Chapter 4 – The Wand Awaits

It rained the morning Ollivander returned.

Not a cold, grey drizzle, but a quiet, silvery rain that danced along the windows and made the entire villa feel like it was holding its breath.

Celene stood by the front entrance, VIS device in her pocket, the medallion pressed against her palm beneath her sleeve. She had been waiting—not just for a wand, but for an answer. Something about the world had shifted inside her since the summer began, and she needed to know that it was real.

When the door creaked open and Ollivander stepped into the foyer, he looked older than she remembered—weathered, soaked to the shoulders, and yet lit from within by something fierce.

"I have it," he said without ceremony. "And it is unlike anything I have ever made."

They gathered in the library. Her parents remained nearby but silent. Tibbin brought tea and vanished without a sound. Nessa lingered in the doorway.

Ollivander opened a narrow black box lined with silver velvet. Within it rested a wand—long, slender, slightly twisted like a spiral of smoke. Its wood was pale and grain-marbled, with deep veins of midnight blue running through it, like streaks of light trapped in a river of ash.

At the handle's base, a single silver inlay glowed faintly—the same rune as the medallion.

"This is starwood," Ollivander said, voice low. "It came from a tree so old it had outlived its own roots. The core is a tail feather from a silver-feathered raven. A species I had believed extinct." He met her eyes. "It gave it willingly."

Celene reached out. The moment her fingers touched the wand, it warmed—not in heat, but in presence.

And then… a soft wind stirred through the room.

Not outside. Inside. The fireplace flickered. Books rustled on their shelves. A gentle blue glow radiated from the tip of the wand, forming swirling runes that hovered for a heartbeat before fading.

No sparks. No bursts. Only connection.

Ollivander let out a long breath. "There it is."

That evening, while her father vanished into his study to write down what he called "the wandmaker's record," and her mother returned to her silent scrying pool, Celene stood at the window with her wand and the medallion lying beside her.

Nessa knocked gently. "You have a visitor, Miss Celene."

Celene blinked. "At this hour?"

Nessa only nodded.

He arrived quietly, as if he'd been walking for days without disturbing the ground. He wore a long, earth-colored cloak, his silver hair tied back, and his face held the softness of someone who had lived through centuries without letting them harden him.

"Nicolas Flamel," Celene said, already certain.

He smiled. "And you are quite sharp. May I come in?"

She nodded and led him to the drawing room. Nessa brought tea. Her parents did not interrupt.

"I came," he said gently, "because the old magics are not quiet anymore. And because your name was whispered in one of them."

Celene sat upright, the wand resting across her lap. "I don't understand."

"You will," he said. "Not all at once. But you will."

He asked to see the wand. She offered it. The moment he touched it, his fingers flinched slightly—as if not from pain, but from memory.

"There is something of Avalon in this wand," he murmured. "And something older still."

He turned to her, thoughtful. "You will not simply learn magic, Celene. Magic will watch you back. Be careful who sees you using it."

She nodded once, deeply.

Before leaving, he reached into a pouch and handed her a small, pale stone amulet with soft spiral carvings and a silver loop. "For protection," he said. "And for trust—between those who keep knowledge, and those who guard it."

When she placed it beside the medallion that night, the two glowed faintly together—just for a moment.

Her last evening at home passed in quiet rituals.

She walked the hallways of the villa one final time. The lights flickered gently when she passed. She thought—just maybe—that the house was saying goodbye.

Tibbin packed her trunk with slow precision. "All set, Miss Celene," he said gruffly, clearing his throat more often than necessary. "Everything in order."

Nessa slipped a ribbon-wrapped parcel into the trunk when no one was looking. "Just in case you get cold at night," she whispered. It was a hand-stitched blanket in blue and bronze.

After Tibbin closed her trunk and Nessa disappeared to prepare tea, Celene found her parents waiting in the study.

Her father sat in a deep green armchair, a half-finished alchemical sketch levitating near his shoulder. Aleric Fawley looked as he always did—half-lost in thought, half-aware of everything around him. His fingers were stained with ink and starfire dust.

Her mother stood by the window, her back straight, arms folded behind her silk robes. Mirena Fawley—born Rosier—wore the composed expression of someone who had once debated ancient runes with scholars twice her age and won.

They turned as she entered.

"Everything ready?" her father asked softly.

Celene nodded.

Mirena's voice was cool, but not unkind. "You've double-checked your quills and parchment?"

"I did," Celene said. "Twice."

Aleric chuckled. "Spoken like someone who's grown up with an inventor for a father and a rune-historian for a mother."

Celene approached them. "Do you think I'll fit in?"

The room fell briefly silent.

Mirena stepped forward first. "You are not meant to fit, Celene. You are meant to stand."

Aleric smiled. "You'll find your rhythm. It might not be the one they expect—but it will be yours."

She hesitated, then asked, "Was it always like this? Knowing who you were?"

Aleric exchanged a glance with Mirena, then answered honestly. "No. I built magical machines and bent alchemy into code because I didn't know who I was without creating something new."

Mirena spoke next. "And I read runes until I could speak languages no one remembered—because I didn't trust the world as it was."

Celene folded her hands. "I don't know if I want to change the world."

"You don't have to," her father said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "But you will. Just by being in it."

Her mother added quietly, "And not everyone will like that. Especially when they realize how much of it you understand."

They sat for a moment longer, in quiet understanding.

Aleric handed her a soft-leather case with the alchemical symbol for insight etched into the clasp. "For your notes. And any discoveries you don't want the professors to read just yet."

Celene smiled faintly. "Thank you."

Mirena bent slightly and pressed a rare kiss to her daughter's forehead. "Remember who you are. Not who others think you should be."

As Celene left the study, her wand at her side and her heart a little heavier, the house behind her felt older. Wiser.

And—for the first time—slightly empty.

Celene stood at the gates before bed, looking out over the fog-veiled forest.

Tomorrow, she would leave the only world she had ever known.