Chapter 1: Welcome to Diagon Alley

England, London.

An owl flew swiftly across the sky over London, scaring away a group of small creatures in the corners and drawing the attention of several passersby.

Seeing a bird of prey like an owl in central London was somewhat rare.

But most who stopped were children or tourists from elsewhere.

In contrast, London locals remained calm, showing no sign of surprise.

An owl? Rare, yes—but not unheard of, especially in July, when they were everywhere.

It was precisely mid-July.

“Uneducated outsiders, seeing something unusual and making a fuss.”

Their casual shirts suddenly seemed to transform into tailored suits; elderly gentlemen lifted their chins with an inexplicable sense of superiority, their steps noticeably lighter.

No one noticed that the owl, after flying over one street, suddenly vanished.

As if passing through a transparent curtain, in the blink of an eye, the owl appeared above another bustling street.

Here, everyone wore bizarre attire—some even donned pointed hats—and the buildings themselves were wildly unusual, resembling styles from two centuries ago… or even earlier.

Though from above, this place seemed only a few feet away from the outside street, it felt like two entirely different worlds.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley!”

Beneath the owl, a drunken vagrant could be heard shouting loudly.

But none of this concerned the owl; it only wanted to finish its task and return to a delicious nut feast.

Continuing forward, the owl skillfully dodged a cobblestone path and landed on a small windowsill behind Ollivander’s Wand Shop.

The window was spotless, revealing a boy of about ten, head bowed, utterly absorbed in whatever he was doing.

The next second…

“Boom!”

Something exploded—sparks flew, a shrill blast echoed, and thick black smoke billowed.

“Hawthorn and Redcap Nerve—what a fiery combination. Perhaps holly would suit better!”

Silven Ollivander straightened up, muttering softly, as he gazed at a line of red letters hovering midair before him.

【Hawthorn, Redcap Nerve, ten and a half inches】

【Status: Incomplete】

【Trait: Prone to spontaneous explosion】

Silven rubbed his forehead.

Eleven years had passed since he arrived in this world; during that time, he had grown accustomed to the witches and wizards passing through, and slowly accepted his new identity.

A member of a… well, wandmaking family.

His grandfather was the famed Garrick Ollivander, renowned for his extraordinary memory, able to recall every wand he had ever sold.

Since childhood, Silven had been able to see every wand’s properties, materials, and characteristics.

He couldn’t say whether this was his own cheat ability or an Ollivander family bloodline gift.

Silven leaned toward the former, because beyond this, he could also twist completely irrational materials into wand cores.

Even Garrick could hardly conceive of a wand with a toad’s tongue as its core—but Silven could, and with surprisingly high success rates.

In a way, it was impressive—but utterly useless.

Silven sighed.

Yet in recent years, under the influence of his grandfather Garrick Ollivander, he had gradually grown fond of wandmaking, even obsessed—and this “cheat” no longer felt so useless.

Thinking of this, Silven shook his head and skillfully picked up another wand, giving it a light flick.

“Scourgify!”

“Reparo!”

The dust and smoke from the explosion vanished instantly; the room was clean once more.

Only after finishing did Silven turn toward the window.

Outside, nothing—only the crowded street of Diagon Alley and a few brown feathers resting on the windowsill.

“Strange… I clearly heard something tapping at the window. Where did it go…?”

Silven walked over, opened the window, picked up the feathers, glanced at them, and stuffed them into his pocket.

At that moment, the sound of flapping wings came from beside his ear; Silven instinctively looked down.

A disheveled owl glared at him angrily, letting out piercing screeches.

Silven didn’t understand its words, but from its expression, it was clearly cursing him—profusely.

“Hey, use some sense—the explosion wasn’t my fault,” Silven defended himself.

But the owl clearly rejected this excuse; it hurled the object clutched in its talons toward him and flew off without looking back.

“Well, have a safe journey…”

Silven closed the window and turned to the object lying on the floor.

It was a pale yellow envelope, written in emerald-green ink:

【Diagon Alley, Ollivander’s Wand Shop, second floor, before the desk, Mr. Silven Ollivander】

On the back, a wax seal bore a crest: a shield with a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a serpent encircling a capital “H.”

Of course—letters delivered by owls in mid-July could only be Hogwarts acceptance letters.

Only then did Silven realize it was already July; soon, he would be a Hogwarts freshman.

He wasn’t as excited as he’d imagined.

If he’d received this ten years ago, he might have jumped for joy—but now… well, he was still excited, just not wildly so.

And compared to attending Hogwarts, he’d found something far more interesting.

Wandmaking.

He’d even considered that not receiving the letter might be better—it would give him more time to study wandmaking.

But that was impossible.

A child with magic could not fail to receive a Hogwarts letter; Dumbledore would never make such a basic mistake.

Even if Dumbledore slipped, there was always Minerva McGonagall.

Still, this wasn’t bad.

Silven stretched his arms and casually placed the envelope on the desk.

“Knock knock knock…”

At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded from downstairs.

Silven picked up his wand and opened the door in advance.

The next second…

“I just saw the owl!” A head poked in from outside.

“Has it arrived?” Garrick Ollivander hadn’t even put down his measuring tape before asking eagerly.

“Yes, the Hogwarts acceptance letter…” Silven pointed to the envelope on the desk.

Ollivander’s gaze snapped to it; upon seeing the familiar crest, he blurted out:

“Excellent!”

“Honestly, I’d prefer my mother’s advice and go to Beauxbatons,” Silven said, resting his chin on one hand, thoughtful.

“Alchemy would greatly aid my research, but Hogwarts doesn’t offer alchemy classes.”

“Besides, my father, mother, and grandmother all graduated from Beauxbatons. Mother even told me her old friend became headmistress last year—I’d be far better suited there.”

Dumbledore’s name was grand—he was Chief Wizard of the International Confederation of Wizards and the Gongren strongest White Wizard—but his eyes were fixed only on Harry Potter and Voldemort.

Not that he didn’t care about ordinary students, but he certainly wouldn’t pay them special attention.

Beauxbatons, by contrast, was different.

His mother, Lila Ollivander, had graduated from Beauxbatons and had been both student and friend to Olympe Maxime when she was still a professor; they’d stayed in touch after graduation.

Now Madame Maxime was headmistress of Beauxbatons; if Silven attended, things would be far easier.

More importantly, in the coming years, Voldemort would begin plotting his resurrection—staying at Hogwarts would be troublesome.

“Hmm… Hogwarts is also excellent…” Ollivander’s eyes darted away. “And… didn’t we already agree?”

Ollivander wanted Silven to attend Hogwarts because Silven was the only child still willing to inherit his wandmaking craft.

His son—Silven’s father, Garian Ollivander—had once loved wandmaking as a child, but after graduating from Beauxbatons, he became obsessed with botany and traveled the world with his wife.

His daughter—Silven’s aunt—graduated from Ilvermorny and was now a moderately famous magical creature expert.

For some reason, both his son and daughter’s careers were related to wandmaking… yet utterly disconnected from it.

Ollivander had pondered long and hard, finally concluding it must be the schools’ fault—Ilvermorny and Beauxbatons were too far away.

Now that Silven had finally shown genuine passion for wandmaking, he would not let him leave again—he must keep him close and teach him personally.

But there was one problem…

A thought struck him; Ollivander’s face fell.

Silven was talented, and he worked hard—but his talent seemed to veer off course.

Silven disliked traditional wandmaking methods and core materials—in other words, he refused to use unicorn tail hair, phoenix feather, or dragon heartstring, preferring instead… well, in Ollivander’s view, utterly heretical combinations.

Like troll’s nose hair, Redcap’s trigeminal nerve, or Hinkypunk’s leg bone.

Ollivander couldn’t even imagine using such things as wand cores—let alone crafting them—but Silven delighted in them.

Ollivander had tried repeatedly to steer Silven back onto the “right path”—and failed.

Worse, he dared not be too forceful, fearing Silven might follow his aunt’s example: after being scolded loudly, he’d storm off to Ilvermorny in America.

If it’s a bit off, then so be it—at least it’s been passed down.

“Alright, alright, I never said I wouldn’t go to Hogwarts,” Silven said, shrugging at Ollivander’s pitiful, half-speechless expression.

Come to think of it, Hogwarts isn’t so bad.

Sure, it’s troublesome, but it offers plenty of good materials: the three-headed dog, Dementors, fire dragons, Voldemort, the Whomping Willow.

Especially the Whomping Willow—there’s only one in all of Britain’s magical world, and Silven had coveted it for a long time.

Oh, and Dumbledore’s Elder Wand—if he could just get a glimpse, it would surely help him greatly.

Even if it didn’t help, he still wanted to see that legendary wand, preferably even hold it and try it out.

Though the chance was slim, Silven was willing to wait—there would surely be an opportunity someday.

(End of Chapter)