August 10th, 2019.

Ollivanders is mostly empty, if not for the single spindly chair in the corner, notices the tall eleven-year-old boy when he steps inside, eyes scanning the place. Roman Kingston, that had come to the Diagon Alley with his father, Virgil, looking for what he needed to begin his first year at Hogwarts, pats the inexistent dirt out of his coat, taking a few steps forward.

He hears soft humming coming from the back of the store, and, assuming the owner is taking care of whatever he needs to back there, he walks around, dark eyes darting to narrow boxes containing wands piled right up to the ceiling of that tiny place.

Missing the sound of the man’s quick footsteps getting closer, the sudden tap on his shoulder is enough to make him jolt, turning quickly, with an angry look in his eyes. The boy runs his fingers through his black hair, analyzing the rather old and pale wizard.

His hair is frizzly in a greyish tone, and though Ollivander is clearly old enough to be his great-grandfather, there’s an alive and wistful spark in his blue eyes. Noticing the man isn’t a threat in the slightest, Roman goes back to his bored expression.

“Hello, mister Kingston, correct?” says the old man, voice soft and a little funny, those knowing eyes back to his face.‌ In his face rests an easy-going smile.

“Yes,” The boy states, seriously, but with an impressed eyebrow raise. He shouldn’t be surprised by that. After all, his mother is a celebrity. “I’m here to purchase a wand.”

“Why, yes, of course,” Ollivander walks quickly towards one pile of narrow boxes in the left. Roman moves in his direction, trying to take a peek at the first wand the old man takes out of the box. The man’s blue eyes analyze the wand, then he says, “33,1 cm ash wood and phoenix feather. Great for healing spells.”

He hands it to Roman, eyes now expecting. The boy stares at the wand in his hand, judging the simple design. With simple flicks his wrist, he isn’t surprised when nothing happens and Ollivander shakes his head, saying ‘oh, of course not!’, turning to look for another wand.

“Now, could it be…” Mumbles Ollivander to himself, making Roman’s eyes dart to him again. The man turns with a very different wand in his hand this time. “30,1 cm mayhaw wood and rougarou hair. Flexible. Very effective for unspoken spells. Very similar to the one I sold to your mother years ago.”

With a sigh and unnoticeable eye-roll, Roman takes the wand from the old man’s hand. From inside of him, there’s a warm heat that spreads across his chest. A shiver runs across his body and when he darts his wide eyes towards Ollivander, the wandmaker is smiling.

“I think this is it, sir,” says Roman, lost for words, for the first time in a while.