The Iron Wand

On the Hogwarts Express, Chase Everwyn and his companions trailed their luggage down the corridor, peeking into each compartment in search of empty seats.

Ron, George, and Fred Weasley were buzzing with excitement, barely able to contain themselves as they clustered around Chase.

"Chase, do you know who that boy we just saw is?" Ron whispered, eyes wide with anticipation.

"Harry Potter, right?" Chase replied casually.

The twins deflated a little, their excitement dulled by Chase's unflappable tone.

"Ah—how'd you know that?" Ron muttered, glancing sidelong.

Chase didn't answer. His mind was already wandering—no one truly knew how modern magic came to be. Ancient magic had once been wild, instinctive, volatile. Only through centuries of shared knowledge and trial did wizards begin to tame it into something systematic and repeatable.

That process culminated in the founding of Hogwarts. Thanks to the shared knowledge of the Four Founders—Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff—wizardkind had a place to learn, evolve, and pass on the arcane arts.

To Chase, it was the only place with the resources to solve the mystery that plagued him: his own erratic magical ability. He had fought too hard, crossed too many borders, to finally set foot in the school alongside Harry Potter.

A sharp laugh snapped him out of his thoughts.

"A fourth-year still reading Magic Theory?" sneered Draco Malfoy, leaning into the compartment. "Held back for three years, or just exceptionally dense?"

Chase looked up. His gaze was calm, unreadable.

"Need help understanding it?" Malfoy added, trying to provoke him.

Chase resisted the old impulse. This wasn't Russia. Getting expelled before even stepping into Hogwarts wasn't an option.

Draco faltered. There was something odd about the older boy—something quiet but intense. He leaned back a little, suddenly unsure of himself.

The door slid open again as the witch with the trolley appeared, pushing her cart of sweets.

"Anything from the trolley, dears?"

"I'll take this—and that! Oi, don't push me!" Crabbe and Goyle bickered as they tore into chocolate frogs and pumpkin pastries, the floor soon littered with wrappers.

Malfoy scowled and tossed a few gold Galleons at the witch with dramatic flair. "Just take it all," he muttered.

"And you, love?" the trolley witch asked Chase.

He shook his head. "No, thank you."

Moments later, when the compartment returned to silence—except for Crabbe and Goyle chewing with their mouths full—Chase stood and moved to his old wicker suitcase. He tapped the bronze latch three times. With a soft click, a hidden compartment swung open.

Inside, it was far deeper than it looked—clearly enchanted. Chase half-knelt and reached in, pulling out a paper-wrapped sandwich, a few sausages, a ceramic mug, and a collapsible iron rack.

Malfoy squinted. "That's a Traceless Expansion Charm... No way! That's Ministry-restricted for students!"

Chase ignored him. He unpacked each item with care, placing the mug on the rack and pouring in water, followed by tea leaves, wolfberries, dried jujubes, crushed tortoise shell, and a pinch of powdered dragon bone.

Finally, he drew a wand from a narrow leather sheath at his side.

It was iron.

Malfoy blinked.

Iron?

"What the hell…" he muttered under his breath, suddenly on edge.

Chase tapped the cup.

"Flamma lucens."

Nothing.

Again.

"Flamma lucens!"

Still no response.

Draco snorted. "What is that—some knockoff Voldemort cosplay? Who uses an iron wand? Are you a Squib pretending to be mysterious?"

But Chase wasn't listening. His brow furrowed. He had the magic, the incantation, the intent—why wasn't the spell taking?

Was his magic still dormant?

He clenched his jaw, took a breath, and tried something else. An old technique. Something more primal.

He thought of anger. Hunger. Desperation.

"FLAMMA—LUCENS!"

A sudden burst of fire flared out.

But not from the mug.

Chase's entire head caught fire.

"Merlin's beard!" Draco shrieked.

Chase glanced at the window and saw a reflection that looked like a Super Saiyan—his hair stood on end, ablaze.

"Bloody hell—who are you?!" Draco screamed, scrambling past Goyle to escape. Crabbe followed, mouth still full of cake.

Outside the carriage, the wind cooled Draco's panic as he staggered down the corridor.

"I'm going to see Potter," he muttered to himself. "Anything's better than that lunatic."

Later, Ron opened another compartment door. Only a few luxury suitcases rested inside—one in white leather with gold trim and a Slytherin crest embossed on its center.

"Let's not," George said, eyeing it. "Definitely a Slytherin."

Chase shrugged. "Luggage doesn't bite." He dragged his old trunk inside.

"You sure, mate?" Ron hesitated. "I think I'll check a bit further down."

"No need. I'll deal with whoever shows up."

George looked like he was about to protest, but remembered the explosive hex Chase had misfired last week during a dueling lesson.

"Right then. Best of luck." He nudged Fred, and the twins disappeared down the corridor with Ron in tow.

Chase placed his things, took out Magic Theory again, and began reading.

An hour passed.

Then came a sharp voice just outside the door.

"My father says there are two... exceptional students this year."

"I heard one's from Russia," another grunted.

"They say he has giant blood. Survived being thrown into the wild at age eight…"

"And the other's the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. Can't wait to see if he's one of us."

The door slammed open.

"What are you doing in our compartment?"

Chase looked up slowly. A pale, sharp-featured boy stood at the entrance, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

"Name's Chase Everwyn. Fourth year," Chase replied.

"This is my compartment," Malfoy snapped.

Chase smiled mildly. "The train's been moving for an hour. I think we're well past seat claims."

Draco flushed, eyeing Chase's threadbare coat and battered trunk—but also noting the cold confidence in his expression. There was no fear, no respect, just... calculation.

"Fine," Malfoy muttered, sitting stiffly across from him. "But don't talk to me."

Chase said nothing, already absorbed once again in his book.

Magic Theory, by Adalbert Waffling, was decades outdated. Its chapters—What Is Magic?, Theories of Ancient Magic, and Foundations of Modern Spellcraft—were riddled with assumptions and contradictions.

It was useful only because it showed how little the magical world understood itself.

How could a civilization so old know so little?

He had come to Hogwarts to find out.

And if the iron wand in his hand didn't work yet—

He'd find a way to make it obey.