Harry Potter 'sTwin Brother

Chapter 20: The Robe Shop

The dusty warmth of Diagon Alley softened as they turned onto a quieter lane, where the cobblestones were smoother and cleaner. A delicate hanging sign read:

> Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions

Specialists in Schoolwear, Formalwear & Tailored Magical Garments

The building was tall and slightly curved outward in the middle, as if the shop itself had inhaled deeply and never exhaled. The wide bay window displayed child-sized mannequins wearing black school robes that shifted gently even without wind—charms sewn into the fabric.

"Here we are," Professor McGonagall said, holding the door open.

A small brass bell chimed as they entered.

---

🧵 Inside Madam Malkin's

The shop smelled of fresh linen, lavender soap, and polished wood. Rows of floating garments drifted gently above racks, organized by age, type, and enchantment.

On one side, thick velvet cloaks shimmered faintly with frost-resistant charms. On the other, warm woolen uniforms were stacked in floating shelves that reshuffled themselves when touched.

A squat, smiling witch with silver hair swept into a twist appeared from behind a curtain.

"Ah, Hogwarts first years! I've got just the thing," she chirped. "Step right up, dears."

Harry stepped up first, looking slightly nervous. Madam Malkin guided him onto a low, round stool as a set of floating pins and measuring tapes zipped to attention.

Hardwin watched, fascinated.

"What's the fabric made of?" he asked suddenly.

Madam Malkin blinked. "Oh! Durable wool blend, lightly enchanted. Self-healing seams and minor dust resistance."

"Can it be modified for stronger charms?" Hardwin asked. "Like light water resistance, or better resistance to dirt?"

Madam Malkin's smile widened. "Curious one, aren't you? Yes, I do offer upgrades—costs a bit more, mind—but very useful for… ah… spirited students."

Hardwin nodded slowly. "And the hats? Do they serve any magical function or are they just tradition?"

"Mostly tradition for first years," she said. "Though I've sewn charm slots into some—optional."

---

👕 Hardwin's Special Request

When it was Hardwin's turn, he stepped onto the stool calmly. The moment the measuring tape circled his wrist, he turned to Madam Malkin again.

"Do you sell robes with inner shirt-trouser lining?"

"Hmm?"

"Like a robe outside," Hardwin explained, "but with attached modern-style clothes inside—pants, shirt—so it's easier to wear in cold or while traveling?"

Madam Malkin gave an appreciative nod. "We do something similar for traveling robes. You want those modifications for your school set?"

"Yes. And maybe one extra set with deeper inner pockets. One pocket with a dust charm for holding books or paper."

"And what of color?" she asked.

"Black outside as required, but if possible, a dark grey inside. And silver thread along the hem. Subtle."

Harry, watching nearby, whispered, "You've really thought this through."

Hardwin shrugged, smiling faintly. "I don't like things getting wrinkled."

Madam Malkin's quill scribbled notes behind her on floating parchment.

"And a second cloak," Hardwin added, "with weather resistance. Something for fog or rain."

"You planning to duel a storm, dear?" she asked jokingly.

"No," Hardwin said seriously. "But better to be ready."

---

🪡 Moments Between Fittings

While Harry's sleeves were being pinned and hemmed, he looked toward Hardwin.

"Why do you need so many extras?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Hardwin said, quietly, "When you've lived in a place where things don't always go your way, you learn to carry what you need… and a little more."

Harry didn't quite understand, but he nodded.

Hardwin looked at him, then added gently, "Also—I don't want to smell like potion fumes for a week just because I spill something."

Harry laughed. "That makes sense."

Professor McGonagall reviewed their lists.

"Three sets of plain black robes: check. One pointed hat: check. Gloves and winter cloak will be sent by owl when ready."

She paused. "Mr. Hardwin, your modifications will take two extra days. Madam Malkin will owl you when they're done."

Hardwin nodded. "That's fine."

The purchases were packed into soft leather cases—weightless, charmed to remain wrinkle-free.

Madam Malkin handed them their receipts with a wink.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, boys."

---

☀️ Back Into the Alley

As they stepped out into the warm sunlight again, Harry turned to Hardwin.

"You… planned all that?"

Hardwin looked ahead, his eyes already scanning shop signs. "Clothes can protect. Not just from cold or rain—but from how people see you. Or underestimate you."

Harry didn't fully understand. But he respected it.

McGonagall, walking behind them, said nothing… but took a quiet note of everything.

Professor McGonagall walked ahead, her emerald robes rustling with purpose. She turned to glance back at the two boys walking closely behind her.

"Now," she said, "our next stop is one of the most important—your wands."

Harry's eyes lit up.

McGonagall gave a faint smile. "Every witch or wizard requires a wand that matches them. And for that, there's only one place worth visiting—Ollivanders."

She stopped before a narrow, ancient-looking shop wedged between two larger stores. The wooden sign overhead was faded, the gold letters nearly worn away:

> Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

In the shop window, a single wand lay on a faded cushion of deep purple velvet. It looked ordinary… yet something about it felt electric, as if it were humming with silent potential. The display was minimal, almost proud in its simplicity.

Hardwin stared at the door. The wood was darker here, older—lacquered so many times it had begun to ripple like bark. Something about this place felt older than the alley itself. He could feel it in his spine.

McGonagall pushed open the door. A delicate silver bell chimed—not loudly, but in a soft tone that echoed like a clear drop of water in a deep well.

The shop smelled of dust and ancient paper, oak shavings and a hint of wood smoke. Boxes—long and thin—were stacked all the way to the high ceiling. Every wall was covered in shelves, and some boxes floated gently above, rotating slowly in place. The room was silent, sacred, as if it were breathing in tandem with the magic inside each wand.

"Good morning," came a quiet, airy voice.

"Ah, Professor McGonagall," said the soft voice from behind the shelves. A tall, pale man with moon-colored eyes stepped into the candlelight. "It's been some time."

He looked toward the two boys curiously. His gaze lingered on Harry's scar, and then flicked to Hardwin, whose posture was calm and still.

"You've brought me new wand-seekers, I see," he murmured. "Hmm… curious. Very curious."

"This is Harry Potter," McGonagall said gently, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "And his brother, Hardwin."

His eyes lingered on their faces for a moment, especially Harry's.

Ollivander tilted his head. "Potter, you say? Hmm."

His pale eyes swept over them again with new interest. "Yes… I remember their parents well. James Potter, mahogany, eleven inches. Lily Evans… willow, ten and a quarter. Both fine wands… and even finer spellcasters.

Harry shifted a little, unsure what to say.

Hardwin remained silent, watching everything. The dust, the tiny sparkles in the air, the hum that came from the shelves—like a forest holding its breath.

---

"Now then," Ollivander said briskly. "Mr. Harry Potter, let us begin."

He pulled out an old brass measuring tape, which flicked to life on its own and began measuring every part of Harry—arm length, wrist, elbow to fingertip, shoulder to floor, even the space between nostrils.

As the tape danced, Ollivander walked the aisles, murmuring to himself. Boxes floated down gently, resting on the counter.

"Try this. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Reasonably flexible."

Harry gave it a wave. A few red sparks fizzled and died.

"No. No, not that."

Another. "Maple and unicorn hair. Eleven inches. Very springy."

Harry gave it a flick. A parchment fluttered off a shelf.

Ollivander shook his head. "Getting warmer."

Try after try, wand after wand. Some felt cold, others too heavy, too light, too stiff. Harry began to feel nervous. What if none of them worked?

Then…

Ollivander handed him a wand in a velvet-lined box. His voice was quieter now.

"Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Nice and supple."

Harry took it in hand.

The moment his fingers closed around the wand, a warmth pulsed up his arm. Golden light spilled gently from the tip. A sudden gust of air circled the room, lifting a few wand boxes in a gentle spiral.

Ollivander stared, almost reverently.

"Curious. Very curious…"

Harry blinked. "What's curious?"

"That wand," said Ollivander, his voice now low, "shares a core with another. Its brother gave you that scar."

Harry instinctively touched his forehead.

"I must say," Ollivander murmured, "it is rare—two such different wizards, tied by a wand's core."

The Wand Chooses Hardwin

"Now, Mr. Hardwin Potter," Ollivander said, peering over his half-moon spectacles. "Let's get your measurements."

He took out a tape measure that behaved more like a curious serpent than a strip of fabric. As Ollivander muttered to himself, the tape slithered through the air, measuring not just Hardwin's arm length and shoulder width—but also the distance between his eyes, the space between his nostrils, and the curve of his fingers.

Hardwin stood perfectly still. In fact, he was oddly calm. His heart didn't race like Harry's had. It was something else—a quiet buzz under the skin, like waiting for something he had always known would come.

"Good," Ollivander said absently. "Now we begin."

He handed Hardwin his first wand.

"Beechwood and unicorn hair, nine inches. Give it a wave."

The result was uneventful. The second wand caused a stack of parchment to burst into flames. The third made McGonagall's hat leap off her head.

Hardwin raised an eyebrow.

Ollivander chuckled. "No need to be concerned, Mr. Potter. The wand chooses the wizard, and sometimes it takes… time."

Box after box came down. Mahogany, willow, hornbeam, pine. Dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, phoenix feather.

Each wand was wrong. Some hissed. Some buzzed. One even jumped out of his hand like a frightened frog.

And then—just as Ollivander was turning to the back shelf—Hardwin paused.

A scent drifted through the air.

Warm. Sweet. Earthy.

"Lal chandan?" Hardwin whispered.

Ollivander turned, surprised. "You know the scent?"

"I've smelled it before," Hardwin said softly.

Ollivander tilted his head, then followed Hardwin's gaze.

In the far corner, nearly hidden behind a leaning tower of cobwebbed boxes, sat a long, thin wand box with no label. Ollivander's expression shifted from curiosity to mild reverence.

"I had forgotten about that one," he murmured.

He pulled it down with surprising care and opened it slowly. A faint shimmer of red-gold wood reflected the shop's dim light.

He handed it to Hardwin without a word.

The moment Hardwin's fingers closed around the wand—something shifted.

A gentle warmth, like a fire in a temple. Not a rush of energy, but a deep breath of belonging.

The shop didn't shake. Nothing burst or hissed. But Ollivander stood still for a long time, watching.

"I remember this one," he said at last. "Made decades ago—an experimental design."

He gently closed the lid of the empty box.

"Ten and three-quarter inches, red sandalwood—lal chandan, as you said. A rare wood. Steady, deeply spiritual, and best suited for those with balanced minds. The core..." He paused, watching Hardwin.

"What is it?" asked McGonagall.

"Tail feather of a Featherhorn—a magical herbivorous bird from the North American forests. Almost extinct now. Newt Scamander documented them once. Their magic is not aggressive. Subtle. Protective. Responsive to intuition."

Hardwin blinked. "Why didn't it choose anyone before?"

Ollivander looked at him with a quiet smile.

"Because no one with the right… stillness came along. Most wizards don't appreciate quiet power. But your energy, Mr. Potter—it's grounded. You feel before you speak. You've trained your mind."

Hardwin said nothing.

He didn't feel like a warrior. But he had always believed that stillness could be sharper than sound.

"Is it… powerful?" Harry asked.

Ollivander gave a curious look.

"Powerful is a strange word, Mr. Potter. This wand will not roar like a dragon. It will not dazzle with showy light. But it will defend. It will protect. And in the hands of one who studies, listens, and waits—it may one day perform magic most wands can't begin to attempt."

McGonagall gave Hardwin a rare look of approval.

Hardwin turned the wand in his hand, the red wood catching soft gold light. It felt... ancient. And new. As if the wand had been waiting—not to serve, but to walk alongside.

"May I ask one thing?" Hardwin said suddenly.

"Of course," said Ollivander.

"Can a wand love its wizard?"

Ollivander looked at him for a long moment. Then he answered, quietly,

"No. But it can respect you. And sometimes, that's better."

...