Chapter 3 – A World Beyond the Walls

Celene sat in the study, the fractured medallion resting on the open pages of a thick genealogy book. Its strange rune pulsed softly, like a heartbeat beneath worn gold. Her parents stood nearby—her mother leaning against the mantel, her father pacing slowly, hands behind his back.

"You found this… where, exactly?" her mother asked, her voice careful.

"In a hidden room beneath the northern wing," Celene answered. "The entrance only appeared when I mapped it with my device."

Her father stepped closer, eyes narrowing in thought. "This symbol," he muttered, tracing the rune without touching it, "I've seen it before. In a manuscript about pre-Founders magical orders. A sigil of a forgotten knowledge guild… something about gatekeepers of ancient truths."

Her mother's gaze was unreadable. "Some truths were forgotten for a reason."

Celene tilted her head. "Then I'd like to remember them."

Her father smiled faintly. Her mother said nothing.

That evening, another subject occupied Celene's thoughts.

She stood in the drawing room, watching Tibbin polish a row of silver frames, his patched cloth tunic hanging loosely over bony shoulders. Nessa adjusted a bookshelf charm nearby, her own worn wrap trailing at her ankles. Celene had seen enough images online to know what that kind of clothing meant—images of servitude, of chains disguised as rags.

"May I ask you something?" she said quietly.

Both elves turned at once.

"Why do you wear those clothes?"

Tibbin blinked. "Because… that is how house-elves dress, young miss."

"But I don't like it," she said. "You are not slaves. You are part of this house. I've read things—about history, about how clothing was used to degrade and devalue. I don't want that here."

Nessa tilted her head slightly. "Miss Celene is very kind."

Celene stepped closer. "Would you… would you wear something different? If I asked?"

There was a long silence. Then Tibbin huffed. "Only if it still allows Tibbin to do work properly. And it must be blue. No frilly stuff."

Nessa smiled. "We would be honored."

By the next morning, Tibbin wore a smart, dark-blue tunic with silver thread at the collar, and Nessa had chosen a long slate-gray wrap with the tiniest Fawley crest embroidered at the hem. They looked proud, not bound. Celene couldn't stop smiling.

A week later, an owl arrived—no ordinary owl, but a great bird with feathers that shimmered blue at the edges, as if it had flown through starlight. It dropped a heavy envelope with a wax seal into Celene's lap.

She knew before she opened it what it was.

Her Hogwarts letter.

The parchment was thick and warm to the touch. As her fingers ran across the lines, the ink shimmered faintly, responding to her presence. She whispered the words aloud, though she already knew them by heart.

The journey to Diagon Alley was overwhelming, even for her.

Her parents took her through the Leaky Cauldron, past curious stares and muttered greetings. The bricks shifted to reveal the hidden street, and Celene found herself in a living painting—shops spilling light and scent into cobbled streets, cauldrons stacked beside broomsticks, owls hooting from above.

She bought her robes at Madam Malkin's, standing quietly as enchanted tape measures darted around her. She lost herself in Flourish and Blotts, drawn to books bound in dragonhide and stardust. Her mother had to coax her away gently.

In the crowd, she felt eyes on her.

A boy bumped into her, nearly toppling his wand box. "Sorry!" he gasped, adjusting his glasses. "Didn't see—are you starting at Hogwarts too?"

She nodded. "Yes."

He smiled nervously. "I'm Arden. Arden Whitmoor."

"Celene Fawley."

He blinked. "Oh. That's… you're from one of the really old families, right?"

She gave a polite smile. "So they tell me."

A few shops later, a girl with bright freckles and confident eyes grinned at her in Ollivander's queue. "You don't look nervous."

Celene raised a brow. "Should I be?"

"Probably. I'm Linnea. Do you think the wand chooses, or the person persuades?" she asked, half-teasing.

Celene's answer was cut short when the door opened.

Inside, the wand shop breathed dust and age. The moment Celene stepped in, the air shifted. Boxes rattled. Shelves hummed.

And then—chaos.

Wands launched from their boxes. Some hovered midair. One even flared with blue light.

Ollivander rushed in from the back, startled. "Goodness me… Miss Fawley?"

Celene nodded, eyes wide.

"Well," he murmured, surveying the floating forest of wood and phoenix feather, "this is… rare."

They tried wand after wand. Willow, hawthorn, ash, yew. Unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, thunderbird feather.

Each reacted. Each sparked, shimmered, sang.

But none felt… right.

Ollivander finally stepped back, rubbing his chin. "They all want you, but none belong to you. Fascinating."

Celene stared at the wand in her hand—redwood with unicorn hair. It glowed faintly, then dimmed.

"What does it mean?" she asked softly.

"It means," Ollivander said, "your wand hasn't been made yet. And I believe I must be the one to make it."

He smiled. "Give me time, Miss Fawley. I shall go to the ends of the earth, if need be. I suspect you'll be worth the effort."

Celene left the shop empty-handed—but not disappointed.

Something told her… her wand would find her.

Just not yet.