St. Mungo's Hospital
3rd Person POV
The sun was high in the clear sky. The birds were singing somewhere beyond the open window.
In his room on the second floor, Alex was sitting on his bed, a banana in one hand and a newspaper in the other. An empty glass of milk sat on the bedside cabinet, beside a small stack of primary school books that Dumbledore had brought him. Dumbledore had originally planned to hire a temporary tutor, but the idea had been quickly rejected by Alex. He had accepted the rejection with a mild smile and no argument.
It had been a month since Alex had been admitted to St. Mungo's. On his second day, a portly little man — Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic — had arrived with two photographers and a press secretary. He had shaken Alex's hand for an extended period, smiling at the photographers. He had made several remarks about accountability and justice and the Ministry's commitment to protecting its citizens.
He had announced loudly, with misplaced pride, that until Alex graduated from Hogwarts or turned eighteen — whichever came first — the Ministry would provide compensation of six hundred Galleons every year, that is fifty Galleons will be deposited in a secure vault in Gringotts every month, and a sum of two thousand Galleons after that.
Alex had smiled throughout. He had said thank you at the appropriate moments, acting like a grateful and cooperative subject.
The private room and all fees at St. Mungo's had been provided by the Ministry as well.
Alex was in a good mood.
This was partly because the food was good, partly due to the comfortable, soft bed, and partly because four years in Azkaban had brought his bar for feeling good down to the floor. But mostly it was because of today.
The door opened and Professor Flitwick stepped in.
Professor Flitwick was a noticeably very short man, with an immaculate hairstyle, a neat moustache, and a dress sense that suggested he took personal presentation seriously as a matter of principle.
Alex had met him a few days ago. Flitwick had been escorting a Muggle family and their newly identified magical child. He had been tasked by Dumbledore to check on Alex's condition and determine whether he was well enough to go shopping for his Hogwarts supplies. So after he was done with the Muggle family, he had introduced himself to Alex with the warmth of an easy-going man.
"Good morning, Professor," said Alex, as he stood up.
"Good morning, Alex." Flitwick stepped closer. "How are you feeling today?"
"Excited," said Alex, with a small smile. "Today I get my wand."
"As you should be." Flitwick raised his own wand and transfigured Alex's clothes with practised ease. The result was considerably better than what Alex had been wearing. "A good outfit for a joyful occasion."
Alex informed the receptionist at the front desk on the ground floor before stepping out.
Diagon AlleyAlex POV
We apparated to the entrance of Gringotts.
The dizziness passed quickly. I had expected this, but it was still strange — it was like my limbs and head were pushed back into my chest and then pulled out somewhere else entirely. I straightened and looked at where Flitwick was pointing.
My first thought was that whoever had designed Gringotts had done so as a symbol of a middle finger to the concept of architecture and planning, telling it that wizards had no need of either.
'The whole building is tilted. Not slightly — visibly. And the columns, they went in angles they had no business going. Some were not even connected top to bottom. What was even their purpose? This building is telling me that the builders were most likely using a different set of geometric rules from the rest of the world, if they were using any at all.'
'Just because you can make it work with magic doesn't mean you should build it like this. Who approved these plans? That person should be in Azkaban — though a mental asylum sounds more appropriate.'
I slowly turned to look at Diagon Alley, still processing the architectural nightmare of white marble behind me.
It was bustling, loud, crowded, and full of buildings that leaned on each other and made no structural sense.
'Yup. The whole alley is designed by drunk maniacs.'
Inside Gringotts, the goblins were exactly what I had expected and considerably more. Short, and possessed an air of absolute professional contempt for everyone in the building that I found, honestly, a little annoying.
We collected the month's fifty Galleons from the Ministry arrangement and left.
"Now that we have money," Flitwick said as we stepped back out into the alley, "it is time for the most important part of any wizard's journey."
He led me down the alley until we stopped in front of a shop — narrow and slightly shabby, with dusty windows. It gave the feeling of a place that had not changed significantly for a very long time.
On the door, something was written in peeling gold letters.
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
We entered the shop. I immediately noticed a thin layer of dust on every surface, which gave me an idea about the general state of hygiene standards in the wizarding world, or at least about Ollivander's priorities. Shelves stretched back on all sides behind the desk, packed with long, narrow boxes.
From somewhere between the shelves, an old man appeared behind the desk.
"Good morning, Professor Flitwick, good to see you well. And this must be a new Hogwarts student," he said.
"Good morning, Mr. Ollivander. Yes, I am helping Alex get his supplies."
Ollivander's gaze shifted to me. I could see the recognition in his eyes — he had probably recognised me from the picture with Fudge — but he seemed to decide not to mention it.
"Good morning, Alex," he said. "So you are here to find your partner for the magical journey ahead. Remember — it is not the wizard who chooses the wand. It is the wand that chooses the wizard."
I considered his words for a moment.
"Mr. Ollivander," I said, "I have a question. Why should only the wand choose the wizard? Shouldn't it be mutual? Only if both choose each other can they truly cooperate and show their full ability."
Something changed in Ollivander's expression. Meanwhile, Professor Flitwick was looking at me as though I had already been sorted into Ravenclaw.
"You have the makings of a great wizard, Alex," said Ollivander, with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. "This is not the first time someone has put this question to me. Both Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick asked a version of it during their own first wand selections."
I turned to look at Flitwick, only to see him smiling, before I turned back to continue listening to Ollivander.
"What you have said is correct," Ollivander continued. "Both wand and wizard must choose each other to reach their true potential. I say that the wand chooses because most young wizards arrive here thinking of wands as tools. By framing it that way, I give them the idea of a partner — something worth building a relationship with. Most witches and wizards keep the same wand for decades, sometimes for their entire lives. Even if they later return to thinking of it as a tool, they have already built the connection." A slight pause. "Does that satisfy you?"
"Yes. Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."
He nodded once, and a measuring tape leapt from the counter and wrapped itself around me with the professional efficiency and agility of a snake. Ollivander noted all the measurements. The tape retracted and returned to its drawer.
Ollivander took out a wand and offered it to me. I picked it up and immediately felt it easier to focus my magic. But before I could try anything, Ollivander snatched it back and returned it to its box.
After that began what I could only describe as a test of patience.
Over the next fifteen minutes, I tried more than twenty wands. Some he snatched the moment I touched them; others he let me try waving. I could see a smile on Ollivander's face that was getting harder to conceal.
'Some people watch Quidditch for fun. Ollivander watches difficult wand selections.'
'At least one of us is having fun.'
He disappeared between the shelves for a moment and reappeared with a box I hadn't seen before — nothing visibly different from any of the others. He opened it carefully.
I picked up the wand inside. The difference was immediate. I felt a sensation no other wand had evoked — it was as though something wrong with me had just been corrected. Like I had grown an extra limb I hadn't known I was missing, made for the sole purpose of spell casting.
'I see the reason why wandless magic is considerably rare. This feeling — it is quite comfortable. Addictive, even.'
I waved it. A lightning bolt shot out and struck a shelf. The shelf shuddered. A few chips flew. A small charred mark appeared on the wood.
"Excellent," said Ollivander, with such pure joy in his eyes as though the one struck by lightning was not his shelf but his mortal enemy. "Magnificent. I had begun to wonder if this one would ever find its wizard."
"What do you mean, Mr. Ollivander?" I asked. He could clearly see the curiosity on my face.
"Thirteen inches. Vine wood. Phoenix feather core. Slightly yielding." He continued. "An unusual and extraordinary combination — both wood and core independently seek exceptional owners, together creating a wand that is selective to an almost wilful degree. Vine wood seeks owners with a great purpose and destiny, while phoenix feather is the hardest to tame, with the greatest range of magic. It will not settle for an ordinary match."
He turned the box in his hands.
"I created this wand in my early years — one of several attempts when I was trying to make a wand of extraordinary power. It has been on my shelf since. It has rejected many."
"Won't such a demanding wand cause unnecessary difficulties for Alex?" asked Flitwick, with the measured concern of a teacher doing his job.
"It would have, had it not accepted him — which is not the case here. In fact, the wand seems quite happy to be with Alex," said Ollivander, with the look of a man whose problem child had finally grown up.
"How much does it cost?" I asked.
"Seven Galleons."
We paid, said our goodbyes, and stepped back out into the noise of Diagon Alley.
Vine wood and phoenix feather, I thought, turning the wand slightly in my hand as we walked.
'Well. I do have several purposes. Whether they count as great is a matter of perspective.'
I pocketed the wand.
The afternoon passed shopping — robes, books, ingredients, equipment, all the items needed by a Hogwarts student. Flitwick moved through it with the ease of someone who had done this many times.
One Hour Later — St. Mungo's Hospital3rd Person POV
Alex put all the things away in the cupboard and turned to look at Flitwick, who now had a serious expression.
The warmth was still there, but he had the expression of a man who had something to say and did not quite know how to say it.
"Professor — has everything I requested been collected?"
Flitwick nodded. From his pocket he took out a box that had absolutely no business fitting in such a small pocket, and handed it over.
He was quiet for a moment before he spoke.
"Alex, I can neither make nor change your decisions, nor would I try to. But I hope you do not carry revenge as your ultimate purpose." He looked at the boy who had his whole life ahead of him. "The fire of revenge burns without preference — enemies, friends, even yourself. It does not distinguish. There are many beautiful things in this life. I hope you find them."
"Don't worry, Professor," Alex said, with a genuine smile, looking at him. "Revenge is not my ultimate goal — though it is something I must take. I simply want to live a long, happy life."
Flitwick held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once and left.
Alex POV
I sat on the bed with the box in my lap and opened it.
Inside, in neat arrangement, were the documents of the original Alex — the boy whose body I had possessed years ago, whose name I now carried. Born unknown. Left at the steps of an orphanage shortly after birth. A handful of records: a few ragged clothes catalogued in a ledger, some toys, the kind of sparse paper trail that accumulated around children that no one particularly cared for.
A file sat beneath the documents.
I opened it.
The file detailed my case from beginning to end — the arrest, the detention, the four years, the investigation that had followed my release. The names of all Ministry officials who had been identified, tried, and punished for their involvement. Most of them were just the right kind of people for this — significant enough that they mattered, insignificant enough that they could be bribed or blackmailed easily.
I read the detailed report of my arrest — or rather, the arrest of the criminal whose punishment I had endured.
Four years ago, Aurors had apprehended a Death Eater who had been hiding since the end of the First Wizarding War. He had been a spy embedded within the Ministry — one of Voldemort's lackeys, feeding information from the inside. When Voldemort fell, he had been exposed. He ran. He hid like a rat. He had been careful and had survived longer than most Death Eaters.
And now he was filed as wanted again.
Wanted. Not imprisoned. Not dead. Somewhere out there, free, while I spent four years in his place.
I set the file down beside me. My heart was calmer than I had expected, although the name kept repeating in my mind.
Augustus Rookwood. That was who would be receiving a premium torture experience from me in a few years.