Soon, Professor Sprout led Robert Sprout through the archway.
They emerged onto the bustling, magical streets of Diagon Alley, heading straight for Ollivander's Wand Shop.
Even though Robert had seen Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter films during his previous life, the real thing still left him feeling slightly overwhelmed.
He could only conclude—the real Diagon Alley was far more magical than in the movies.
Ollivander's Wand Shop looked as plain and worn-out as he remembered from the films.
But, as expected, anyone entering this shop for the first time wouldn't be paying attention to its dusty windows or crooked sign. Their eyes would be drawn straight to the experience awaiting inside.
As Professor Sprout pushed open the door, the bell above jingled softly, and Ollivander emerged almost immediately from behind the cluttered counter.
He looked surprised.
"Professor Sprout?"
"Are you bringing the first-year students this year? I thought Professor McGonagall was still doing that."
Professor Sprout offered a warm smile before gently nudging Robert forward.
"This is my nephew, Robert Sprout," she introduced proudly. "He was lost in the Muggle world for many years. I've only just found him again. Now I'm here to help him choose a wand."
Ollivander blinked, clearly taken aback.
His gaze shifted to Robert, and a flicker of something softer passed through his expression.
The Sprout family, though never considered a powerful wizarding line, had suffered heavily during the Second Wizarding War.
Now, only Professor Sprout remained.
Yet as the Hufflepuff Head of House and a renowned Herbology Master, her name still carried quiet weight.
News that the Sprout bloodline had another surviving member was significant.
Ollivander's tone turned solemn.
"Then I truly congratulate you, Professor Sprout."
He turned to Robert.
"Child, bearing the Sprout surname is no small thing. I believe you, too, will become a great wizard. Perhaps another Herbology Master in the making?"
Robert merely gave a polite smile.
He couldn't help but wonder if Ollivander said something similar to every new customer.
Still, it made sense.
Wands were expensive.
Even Ron Weasley, in the original story, couldn't afford a new one until his family won a prize from The Daily Prophet.
The wand shop was the first major investment in a young wizard's education—of course Ollivander would add a layer of emotional value.
As Ollivander began measuring Robert's height, arm span, and even the distance between his nostrils, he repeated his timeless phrase: "The wand chooses the wizard."
Robert nodded respectfully, playing the part of the curious young wizard.
Inside, however, he felt little excitement.
He didn't like wands with "personality."
A tool should be reliable, stable, and predictable—not temperamental or quirky.
His thinking was simple: a wand is a tool, not a partner in crime.
Ollivander had Robert try wand after wand.
Each time Robert gave it a wave, the wand fizzled—or worse, did nothing at all.
Ollivander's brows slowly furrowed.
He had seen many young witches and wizards over the years, and though his flowery language was often just showmanship, he could usually tell a child's magical affinity by how their wand reacted.
But Robert?
The results were troubling.
This was nearly the worst reaction he had ever seen.
Maybe not a Squib, but definitely at the very lowest end of magical aptitude.
Robert remained calm.
He wasn't surprised.
He finally spoke up.
"Mr. Ollivander, you say wands choose their masters. But clearly, none of these seem to like me. May I describe my needs instead?"
Ollivander hesitated.
He rarely allowed customers to dictate wand selection—it could tarnish his hard-earned reputation.
But Robert's performance had been so poor that even he was at a loss.
Worse, he feared Professor Sprout might be embarrassed.
So, reluctantly, he nodded.
"Very well, Mr. Robert Sprout," Ollivander said. "It seems you're a rather... selective client. Tell me what you need."
Robert responded without pause.
"I want a wand that's stable, with reliable performance. It needs to be able to handle heavy work. A good temper and a hardworking nature are essential."
Ollivander blinked.
Most children asked for power, flexibility, or something "cool."
This boy was asking for a wand like one might describe a sturdy plow.
Still, it wasn't a difficult request.
After a few minutes, Ollivander returned with a plain, undecorated wand.
It lacked ornamentation and flash.
Just twelve inches, ash wood, and unicorn tail hair—solid and steady.
As soon as Robert grasped the wand and gave it a flick, something shifted.
There were no sparks, no wind, no music in the air—but a subtle feeling of balance settled in his hand.
Ollivander let out a relieved sigh.
"Yes... It seems we've found your match. Twelve inches, ash wood, and unicorn tail hair. Both are remarkably stable materials. In combination, they offer resilience, loyalty, and strength of purpose."
But then, he paused. His eyes narrowed, and his voice grew thoughtful.
"When combined… the wizard who wields such a wand will either be… as ordinary as dust, or—"
He trailed off.
Professor Sprout frowned, concern blooming on her face.
"Or what?"
Ollivander didn't answer.
He simply looked away, as if unwilling to finish the thought.
A short while later, Professor Sprout and Robert stepped out of the wand shop.
Behind them, Ollivander's voice called out:
"Professor Sprout, Mr. Robert Sprout… the wand is free."
Robert chuckled.
"Aunt, don't look so serious. You got a free wand. You should be happy."
Professor Sprout gave him a look of exasperation.
"To be able to smile after something like that, I don't know whether to scold you or admire you."
Then she muttered through clenched teeth:
"What does he mean, either as ordinary as dust, or as brilliant as a morning star?"
"And that a hundred million grains of dust may not give birth to a single star?"
"That Ollivander! I should throw a whole basket of Biting Cabbage into his shop!"
She seemed worried that Robert's dreams might have been shattered.
But he looked entirely unbothered.
"Aunt, if Ollivander could really predict the future, he'd be a Prophet, not a wandmaker."
His logic made Professor Sprout smile for real.
"Alright, let's not dwell on it. Since you've got your wand, I'll take you around Diagon Alley. There's a fantastic ice cream shop…"
Robert cut her off, checking his watch with a furrowed brow.
"No time."
"No time?" she echoed.
He nodded seriously.
"I have important work to do."
"What kind of work?"
Robert looked her dead in the eye.
"Farming."
"I still have three acres of cotton to plant today."
"I've already made a plan, and I intend to stick to it."
And with that, a bewildered Professor Sprout was half-dragged through the streets of Diagon Alley by her determined nephew.
She stared at the back of his head, stunned by his seriousness, and then…
She smiled.
Maybe the others were right—maybe he was ordinary.
Maybe his magical aptitude was weak.
But so what?
She had heard all those words before too.
"Mediocre."
"Unremarkable."
"Lacking talent."
And yet here she was—Hufflepuff's Head, a master of Herbology, and one of the most respected witches in her field.
Sometimes, the strongest gifts weren't magical at all.
They were passion, perseverance, and the willingness to work hard no matter what.
She whispered to herself:
"As ordinary as dust, or as brilliant as a morning star…"
"Just wait and see."
"Robert Sprout… he will be the brightest star."
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