Ollivander’s Last Goodbye"

After the witch vanished, Minister Fudge's face turned grim.

He paced at the kitchen door of the Burrow for several minutes before making a decision.

"Arthur, I'm afraid your holiday will have to wait. You'll need to return to the Ministry and explain things to the Wizengamot. Otherwise… the Inquisition may summon Chase."

Mr. Weasley stiffened and nodded quickly. "Yes, Minister."

"Professor Flitwick, you'll need to come as well, since you were present. And I must inform Dumbledore..."

"Minister, surely—" Flitwick began.

"No. You don't understand that witch. I have to prepare for the worst."

Fudge turned sharply to Mad-Eye Moody. "How did she recognize Chase Everwyn at first glance? How did she already know his background?"

Even as he asked, Fudge knew Moody wasn't involved in the Ministry's power games.

After thinking carefully, Fudge could only conclude that the Supreme Wizarding Council had already taken notice of Chase, and someone in the Law Enforcement Department had been deliberately withholding the information.

After making arrangements, Fudge took the prisoners, Flitwick, Arthur, and the rest of the group out to the lawn where the enchanted carriage waited.

They climbed into the dark iron frame.

The metal bars closed in and locked together with a hiss, forming a solid black cage-carriage.

Eight pale, skeletal Thestrals gave nervous, keening cries as Moody took the reins. The carriage lifted off in a gust of wind and vanished into the sky.

Back in the now-empty kitchen, only Mrs. Weasley and Chase Everwyn remained.

Silence fell.

After everything that had just happened, neither knew how to speak.

Especially Chase.

He had spent his entire life alone—two lives, in fact. For over a decade, he had pursued magic on his own, without connections or companionship.

This was the first time he had revealed his true self to someone who genuinely cared. He didn't know how to handle it. In truth, it frightened him.

Just then, Percy's voice rang out from upstairs, breaking the tension.

"Mum? Mum—I heard the Minister was here!"

"Ahem, dear Minister, are you still around?"

Percy's voice kept calling. Mrs. Weasley opened her mouth to speak, wanting to sit down with Chase and talk—about his past, about everything. But the boy's quiet strength, his recent behavior, and the memories of his painful upbringing made it difficult to begin.

Chase, too, knew he owed her an explanation.

"Mr. Fudge? Minister?"

"Mum!"

Percy's voice grew more frantic. Upstairs came the sound of boards creaking and the twins yelling.

Mrs. Weasley finally sighed, lifted her wand, and cast a spell that softened and unfolded the ceiling, lowering the upper floor back into place.

"Percy! What are you doing?"

Percy was standing on the second floor, wand in hand, clearly trying to pry the floor open by magic. But it hadn't gone well—he had accidentally turned the second-floor floorboards into a swampy mess.

Globs of greenish-brown muck dripped into the kitchen below, like someone had dropped a Dungbomb in an oven.

Chase got one whiff and nearly gagged—like breathing in hot, rotting compost through a steel pipe jammed into his skull.

"Minister?" Percy peered through the mess and breathed a sigh of relief upon realizing Fudge was already gone.

But his relief was short-lived.

"PERCY!"

Mrs. Weasley's roar shook the whole house.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing? Bill and Charlie never—never—did anything like this! I always counted on you, Percy. And now? You're a prefect! You're supposed to set an example—!"

Percy's face turned crimson. He trembled, wand in hand, frozen in shame and confusion.

"Heh. Model Percy, eh?" Fred whispered mockingly.

George snorted, both of them leaning out from the staircase, grinning like mad.

Mrs. Weasley's anger shifted targets instantly.

"And you two! If I get one more letter from a Hogwarts professor about the trouble you've stirred up—! Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was listening to Professor Flitwick go on about your antics?"

Ron, who had been watching with great interest, wisely disappeared before she noticed him.

Eventually—after what felt like hours—Mrs. Weasley's fury burned itself out.

She cast cleaning charms, restored the upper floor and kitchen to normal, banished the foul smell, and began preparing lunch.

"Well? Don't just stand there. Call Ginny down for lunch!"

Mr. Weasley returned later that evening, after everyone had eaten.

He looked exhausted as he stepped through the door, took off his glasses, and sank into a magically transfigured recliner in the kitchen.

Mrs. Weasley poured him a large mug of tea—sweetened heavily—and began reheating dinner (roast chicken, ham, and pasta) with a wave of her wand.

She asked gently, "How did it go, dear? Is everything alright?"

Even Percy emerged from his room, and the other children gathered around their father.

"It was a disaster," Mr. Weasley groaned, sitting up. "That woman—Tress—she's more dangerous than I thought. She tried to claim the incident was an attempt by Russia's K.L.B. to infiltrate British magical society."

"She demanded the Supreme Council condemn Russia and proposed creating a Wizard Strike Force!"

Percy looked alarmed. "Tress? The youngest witch ever admitted to the Wizengamot? Why would she be at odds with the Minister?"

Mr. Weasley took a bite of food before answering. "Don't be fooled by her record, Percy. She represents the so-called New European Wizarding Union—and they're far more dangerous than they appear. You'll need to watch out for people like her once you enter the Ministry."

"They're worse than dark wizards," he muttered.

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley said sharply. "What on earth are you teaching him?"

"Ah! Nothing, nothing," Arthur chuckled nervously and changed the subject. "Anyway, Fudge was backed into a corner today. If it weren't for Dumbledore—and the memories pulled during the interrogation—the whole thing might've blown up."

"Turns out, the massacre on August 21 was tied to Greyback's werewolves. Joseph Jerdam was only a—"

"Ahem!" Mrs. Weasley coughed loudly and gave Chase a look, reminding her husband to watch what he said.

Arthur nodded, stuffing a bite of chicken into his mouth before continuing.

"Anyway, Fudge got through it without declaring war on Russia, which is more than Tress and her crowd wanted."

"Thank goodness," Mrs. Weasley muttered.

"I mean, really," Arthur said. "As if it's a good idea to stir up Russia's K.L.B. right now! Their magical communities are barely holding together. Secret societies are splitting off left and right—and now some fools here want to intervene? Madness."

"The Law Enforcement Department can't even handle basic cases, let alone an international conflict."

"Arthur! No rants at the dinner table," Mrs. Weasley said firmly.

"Well, I do have good news," Arthur smiled, setting his fork down. "Thanks to everything Chase helped resolve… the Ministry has issued a sizable reward."

"Ron, Percy—you can each get a new wand."

"And Chase—Mr. Ollivander has agreed to craft one for you, personally."

"Really? Dad!" Ron shouted with delight.

Chase's eyes lit up.

"Finally. My own wand… at last."

August 27th. Three days before the start of term at Hogwarts.

11:00 AM – Diagon Alley, Ollivander's Wand Shop.

The door—usually left open to welcome young witches and wizards—was tightly shut.

The Weasleys stood outside the shop, exchanging bewildered glances.

They had never seen anything like this before.

"Open the door, Mr. Ollivander... You promised the Minister. And the wand's already made, isn't it?" Chase Everwyn leaned toward the door and knocked firmly.

"GET OUT!" came a furious shout from within.

Ollivander's voice—normally quiet and precise—boomed through the wood. The old wandmaker's spindly frame was pressed to the door as if to barricade it with his own body.

"I will not hand it over! That... thing is not a wand—it's an abomination!"

"It's shameful!"

"I will not tarnish the Ollivander name with this!"

The scene quickly drew attention. A crowd of witches and wizards gathered around, murmuring with growing curiosity. It was rare to see anything unusual in Diagon Alley—but this? This was beyond rare.

Garrick Ollivander, the most respected wandmaker in all of Britain, throwing a tantrum in public?

People whispered and pointed, confused by the sight. He'd always been a bit eccentric, yes—but courteous, meticulous. Always saying "the wand chooses the wizard." Yet here he was, passionately refusing to give a wand to a single teenage boy.

Arthur Weasley, who initially found the whole affair amusing, began to wilt under the curious eyes of bystanders—especially as familiar Ministry colleagues began to arrive, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Ahem. Chase, why don't you go take care of your other shopping for now? Let me talk to Mr. Ollivander."

"Alright…" Chase replied reluctantly, casting a long, yearning look at the locked door before turning to leave.

Arthur handed Chase a small purple velvet pouch—about twenty gold Galleons inside. It was part of the Minister's promise after the trial.

Chase didn't really need the money.

Although he'd given up most of his resources when fleeing the Russian magical underground, he'd kept a small stash. More than enough to cover his expenses at Hogwarts. But Russian wizarding currency wasn't accepted here, and exchanging it on the Knockturn Alley black market would draw unwanted Ministry attention.

Besides, this was clean. Official. Simple.

Unlike some wizards who paraded around with Lockhart's autobiographies hoping to be chosen as the next celebrity professor, Chase had modest needs. Hogwarts wasn't expensive, and many of the first through fourth year books hadn't changed in decades.

Still, even with reused texts, he had a lot to buy.

First stop: Madam Malkin's.

Two sets of standard Hogwarts robes. Hats. Gloves made of dragon hide. A winter cloak lined with moleskin.

Then came the apothecary. Potion ingredients, sorted by year and class. Thankfully, Percy came along to help—without him, Chase would have overlooked half of it.

A set of brass scales. A collapsible brass telescope. A cauldron, of course. Pewter, standard size two.

Chase didn't want the telescope. He had no interest in Quidditch, either. But the Weasley twins insisted—practically begged him—and he gave in.

And then there were the books.

Four years' worth of textbooks—mountains of them. He bought the entire set in one go.

So much, in fact, that the bookstore clerk smiled in awe as Mrs. Weasley returned to cast a shrinking charm, reducing the stack to fingernail-sized tomes. Even shrunk, they were heavy.

As for pets, Chase never wanted one. To him, animals were just a hassle—a distraction from his pursuit of true magic.

Mrs. Weasley, however, had other ideas.

She believed that a pet would help Chase open up emotionally, become less guarded. And since the Ministry was footing the bill—thanks to a special scholarship application approved by Fudge—she insisted on buying him an owl.

Ron trailed behind his mother, staring longingly at the birdcage in Chase's hand.

Inside, a striking owl perched with regal stillness. It was a bit larger than usual, with a golden streak of feathers between its eyes. It slept most of the time, but every bump of the cage made it lift its head and glare at Chase with piercing golden eyes full of disdain.

"Mum, can I have an owl like that someday? Errol's practically a corpse," Ron asked with a hopeful whine.

Mrs. Weasley shot him a look. "You've still got Scabbers, haven't you?"

Ron glanced down at the squirming bulge in his pocket.

Chase frowned faintly.

Something about Peter Pettigrew, hidden inside that rat, always felt... wrong. Too convenient. Too close.

But Chase chose not to act on it.

If everything played out as in the original timeline, Ron would face some trauma, yes—but Chase revealing the truth would just draw suspicion he couldn't explain.

And, in truth, he didn't have the strength to untangle every thread of fate. He had no interest in joining Dumbledore's game of light vs. dark, war vs. peace.

He came to Hogwarts for magic. That alone consumed him.

Of course, if something ever threatened the few things—or people—he genuinely cared about, he would act.

But for now? He simply wanted to study, to understand.

When the last item on the list was checked off, Chase stood quietly in the alley, arms full of enchanted bags and shrunken packages, staring at the closed door of Ollivander's Wand Shop once more.

His wand—his true wand—waited behind it.

A wand unlike any other. One so strange, so unique, that even Ollivander himself refused to accept it as worthy of the name.

And yet... the wand had already chosen Chase.

He just had to claim it.