I think I'd like that."

Ron grinned broadly, his mischief undimmed. "Just don't expect me to remember anything about emotional intent. Or Latin. Or… actually, anything."

Celeste smiled. "I'll bring biscuits."

Harry held the library door open for her as they stepped back into the corridor. The rain had slowed outside the tall windows, mist softening the edges of the castle. Ron turned to Harry. "Come on, Harry—I'm starving!"

Harry's lips curved into a gentle smile. "You go ahead," he said warmly.

Ron blinked, his expression a mix of surprise and mild confusion. "You sure?" he asked, his brows slightly furrowed.

Harry nodded, his demeanor reassuring. "I'll catch up," he promised.

Without further questioning, Ron simply offered a vague wave of his hand, his fingers fluttering in the air before he turned away. As he wandered off down the long, dimly lit corridor, a tuneless hum escaped his lips, echoing softly against the stone walls.

Celeste carefully slung her well-worn bag over her shoulder, mindful not to jostle the precious book nestled within. She turned her gaze to find Harry still watching her, his eyes steady and devoid of expectation, just quietly observing.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice sincere.

"For what?" she asked, curiosity lacing her tone.

He hesitated, searching for the right words. "For not making it feel like I had to know everything already," he finally admitted, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

Celeste tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful and kind. "I don't think anyone really knows what they're doing at first," she offered gently. "They just pretend better."

A small, appreciative smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You're not like anyone I've met before," he confessed, his eyes reflecting a quiet admiration.

She found herself at a loss for words, unsure how to respond. Yet, she didn't look away, her gaze holding steady.

They lingered there in the soft, dim space between towering shelves and the muted glow of stormlight filtering through a distant window. After a moment, Harry nodded once - a silent farewell - and turned to leave.

Celeste remained where she was, her eyes following him as he disappeared down the corridor, his figure fading into shadow.

Slowly, she lowered her gaze to the satchel at her side, fingers brushing the worn leather. She still didn't know what the book wanted from her, nor how it was meant to help, its mysteries still folded deep within its pages. But for the first time, she didn't feel like she was bearing its weight alone. Maybe, for now, listening was enough.