After reading through the mission objectives, another stream of information automatically surfaced in Orsaga's mind.
It outlined the steps required for enrolling at Hogwarts, noted that his body had been reduced to childhood, and emphasized one key rule:
For the first 60 days, Purgators are strictly forbidden from using any items originating outside this world.
After all, many rookies love to rely on firearms, often bringing in massive firepower. But this was a world of magic, not a place for ratatat–boom boom tactics.
Using a sniper rifle to headshot Quirrell from afar, or planting explosives in the teachers' dormitory to blow up a not-yet-resurrected Voldemort.
That kind of plan would not work, at least not in the early stages.
Unless you somehow got your hands on this world's own weapons or crafted them using local materials, such tactics were off-limits.
And if you could manage that—well, then that would be a testament to your own skills.
Of course, none of this mattered to Orsaga.
Even without activating Aeon, he could happily coast through this world with ease.
At the moment, he was more concerned with one thing:
His appearance.
---
Not long after, he found a mirror.
Staring at the reflection of his youthful silver-haired self, Orsaga nodded with great satisfaction and couldn't help but praise himself:
"Damn… my childhood form is adorably lethal! So cute it makes people want to strangle me!"
He even struck a few poses in front of the mirror.
"Looking sharp. Absolutely flawless."
Satisfied, he began strolling leisurely toward several locations embedded in his memory.
According to the knowledge provided by the Matrix Purgatory, every new Hogwarts student needed to purchase a pet, robes, a wand, schoolbooks, and other essential supplies.
The Matrix Purgatory had even provided them with several hundred Galleons as starter funds—more than enough to sustain them for their 90-day stay.
It was a bit like a video game giving you a wooden sword and two health potions at the beginning.
---
Diagon Alley –
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Looking up at the slightly faded gold-lettered sign on the door, Orsaga read the inscription before pushing the door open without hesitation.
"Hey, shopkeeper! Get me a wand!" he called out bluntly.
"Coming, coming…"
An impatient voice rang out before a disheveled white-haired old man hurried into view.
The moment Ollivander laid eyes on Orsaga, he froze slightly.
In his entire life, he had never seen such a handsome child.
"Good heavens—silver hair? Could he be part Veela? Or part Elf? Either way, a wand-wielding prodigy!"
With his previous annoyance instantly replaced by intrigue, Ollivander's mood visibly brightened.
He smiled warmly.
"So, young one, you're here for your first wand, yes?"
"Exactly." Orsaga replied coolly, unfazed by being called "young one."
After all, he was over 200 years old. It was only natural for him to be this adorably refined.
Ollivander nodded.
"Judging from the timing, you must be a new Hogwarts student?"
"That's right."
"Any preferences? Do you favor water, fire, wind...?"
He decided to tailor his search based on affinities.
"Fire sounds good."
As a mutated Flame Demon, fire was obviously his element—well, that and viruses.
Ollivander's eyes lit up.
"Very well. Let me find something for you..."
He began searching among the shelves.
About ten seconds later, he retrieved a wand and handed it over.
"Yew wood shaft, core made from the skull of a Fireball Dragon, and a tail cap crafted from Thunderbird feathers."
"This is an exceptional wand—especially effective when casting fire and lightning-based spells. Truly, it's one of my finest works."
Ollivander couldn't hide the pride in his voice. Despite crafting countless wands over the years, this one stood among his best.
---
A few seconds later…
Seeing the wand just sitting idly in Orsaga's hand with no reaction, Ollivander furrowed his brow.
"Try giving it a wave."
Unconcerned, Orsaga gave it a casual flick.
Still, no response.
Scratching his head, Ollivander grew puzzled.
Normally, even beginner witches and wizards would elicit some kind of magical feedback when holding a wand for the first time—an involuntary pulse from their still-untamed magic.
That was how Ollivander typically judged wand compatibility.
But this time, with no reaction at all, he couldn't quite make sense of it.
He muttered,
"Hmm, perhaps this wand doesn't suit you. Let me get you another one."
He reached out, intending to take the wand back and search again.
To his surprise, Orsaga refused outright.
"No need. This one's just fine."
Ollivander frowned.
"Child, if the wand doesn't react to you, it'll be difficult to use—and possibly dangerous."
"No reaction? Who cares about that?" Orsaga replied indifferently.
"As long as it suits my magical properties, that's enough."
Ollivander paused.
"You can sense your own magical properties?"
Magic, like people, varied from individual to individual. Differences in magical nature affected how spells manifested.
Ordinary first-years barely had any control over their magic, let alone awareness of its deeper traits. This innate, soul-deep force wasn't something easily mastered.
That was why Ollivander was so stunned.
The job of matching wand to wizard was typically his responsibility, based on those initial reactions when holding a wand.
Only wandmakers like him understood which materials resonated with which magical properties.
Yet Orsaga...
---
"Isn't sensing one's own magic and controlling it... normal?"
Orsaga asked, slightly confused.
"It's like moving your own arms or legs. Just basic instinct, right?"
Ollivander fell silent.
Then, curiously asked,
"...So, you're saying you can already control your magical power with precision?"
If that were true, then the wand's lack of reaction would make sense.
Controlled magic didn't flare up instinctively.
"Of course." Orsaga said confidently.
"A wizard who can't even manage his own magic is a joke."
"..."
Still skeptical, Ollivander cautiously asked:
"Then could you channel some magic into that wand for me? Just to confirm?"
"Sure, why not." Orsaga nodded casually.
As he began infusing magic into the wand, the shop suddenly lit up—
Blinding crimson flames and crackling thunder erupted inside the store, lightning arcing across the walls.
---
Half an hour later...
A slightly nervous Harry Potter stepped into the now half-destroyed Ollivanders Wand Shop.
Looking around at the mess, he approached the white-haired old man slumped over the counter and asked tentatively:
"Excuse me… may I buy a wand?"
Ollivander, eyes still recovering, couldn't yet see clearly or tell that this newcomer was Harry Potter himself.
But he replied cheerfully:
"Of course, of course! But you'll have to wait a few minutes."
"I just witnessed something incredible and… well, my eyes got a little scorched."
"Even after applying potion, I need a bit of time to recover."
Harry breathed a small sigh of relief and nodded.
"No problem. I'll wait right here."
_____
T/N:
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