HP : King In The Wizarding World

The soft hum of the room vibrated with quiet energy. Tucked deep within Flamel's Parisian manor, behind layers of protective enchantments and silence wards, the chamber was reserved for the most delicate of magical experiments. Today, it would bear witness to something extraordinary.

Louis stood in the center of the circular room, his gaze fixed on the materials laid before him. Resting on a pedestal of enchanted stone were the two rare components: the piece of pristine White Sorcerer's Wood and the feather from a Black Phoenix—an ancient and enigmatic creature rumored to be born from shadow and flame.

He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. The conversations with Nicolas over the past weeks echoed in his thoughts.

"Magic is alive, Louis," Flamel had said. "It has memory, instinct, and sometimes, will. When crafting a wand, you're not imposing control—you're forging a relationship."

Louis had listened intently, absorbing every word. This wasn't just an experiment. It was a rite of passage.

Nicolas now stood quietly at the edge of the room, surrounded by faintly glowing runes inscribed into the walls. His presence was calm, his hands clasped behind his back. Though ready to intervene if needed, he had promised not to act unless it became truly necessary.

Louis approached the pedestal. As he reached for the wood and the feather, the air around them began to hum with a low, resonant note. The light in the room dimmed. The temperature dropped.

The magic within the materials was awakening.

He slowly began the enchantment, drawing on months of theoretical work and weeks of Flamel's guidance. The fusion spell was complex—a symphony of fine gestures and precise incantations. But Louis never used wand. His hands moved with focused grace, shaping the spell directly, an art he had refined alone for years.

Just as the spell began to take hold, a sudden burst of energy erupted from the materials.

A wave of invisible pressure pulsed outward, slamming into the walls of the room. Nicolas flinched. His wards flickered. Even he, one of the greatest alchemists alive, felt the intensity radiating from the raw, resisting power.

Louis staggered but didn't fall. The force pressed against his mind, his spirit, as though testing his very essence.

His knees trembled. Sweat beaded on his brow. But he did not retreat.

It was not pain he felt—but judgment. A force as old as magic itself, wrapped within the feather and the wood, as if asking a silent question:

Are you worthy?

His thoughts raced. Visions flashed in his mind—his old life, the crown, the fall, the blood spilled in vain. Then Fleur, smiling in the garden. His parents' laughter. The warmth of a new home. The purpose he had found in magic.

He gritted his teeth. "I am no king," he whispered. "But I have chosen my path."

The pulse struck again, heavier.

Still, he stood his ground.

Nicolas, watching from the perimeter, took one step forward—then stopped. His eyes narrowed. He could see the strain on Louis's face, the faint tremor in his shoulders.

But he also saw the fire in his eyes.

And so, he waited.

For two long hours, Louis endured the trial. He moved with slow, deliberate control, adjusting the flow of his magic, speaking incantations in ancient tongues, aligning the resonance of the core and the wood. The chamber pulsed with energy, bending to the rhythm of his will.

Then, silence.

A soft click echoed through the chamber as the materials fused.

Where once lay two separate objects, now hovered a wand.

Elegant. Thin. Long and smooth. It shimmered like polished ivory, but with dark, silken veins running beneath the surface—like shadows swimming beneath ice. The core pulsed faintly with light. A perfect balance of dark and light. Of fire and stillness.

Louis reached out and took it into his hand. The moment he touched it, the wand lit with an inner glow. It recognized him. It accepted him.

Nicolas approached slowly, eyes wide with awe.

"That... is one of the finest wands I have ever seen," he said. "And I have seen thousands."

Louis exhaled, his breath shaky but triumphant. "It's done."

They moved to the room's side table, the wand resting between them. Together, they discussed its structure, its balance, and its finish. Louis insisted on minimal carvings—only a few sigils of his own design etched near the handle. He wanted the wand's power to speak for itself.

Nicolas nodded, clearly proud. "Few ever create their own wand, Louis. Fewer still succeed. But you did more than craft a tool—you shaped a part of your soul."

Louis looked down at the wand, then to Nicolas. "I didn't just want a wand. I needed something that understood me. Something that would grow with me."

The elder wizard smiled. "And you've made just that. A wand of balance, of purpose. Light and shadow—each guiding the other."

As they stood in silence, the glow of the wand casting soft reflections across the walls, Louis felt something stir in his chest. A sense of becoming. Of moving forward.

**IMAGE OF THE WAND**