"Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
Ian stood at the shop's entrance, his heart full of indescribable excitement.
"If you space out like this while brewing potions, Merlin himself would have to give you his undivided protection just to keep you from blowing yourself to pieces."
Snape's snide remarks were never early, but they were never absent either. Seeing Ian lost in thought, he sneered in his usual sarcastic tone.
"I was just thinking about something interesting, Professor," Ian replied with a sheepish smile.
"It seems Mister Prince shares a brain no different from those troll-brained Hufflepuffs," Snape snorted, tossing another jab his way.
Then, without another word, he pulled out his coin pouch and threw seven shining Galleons into Ian's hands.
"Take your money and go buy your wand. I'll wait here," Snape said, clearly unwilling to step inside, leaving Ian to handle the purchase alone.
Unlike replacement wands for other wizards, the price for a first-year student's wand at Hogwarts was always the same—a number loaded with significance in the magical world.
"You're not coming in with me, Professor?" Ian asked, eyes clear and full of curiosity.
"Are you an overgrown infant?" Snape shot back with a mocking sidelong glance.
"…Alright then," Ian muttered, accepting the Galleons and taking a deep breath as he reached for the door—the very door that, both in the original books and countless fanfics, marked the beginning of a magical journey.
Ding-a-ling!
A small brass bell attached to the door chimed crisply as he entered, announcing his arrival to the shopkeeper inside.
The shop was small and cramped, its modest appearance a stark contrast to the legendary status it held in the hearts of many Potterheads. Thousands of wands were stacked on cheap wooden shelves, the store so plain and unremarkable that it was hard to believe this was where every wizard's journey began.
"Good afternoon… a rather special face," came a hoarse voice from the shadows.
The speaker was a hunched old man with wild, thinning white hair, but his sharp, gleaming eyes made him hard to ignore.
"Hello, sir," Ian greeted him a little stiffly, eyes drawn to the countless unique wands lining the shelves.
"Yes, yes, another new Hogwarts student… Are you here on your own?" Ollivander asked, eyeing Ian up and down.
"A Hogwarts professor brought me here. Is there something wrong with that?" Ian answered honestly.
"Of course not. I just… chalk it up to an old man's confusion," Ollivander said with a chuckle, casting a brief glance toward the window.
"I should've known—he's the only one who would bring you. Hmm… birch wood, phoenix feather… I remember it as if it were yesterday," he murmured to himself.
Was he predicting Snape's wand?
If Ian remembered correctly, that was indeed what Snape's wand was made of. This old wandmaker really was something.
"Do you have the gift of prophecy?" Ian asked boldly, taking advantage of his young age and presumed innocence.
"It's just experience, just a sense, child," Ollivander replied warmly, picking up a measuring tape and beginning to size Ian up—his height, arm span, and more.
"Every wand chooses the wizard—that's what makes them so magical…" he said, launching into his usual speech while measuring Ian, then asked the age-old question: "Mister Prince, which hand do you favor?"
So there was something to this!
Ian hadn't even introduced himself, yet Ollivander had called him by name.
"You know my name?" Ian asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
"That's not a question I should answer, Mister Prince. I only sell wands," Ollivander replied with a chuckle.
"I'm left-handed," Ian said, giving a slightly helpless answer.
"A rare preference," Ollivander noted, putting away the measuring tape and walking toward the shelves of wands.
"Many believe it's the wizard who chooses the wand, but in truth, it's the wand that chooses the wizard. A humble attitude is a quality every witch or wizard should have."
Back to the sales pitch.
"Do you tell this to every kid who walks in?" Ian asked, beginning to feel a strong sense of déjà vu.
It felt exactly like the scene from the original story… or from the countless fanfics that had copied it to death.
"Rude child. I'm merely offering you the correct perspective," Ollivander huffed. "Since when is sharing wisdom considered brainwashing?"
Without waiting for a response, he pulled a wand from the shelf and handed it to Ian.
"Rosewood, dragon heartstring—"
But before Ian could even lift it, Ollivander suddenly yanked it back. The strength of the pull was hard to believe, especially coming from a man well into his eighties.
"No, no, let's try this one—birch, 17 inches, from—" Again, he snatched it back mid-sentence.
"This isn't right either."
Back to the shelf he went.
"Ebony, 10 inches, dragon heartstring."
"Cedar, 12 inches, thunderbird feather."
"No, no… maybe this one—fir, 15 inches, phoenix tail feather."
"You're quite the picky customer. Let's try this special combination—mimosa wood, 14 inches, veela hair."
…
It had to be said.
The process of choosing a wand was far more exhausting than Ian had expected.
He didn't know if all young wizards went through such a grueling selection process, but by the time his arm had gone numb from holding out wands, he finally gave in.
"Maybe I should try one of the wands made by your grandfather—or even your grandfather's grandfather?" he suggested, leaning on his years of reading fanfiction to offer a well-worn solution.
"Ah, you like old things, do you?" Ollivander looked at him in genuine confusion.
"Mm-hmm, that's right. That's exactly the kind of person I am," Ian nodded seriously. He was truly getting fed up with the endless trial and error. Maybe this was the only way out.
After all, many fanfic protagonists ended up with a wand made by Ollivander's grandfather. Maybe he shared that same special trait?
"Mister Prince, I'm afraid not. Every generation of Ollivanders only sells wands of their own making. It's a matter of pride—and respect for our predecessors."
There went that hope.
Ian couldn't help but pull a bitter face as he resumed trying the endless supply of wands. It was a dull, thankless process. To Ollivander, it seemed none of them suited him.
After dozens more attempts—
"How rare," Ollivander murmured.
"I've never had a customer quite this difficult."
"Perhaps… you possess some rare quality."
While Ian's face was full of fatigue, Ollivander's was practically glowing. The harder it became to find a match, the brighter the old man's eyes gleamed.
"A young wizard with a taste for old things… maybe, just maybe—you should try that wand," he said suddenly, rushing off toward the back of the shop.
Moments later, he returned holding a dust-covered box with both hands.
"Is that your grandfather's wand?" Ian asked instinctively.
"No, this is my own work. An ambitious piece from my younger years… I read a tale from one of those old wizarding legends, and something in me refused to believe it couldn't be done."
"You may not know the story of the Elder Wand… but this was my attempt to craft something that could rival that legendary wand. A youthful and foolish endeavor," Ollivander said, his gaze distant, lost in memory.
"I failed again and again. By the last attempt, I'd grown numb to failure. Maybe elder wood and a symbol of purity simply weren't meant to go together."
"I started to doubt my own convictions… But perhaps, by Merlin's grace, on my final try—on a stormy night—I thought I'd fail like always…"
"1980. Yes. July seventh… That lightning strike—I don't know if it succeeded. I've never found a suitable wizard for it… until now."
His eyes burned with excitement as he looked at Ian.
"I have a feeling—you're the one it's been waiting for," Ollivander said with an almost reverent tone, his gaze brimming with hope and anticipation.
"Try it."
He handed the wand to Ian.
"July seventh… that date…" Ian muttered with a strange expression as he reached out and accepted the wand.
And the moment the wand touched his palm—
It was like something clicked into place.
The feeling of unity was indescribable. Words failed to capture it. Magic surged through his body, flowing clearly and powerfully into the wand.
Whoosh—
Silver-white threads of energy burst from the wand's tip, swirling like mist, filling the entire shop in the blink of an eye. Illusions danced within the haze—shifting, glimmering, almost alive.
Silhouettes flickered.
Beasts seemed to roar.
"It actually worked! It actually worked!"
"This is… this is a fated miracle!"
Ollivander's voice echoed through the small, shabby shop—full of awe, reverence, and uncontainable joy.
(End of Chapter)