Chapter 13: The Fateful Choice!

Ollivanders Wand Shop, renowned for crafting exquisite wands since the year 382 A.D.

Ian stood at the shop’s entrance, his heart swelling with an indescribable excitement.

“If you get distracted like this while brewing potions, I fear only Merlin’s wholehearted blessing could save you from exploding into the air,” Severus Snape’s sharp tongue, always late but never absent, sneered, mocking Ian’s wandering thoughts with his characteristic sarcastic tone.

“Professor, I was merely thinking about something interesting,” Ian replied with an awkward smile.

“Seems Mr. Prince has a brain as dense as a troll’s, just like those foolish Hufflepuffs,” Snape sneered again.

Then, from his pouch, he pulled out seven shiny Galleons and tossed them to Ian.

“Take your money and buy your wand. I’ll wait here,” Snape said, as if reluctant to enter, leaving Ian to purchase the wand alone.

Compared to the usual expenses for changing wands, the price for a Hogwarts first-year’s wand was very fixed—a number of profound significance in the magical world.

“Professor, aren’t you coming with me?” Ian’s clear eyes looked at Snape.

“Are you a giant baby?” Snape retorted with a sarcastic sideways glance.

“Alright then…” Ian took the Galleons from Snape, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door that, in both the original story and countless fanfictions, symbolized the beginning of a dream’s journey.

*Ding dong~*

The door was linked to a crisp copper bell that rang unmistakably as Ian entered, alerting the shopkeeper to the arrival of a customer.

The shop was not large; its space was cramped and narrow. The simplicity of the storefront was far from matching the revered status it held in the hearts of many Hogwarts scholars.

Thousands of wands were piled on cheap shelves, and no one could imagine this humble place was the starting point for every wizard’s journey. The plain and unremarkable shop looked extremely modest.

“Good afternoon, a… special face,” came the voice of an elderly, hunched man. Though his hair was a tangled mass of white, his piercing eyes were impossible to overlook.

“Hello, sir.” Ian greeted the shopkeeper—the current Ollivander wandmaker—with slight awkwardness, his gaze lingering on the diverse collection of wands.

“Yes, yes, another new school year, a young wizard of Hogwarts… Did you come alone?” Ollivander surveyed the small figure before him.

“A Hogwarts professor brought me. Is there a problem?” Ian answered honestly.

“None at all. Just… consider it an old man’s forgetfulness,” Ollivander chuckled lightly, glancing out the window.

“I should have known. Only he would bring you here. Hmm, birch wood, phoenix feather core—I remember as if it were yesterday,” Ollivander muttered mysteriously.

Was this a prophecy about Snape?

If Ian remembered correctly, this Death Eater professor’s wand was indeed made of birch wood—who would have thought this wand seller was a seasoned seer?

“Do you have prophetic abilities?” Ian, relying on his youth, asked bluntly.

“It’s just experience, a kind of intuition, child,” Ollivander replied cheerfully, grabbing a measuring tape and beginning to measure Ian’s height and arm span.

“Every wand chooses the most suitable owner; this is the wand’s most wondrous trait…” Ollivander began his usual indoctrination while taking Ian’s measurements and, not forgetting the age-old question, asked, “Mr. Prince, which hand do you prefer to use?”

There it was!

Ian had yet to introduce himself, and Ollivander already called him by his surname!

“Do you know my name?” Ian asked, curious.

“That’s not a question I’m required to answer, Mr. Prince. I only sell my wands,” Ollivander replied with a chuckle.

“Left hand. I’m left-handed,” Ian answered Ollivander’s initial question somewhat resignedly.

“That is indeed a rare habit,” Ollivander remarked, putting away the tape and moving toward the wand display.

“Many believe wizards choose their wands, but in truth, the wand chooses its master. Humility is a virtue every wizard should possess,” Ollivander began his familiar lecture.

“Uh, do you give this speech to every young wizard?” Ian felt a strong sense of déjà vu at that moment.

Just like in the original story.

Just like the cliché scenes in fanfictions.

“Impolite child, I’m merely teaching you the right perspective… How can a businessman’s work be called indoctrination?” Ollivander shot Ian a displeased glance.

Then, he selected a wand from the shelf and handed it to Ian.

“Purpleheart wood, dragon heartstring…”

Almost as soon as Ian took the wand, Ollivander snatched it back abruptly—a force hard to imagine from such an elderly man.

“No, no, try this one, birch wood, seventeen inches, from—” Ollivander seized the wand before even finishing his introduction.

“This one’s not right either.”

Ollivander rummaged through the shelves again.

“Ebony wood, ten inches, dragon heartstring.”

“Cedar wood, twelve inches, Thunderbird feather.”

“No, no, perhaps this one: fir wood, fifteen inches, phoenix tail feather.”

“Such a picky customer. Then try this special combination: acacia wood, fourteen inches, veela hair.”

...

Ian had to admit.

The process of choosing a wand was far more complicated than he had anticipated.

He wondered if every first-year wizard endured such a grueling selection.

After his arm grew numb from holding out his hand so many times, Ian finally couldn’t help but speak.

“Sir, maybe I should try a wand made by your grandfather or even his grandfather?” Ian offered a suggestion based on his years of being a bookworm.

However,

“Do you like antiques, child?” Ollivander looked at Ian with puzzled eyes.

“Yes, yes, I am that kind of person,” Ian tried to make his gaze appear earnest. He truly found the process of testing so many wands exhausting, and perhaps this was the only solution.

After all,

many protagonists in fanfictions ended up with wands made by Ollivander’s grandfather. Maybe he shared the same qualities as those time-traveling predecessors?

“Mr. Prince, I’m sorry, but each generation of Ollivanders sells only the wands they themselves craft. It is a matter of pride and respect for our ancestors,” Ollivander’s response shattered Ian’s hopes.

Ian couldn’t help but make a sour face.

He reluctantly continued trying the various wands Ollivander handed him. It was a tedious process; almost every wand seemed unsuitable to Ollivander’s eyes.

After testing dozens more,

“Truly rare.”

“I’ve never seen such a picky customer.”

“Perhaps… you possess some rare qualities.”

Ollivander’s expression was the exact opposite of Ian’s. The more difficult it was to find a matching wand, the brighter Ollivander’s cloudy eyes became.

“A young wizard who likes old things. Maybe, just maybe, you should try that wand,” Ollivander said, as if recalling something, and hurried to his back room.

Moments later,

he emerged holding a dusty box.

“Is this your grandfather’s wand?” Ian couldn’t help but ask.

“No, this is my work. One of my early, arrogant creations… I read that fairy tale and felt a surge of defiance,” Ollivander said.

“You may not know the legend of the Elder Wand. This was my naïve and ignorant attempt to craft a wand rivaling that legendary artifact.”

His eyes and expression were filled with nostalgia.

“I failed many, many times. By the last attempt, I had grown numb to failure. Perhaps elder wood and a core symbolizing virtue can never truly match?”

“I wavered in my belief, but perhaps with Merlin’s aid, on a stormy day, I thought I would fail as usual.”

“1980, yes, July 7th… that lightning strike—I don’t know if it succeeded. I have been unable to find the right wizard for it all these years.”

Ollivander looked at Ian with burning anticipation.

“I have a feeling you are the wizard it has been waiting for,” Ollivander said, using an oddly formal tone, his eyes filled with an almost fervent hope.

“Try it.”

Ollivander handed over the wand.

“Uh... July 7th... that date...” Ian took the wand with a peculiar expression.

Almost the moment the wand touched his palm,

he felt as if he and the wand became one. No eloquent words could describe the sensation; a surging magical power flowed clearly into the wand.

“Whoosh~”

Silver-white threads erupted from the tip, swirling and drifting like mist, filling the entire shop in an instant. Countless ethereal, dreamlike images danced within the fog.

Figures shimmered.

Beasts roared.

“It really works! It really does!”

“This is truly… a destined miracle!”

Ollivander’s exclamations echoed throughout the humble shop,

imbued with a kind of reverent fervor.