Chapter 35 – Flamebound
The bell above the door chimed delicately, like the hum of old glass.
Inside Ollivanders, everything smelled of dust and magic.
Wand boxes towered from floor to ceiling in precarious stacks, each labeled in faded ink. The shop was dim, yet the air seemed charged—like something ancient was quietly watching.
Thomas stepped in slowly, almost reverently. Sister Mary stayed near the door, clutching the apothecary box. McGonagall followed closely behind.
"Good afternoon," came a soft voice.
A pale, silver-haired man emerged from behind the shelves. His eyes—unblinking, pale like morning frost—rested on Thomas.
"Ah…" he said, narrowing them. "You… remind me of someone."
Thomas blinked.
The old wandmaker tilted his head. "Sharp cheekbones. That brow. You look like a young Shafiq."
Professor McGonagall turned at that, brows raised. "Now that you mention it…"
She squinted thoughtfully. "You do resemble Cadmus Shafiq. From when he was about your age. Hmph. I hadn't noticed."
Thomas merely offered a polite smile. "I wouldn't know."
And he wouldn't. The name meant little to him, though he noted how both adults now looked at him with curiosity.
"Faces repeat," he added lightly. "Genetics are lazy like that."
Sister Mary gave a small laugh from behind.
Ollivander hummed. "Perhaps. Still… that's a bloodline that's hard to forget."
He stepped forward. "But let us not delay. The wand chooses the wizard, Mr…"
"Thomas," he answered simply.
Ollivander blinked, then smiled. "Very well, Mr. Thomas. Let us find yours."
The process, Thomas had read, could sometimes take dozens of tries. Wild sparks, misfiring boxes, or shelves collapsing—he'd expected chaos.
But none of that happened.
The first wand, a willow, gave nothing but silence.
The second—a yew—flared slightly, but felt… wrong. Like holding something that wasn't his.
Then came the third.
It fit perfectly in his hand. A quiet hum, almost like a heartbeat, pulsed through his fingers. He inhaled sharply.
Ollivander's eyes gleamed. "Ah… yes."
He held the box reverently.
"Blackthorn and phoenix feather. Twelve and three-quarter inches. Unyielding."
Thomas stared at it, then slowly lifted the wand again. It felt alive. Not in a frantic, electric way—but with steady presence.
Ollivander stepped closer, his voice quieter now. "This is not a wand for just anyone."
"Blackthorn," he said, "grows where life fights to survive. Harsh lands. Cold winds. Thorns thick as teeth. A tree of resistance… and protection. Its wands do not bloom for the soft-hearted. They seek those who know pain. Who've bled and grown from it."
Thomas remained still.
"And phoenix feather…" Ollivander's expression turned reverent. "Rare. Finicky. Loyal only to the honest soul. They detest manipulation. They demand truth."
He took a step back, eyes scanning Thomas's still frame. "This wand will test you. It will not suffer weakness of will. But should you earn its trust… its loyalty will never break."
Thomas didn't respond at first. His fingers curled slightly around the handle. The wood was dark, almost black, and the grain twisted subtly like flame caught mid-breath.
He whispered, "Phoenix."
"Yes," Ollivander said. "You know of them?"
Thomas hesitated. "Only in myth."
McGonagall raised a brow. "You've never seen one?"
He shook his head. "Are they… like the stories?"
Ollivander smiled faintly. "Not entirely. Phoenixes are powerful magical beasts. They burst into flame when their body grows old, and are reborn from ash. They can disappear and reappear at will—what you'd call 'teleportation'. But more elegant."
He paused.
"They are creatures of fire and soul. They bond rarely. Even their feathers carry a trace of that eternal spirit."
Thomas's fingers tightened on the wand.
Rebirth. Flame. Teleportation.
He felt it again—that subtle pull in his chest. A resonance.
He had lived through death. Not just metaphorically. His soul had crossed a boundary, fallen through dimensions, and awakened in a new world. Rebirth was not just a symbol. It was his reality.
And Blink, his first magic—the power to vanish and appear—was, at its core, phoenix-like.
The connection wasn't coincidence. It was calling.
"This one," he said softly. "This is it."
Ollivander gave a satisfied nod. "Then the wand has chosen well."
Sister Mary exhaled slowly. She hadn't spoken much since entering the shop, but her eyes now carried something unreadable—a mix of awe, fear, and fierce pride.
She stepped forward and gently touched his shoulder.
"Be good to it," she said.
"I will," Thomas whispered.
But inwardly, he thought: No. I'll be true to it.
And if the phoenix within this wand truly mirrored him—if it had felt what he had, known exile, pain, and the fire that comes after loss—then he would not only wield it.
He would walk with it.