The Iron Quarter

Magic Wand

This was exactly what Chase Everwyn had always dreamed of.

When they reached the wand shop, the small, shabby door creaked open once more.

This time, Ollivander didn't stop him.

As Chase stepped toward the threshold, he paused, gazing up at the golden sign that swung gently overhead.

Ollivander's Wand Shop — Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.

Roman times? he wondered.

Then, at Mr. Weasley's gesture, Chase finally crossed into the shop.

Inside, the wand shop was a narrow, dim space packed with boxes—long, slender cardboard containers stacked high in every cabinet, climbing all the way to the ceiling. Most were colored in deep black, aged purple, or earthy brown.

The air was thick with the scent of ancient wood, polished leather, and something else—something older. To Chase, it was like the smell of Chinese apothecaries he remembered from childhood, or the sharp, clean scent of freshly printed books. He thought perhaps this was the smell of magic itself.

Shame I can't use it properly, he thought, breathing it in anyway, trying to savor every second.

"Ahem!" Mr. Weasley coughed loudly on purpose.

Chase blinked and looked up. Ollivander was glaring at him with those pale silver eyes, filled with sharp disapproval.

Only then did Chase notice Ron was already being measured, a long tape floating and snapping back and forth around his arms, legs, and shoulders of its own accord.

Ollivander quickly turned away when he saw Chase watching him, focusing instead on selecting a wand for Ron.

"Hmm… Try your father's wand first. Oak, twelve inches, unicorn hair—"

Ron waved it once and a cloud of dust burst out.

"No… perhaps the one like your brother Charlie's—ash wood, fourteen inches, unicorn hair…"

That one practically leapt from Ron's hand.

Ollivander frowned. "Your family has very different magical temperaments. Let's see… willow wood, fourteen inches, unicorn hair…"

The wand glowed faintly at the tip before Ron even touched it.

"Excellent. That's the one."

As Ron examined his new wand in awe, Ollivander turned to Chase with an irritated sigh and moved toward him.

"Alright then. Just this once. And then get out of my shop."

He stomped off into the back, vanishing behind the towering stacks. A loud crash echoed from the rear. Moments later, he returned, limping slightly, dragging a shabby old bag behind him.

"No, your—"

He practically threw the bag at Chase. His expression said it all: utter disgust, like he was tossing out a sack of rotting garbage.

It's heavy! Chase staggered under its unexpected weight.

He struggled to lift the long object from within the bag—bit by bit, it emerged.

"What... is this?" he asked.

"Mr. Ollivander?" Mrs. Weasley blinked. Her children stood wide-eyed.

What Chase held wasn't a wand at all. It was a dark, metallic rod, about thirteen inches long—thick, cold, and solid. It looked like someone had tried to pretend it was a wand, but failed miserably.

Mr. Weasley winced as if he already knew the story.

Mrs. Weasley stared. "What is that?"

"How should I know?" Ollivander snapped. He jabbed a finger toward Chase. "This boy came in, insisting he needed something durable. Tried casting spells with half my stock—blew up a dozen wands in the process!"

"I told him," Ollivander continued with barely contained fury, "if he was so unstable, he might as well use a druid's staff. A green-handled mulberry branch. Something ancient. Something grounded."

Mrs. Weasley frowned. "But... wouldn't that make modern spellwork difficult?"

"Difficult, yes. But still possible," Ollivander grumbled. "But no—this one insisted he needed something explosive. Something that could withstand magic, not channel it."

He sneered. "In all my years, I've never heard such nonsense."

George and Fred exchanged glances. Everyone seemed to remember the last wand Professor Flitwick had made for Chase. It had looked more like a rolling pin than a wand.

Mrs. Weasley tried gently, "But aren't there... unusual cases? I've heard that Obscurials—"

"Obscurials?" Ollivander nearly shouted, eyes bulging. "Molly Prewett, really?"

"In a thousand years of wand-making, no wand has ever been designed to resist magic. A wand should harmonize with the wizard! Magic must respond to the heart's call, not explode out like a cursed geyser."

"The boy wanted a shock wand," he scoffed. "What is this, a Muggle firestick?"

Mr. Weasley stepped in hurriedly. "So, er… can it actually cast spells?"

Ollivander's temper flared. "What do you take me for? Some hacksaw carpenter from Knockturn Alley?"

Mr. Weasley raised his hands. "Of course not, of course not."

"Even if I told him in anger to get an iron wand... I meant it as a joke! But then that idiot Fudge forced my hand. The Ministry ordered me to build exactly what this lunatic wanted."

Chase groaned. "That was just a heated comment…"

"Doesn't matter," Ollivander barked. "I said I'd do it. And I did."

He paused, almost proud despite himself.

"That wand—if you can even call it that—was forged using goblin alloys and ancient alchemical techniques. Modeled loosely after the dagger that killed Caesar. Most of the core is bronze for magic conduction, but I reinforced it with black iron and dragon spine to increase durability and magical sensitivity."

"It can cast spells," he finished. "Just not like anything I'd ever make again."

Ollivander scowled as Chase examined the rod with what looked suspiciously like affection.

"Listen to me, boy. You got what you wanted. Don't come crying back when it explodes in your face. If it breaks, it's your problem. Even if Dumbledore himself comes knocking—I'm never making another."

With that, he physically shoved them out of the shop.

The First Day at Hogwarts

King's Cross Station. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Nearly eleven o'clock.

Mrs. Weasley shifted uneasily among the bustling Muggle crowd, glancing now and then at Chase.

He stood slightly apart, running a thumb over his iron wand like it was the most precious thing in the world. His eyes were vacant—lost in thought.

Ever since getting that… thing, he had barely spoken. He'd become obsessed with magic to an almost worrying degree.

Mrs. Weasley had wanted to ask about his life, his family, anything—just to connect—but there never seemed to be a good moment.

"Excuse me…"

A soft voice cut through the noise. A skinny boy with dark hair stood nearby, his hands nervously gripping the handle of a trolley. On it sat a birdcage with a snowy owl inside.

"Could you tell me how to get to… Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?"

Mrs. Weasley smiled kindly. "Oh, sweetheart, you're a first-year, aren't you?"

The boy nodded.

"No need to worry. Ron and Chase are first-years too." She gestured toward the two boys.

Hearing his name, Chase stirred from his daze and glanced at the boy.

Harry Potter.

Even with his fractured memory, Chase recognized the face. That lightning scar. The "Boy Who Lived." One of fate's chosen.

And Chase? He wanted no part of fate.

He'd come to Hogwarts for magic, not destiny.

The train platform shimmered into view behind the brick archway. A scarlet locomotive puffed great clouds of steam. A banner fluttered: Hogwarts Express — 11:00 AM.

Wizards in Ministry robes stood nearby, chatting idly and keeping watch.

Chase muttered something to Mrs. Weasley and slipped away from Ron, moving toward a small stall.

A goblin in a tidy suit sat behind the newsstand.

"Two Daily Prophets and one European Wizards' Chronicle."

With a wave, the goblin floated the papers over. "Fifteen Knuts."

Chase paid and unfolded the papers.

The Daily Prophet had nothing useful. Just a footnote on the back:

"Auror Mad-Eye Moody has launched a crackdown on werewolves in Knockturn Alley…"

But the European Wizards' Chronicle was bolder. It reported a dark wizard from Russia, a growing werewolf scourge, and accused both Cornelius Fudge and Albus Dumbledore of corruption and incompetence. There was even a mention of Grindelwald.

So Fudge covered it up... Good. Chase exhaled in relief. That meant his own involvement had gone unnoticed.

He folded the paper and waded back through the crowd of witches, wizards, and magical creatures, searching for the Weasleys amid the chaos.

Finally, he found them.

The train's whistle blew. Steam curled around their ankles.

Mrs. Weasley straightened his collar. "There you are, dear! I was just about to send George and Fred after you."

She handed him an enormous wicker box. "Textbooks, clothes, ingredients—it's all in there. Traceless Extension Charm. Should last you the year."

She smiled, brushing his sleeve. "And if you need help with classes, just ask Percy."

"I understand, Aunt Molly."

Little Ginny cried as the train prepared to leave.

"Don't cry, Ginny. We'll send you photos of Harry!" Fred teased.

"Leave the poor boy alone," Mrs. Weasley sighed.

"It's just a joke!"

With one last wave, they vanished behind the curtain of white steam.

The train rattled to life. The countryside rushed past.

Chase looked out the window, heart pounding.

He was finally on his way.

To Hogwarts.

To the place where he might finally belong.

Where maybe, just maybe… he could find the magic he'd been chasing all his life.