Chapter 27: The Wand Chooses the Wizard
Clark Kent walked through Diagon Alley, the weight of gold galleons in his pockets a stark contrast to the Dursleys' cramped cupboard. The lively fair of shops and chattering families faded into the background as he focused on the final prize: his wand.
Bathsheda Babbling, in her sharp blazer and skirt, stopped outside a narrow shop, its faded sign reading Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. The dusty windows and creaking door gave it the air of an antique shop, silent compared to the alley's bustle.
"All that's left is your wand," Bathsheda said, her voice calm but warm. "I'll handle your potions kit and get the best ingredients. Go ahead and get your wand. I'll meet you after."
Clark nodded, his lips twitching into a smirk. A wand—his key to magic, to power. He pushed open the door, the soft chime of a bell echoing in the dim shop.
Rows of stacked boxes lined the shelves, their faint magical hum tingling Clark's Kryptonian senses. A frail man emerged from the shadows, his silvery eyes glinting with an unreadable spark. His thin fingers twitched, as if measuring Clark's very soul.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," he said, his whispery voice carrying a strange weight. "I was wondering when I'd see you. Just yesterday, I sold your mother her first wand—ten and a quarter inches, willow, unicorn hair. Perfect for charms."
Clark stayed silent, his emerald eyes locked on the old man—Ollivander, he presumed—as he glided to the shelves, pulling boxes with practiced ease.
"Your father's was eleven inches, mahogany, pliable, dragon heartstring core. Excellent for Transfiguration." Ollivander sighed, a wistful edge to his tone. "I remember every wand I've sold."
Clark's jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation rising. The Dursleys had denied him this legacy, but now it was his. He watched as Ollivander stacked boxes on the counter.
"Try this," Ollivander said, handing him a nine-inch beechwood wand with a phoenix feather core.
Clark gripped it, but before he could move, a stack of parchment exploded into shreds. Ollivander snatched it back. "Not that one."
Next was an oak wand, unicorn hair core, rigid and long. The shelves rattled violently as Clark held it, papers fluttering. "No, no," Ollivander muttered, taking it away. "Curious… very curious."
Minutes passed, wand after wand sparking chaos—golden embers, flickering lights, a cracked vase. Clark's frustration grew, a nagging doubt creeping in. Was his Kryptonian nature rejecting magic? He pushed the thought aside, his smirk returning. He'd conquer this, like everything else.
Ollivander paused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Perhaps…" He vanished into the backroom, leaving Clark alone with the humming shelves.
Ollivander returned with a dusty black box, its corners worn, as if untouched for decades. "This is… unusual," he murmured, lifting a polished wand with an obsidian sheen. Clark felt a pull, a spark of recognition, before even touching it.
He took the wand, and a surge of warmth flooded him—not just warmth, but power, like an electric jolt syncing with his core. The air hummed, a faint glow pulsing from the wand, molding to his grip like an extension of his will.
Ollivander's eyes gleamed. "Fascinating."
Clark turned the wand, feeling its perfect balance. "What's it made of?"
"Black Dragonwood, twelve inches," Ollivander said, tracing its length. "Rare, from trees in enchanted dragon lands. Strong, unbreakable, with unique magical properties."
"And the core?" Clark asked, his voice low, sensing the answer's weight.
Ollivander hesitated. "One core is from a rare dragon, known for… strong desires. It's powerful, especially for Transfiguration and enchantments."
Clark raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming. "Strong desires?"
Ollivander's look was pointed. "It amplifies magic tied to attraction and seduction."
Clark's smirk widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. Useful, indeed.
"But," Ollivander added, his tone grave, "it has a second core—rarer still. A single Veela hair."
Clark blinked. "Veela? As in…"
"Creatures whose allure can bewitch even the strongest minds," Ollivander confirmed. "This wand doesn't just channel magic—it enhances influence. Charms hit deeper, emotions stir stronger, and its owner… gains a natural magnetism."
Clark twirled the wand, his thoughts racing. A wand that boosted power, seduction, and influence? It was perfect for the empire he'd build, starting with Hogwarts.
"Well, Mr. Potter, we've found your wand," Ollivander said, his voice tinged with awe.
Clark handed over a pouch of galleons, still admiring the wand's dark sheen. It felt right, a weapon for his rise. "Can't wait to use it," he said, his grin sharp.
He stepped outside, the alley's noise washing over him. Bathsheda waited, arms crossed, her smile teasing. "Have fun in there, Harry?"
He twirled the wand lazily, his gaze flicking over her briefly, a spark of desire mixing with ambition. "Loads. Nearly blew up a vase."
She shook her head, amused. "At least the shop's still standing."
"No promises," he shot back, his tone cheeky, his smirk hinting at more.
Bathsheda's hands shifted, revealing a snowy-white owl, its feathers soft and warm. "For you," she said, passing it to Clark.
He blinked, caught off guard. "For me?"
"You'll need one for Hogwarts," she said, her smile softening. "And I thought you could use a companion."
Clark stroked the owl's feathers, its golden eyes meeting his with a quiet fierceness. "She's… incredible."
"The prettiest and feistiest there," Bathsheda said, smirking. "Reminds me of someone."
Clark rolled his eyes, his grin playful. "Wonder who."
Her laugh was light, the owl hooting softly in his hands. "Got a name yet?" she asked.
"I'll figure it out," Clark said, glancing at the owl. "Something we both like."
Bathsheda's eyes sparkled. "That's sweet."
Clark's smirk deepened, his wand humming in his pocket, the owl perched on his arm. Hogwarts loomed ahead, a stage for his power, and he was ready to take it by storm.