Chapter 11: The Wandmaker's Heir

POV: Ophelia Ollivander

Ophelia Ollivander sat cross-legged in the Ravenclaw common room, her nimble fingers spinning a sliver of unicorn hair between them. The firelight glinted off the silvery strand, casting wavering shadows on the parchment before her. Scrawled across it were diagrams of wand cores, annotated with meticulous notes in a cramped, precise hand.

"Unicorn hair paired with ebony wood? Too temperamental," she muttered, crossing out the combination with a sharp stroke of her quill. "Perhaps aspen? Or—"

"Or you could stop working for five minutes and come down to earth," Cedric Diggory's warm voice interrupted, accompanied by the soft thud of a book landing on the table.

Ophelia glanced up, her brow arching. Cedric leaned casually against the chair opposite her, his trademark smile firmly in place. The firelight softened his features, making him look every bit the Hufflepuff golden boy the school whispered about.

"You're impossible, you know that?" he said, dropping into the chair. "It's Saturday evening, Ophelia. Most people are playing Exploding Snap or planning the next Quidditch match. Meanwhile, you're here trying to reinvent wandlore."

"Reinventing?" Ophelia's lips curved in a faint smirk. "Hardly. I'm just trying to perfect what others have left incomplete."

Cedric shook his head fondly. "And they call me ambitious. What's the project this time?"

Ophelia set down the unicorn hair and pointed at her notes. "I'm experimenting with alternative cores and woods, hoping to find combinations that resonate better with modern magic. Not every wandmaker has to adhere to tradition, Cedric."

"Tradition isn't always the enemy," Cedric replied, but his tone held no argument. Instead, he reached over and plucked a scrap of parchment from her pile. "This one looks promising. Hippogriff feather and cherry wood?"

"It's... untested," Ophelia admitted. "But the theoretical results could be extraordinary."

Cedric's grin widened. "You're extraordinary, Ophelia. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

She felt her cheeks flush but refused to look away. Cedric's sincerity was both infuriating and endearing.

Later that evening, Ophelia found herself summoned to Professor Flitwick's office. The diminutive Charms professor greeted her with his usual exuberance, his high-pitched voice brimming with enthusiasm.

"Miss Ollivander, thank you for coming," he began, gesturing for her to sit. On his desk lay a curious object: an ancient wand, its wood darkened with age and its core—whatever it had once been—long since decayed.

Ophelia's eyes widened as she leaned forward, her hands itching to examine the artifact.

"This wand was discovered in the Forbidden Forest last spring," Flitwick explained. "Its origins are unknown, but the engravings suggest it predates Hogwarts itself. I thought you might be interested in assisting me with its analysis."

Ophelia's breath caught. "Professor, I—of course. This is… incredible."

Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "I knew you'd say that. Your expertise in wandlore, even at your age, is remarkable. Take your time with it, and let me know if you uncover anything of significance."

As she left his office, cradling the wand in a protective case, Ophelia felt a rare surge of pride. She had always known she was destined for greatness, but moments like this made the path ahead feel tangible.

The library was unusually quiet when Ophelia settled into her usual corner. Spread before her were books on ancient magic, wandlore, and runes. She was tracing one of the wand's engravings when a shadow fell over her notes.

"Fascinating design," a deep voice commented.

Ophelia looked up to see Arcturus Black standing across from her, his expression unreadable. His pale gray eyes flickered to the wand case.

"Ancient," he murmured. "What's the core?"

"It's degraded," Ophelia replied, studying him. Arcturus was notoriously private, his interactions with others minimal. Yet here he was, showing genuine interest.

"Shame," he said, his tone neutral. "Wands like that often hold secrets beyond their cores."

Ophelia's curiosity got the better of her. "You seem to know a great deal about ancient magic."

Arcturus's lips quirked in the faintest of smiles. "I read. A lot."

With that, he turned and left, leaving Ophelia wondering just how much more there was to the enigmatic boy.

Monday's Transfiguration lesson was one of Ophelia's favorites, though she wouldn't have admitted it openly. Professor McGonagall's stern yet fair demeanor appealed to her sense of order. Today, they were tasked with transforming a goblet into a small creature—a task Ophelia completed with ease.

"Excellent work, Miss Ollivander," McGonagall said, inspecting the perfectly formed sparrow now perched on Ophelia's desk.

Around her, other students struggled. Hanna Hatim's goblet sprouted wings but refused to take flight, while Lee Jordan's attempt resulted in an awkwardly hopping metal frog. Ophelia's Ravenclaw peers, however, were quietly envious, their respect for her growing.

Not everyone was impressed. Emma Avery's voice cut through the hum of activity. "Of course the wandmaker's heir would excel. Some of us have to work for it."

Ophelia's jaw tightened. She turned, fixing him with a cool gaze. "Some of us believe in effort and talent, Avery. You should try it sometime."

McGonagall's lips twitched in what might have been a suppressed smile. "Enough, Miss Avery. Five points from Slytherin for unnecessary commentary."

The class ended with Ophelia's sparrow receiving a rare nod of approval from McGonagall. Despite the tension, she felt a quiet satisfaction as she left the room.

Later, as Ophelia wandered the halls, she overheard a group of Slytherins making disparaging remarks about her and her family. Her family flared with anger, but she forced herself to remain calm. Approaching them, she spoke with measured authority.

"You'd think people who pride themselves on lineage would think better than to annoy an Ollivander," she said. "Or are you too busy clinging to your family tree to notice how short it actually is?"

The Slytherins sneered but didn't respond. Ophelia held her ground until they dispersed, leaving her feeling both triumphant and weary.

That evening, Ophelia found Cedric waiting near the Ravenclaw Tower. He took one look at her and sighed. "Slytherins again?"

She nodded. "I can't stand their arrogance."

Cedric shrugged. "Let them wallow in it. You have nothing to prove to them."

"Easy for you to say," Ophelia muttered. "You're universally adored."

Cedric chuckled. "Not by everyone. But that's not the point. The point is, you're brilliant, Ophelia. Don't waste your energy on people who can't see it."

His words settled over her like a balm, easing the tension in her shoulders.

Back in her workspace, Ophelia examined the ancient wand once more. Something about its design resonated with her, sparking an idea. She scribbled furiously, sketching diagrams and jotting down notes.

For the first time in days, her thoughts felt clear. Tradition and innovation didn't have to be at odds—they could complement one another. The wand's unusual engravings, the alignment of its core materials, and its unorthodox length hinted at a forgotten method of crafting wands. Perhaps it wasn't just a relic but a prototype, a bridge between the old ways and a new magical paradigm.

She paused, tapping her quill against her lips. "If I could recreate this technique," she murmured, "imagine the possibilities." Her excitement grew as she imagined wands that were more attuned to their wielder's magic, amplifying their strengths and compensating for weaknesses.

Ophelia glanced at the clock; it was late, but her mind was alight with ideas. Sleep could wait. The faint sound of laughter echoed from the common room below, likely Cedric and his friends wrapping up their night. She made a mental note to share her thoughts with him—his perspective always brought clarity.

As she sketched the final touches of a theoretical design, Ophelia felt a surge of purpose. This wasn't just about wandlore or academics. It was about redefining what it meant to create, to innovate, to honor the legacy of the past while forging a path forward.

The first rays of dawn began creeping through the window, casting a warm glow over her workspace. Ophelia stretched, her hands smudged with ink, her desk scattered with parchment. For the first time in a long while, she felt truly connected to her craft and to herself.

Whatever lay ahead, she was ready.

As Ophelia extinguished her lantern, the Ravenclaw tower grew quiet. But in the shadows of the ancient walls, a spark of inspiration glowed, ready to ignite the next chapter of her journey.