Chapter 19: Gringotts and the Wand Shop
Diagon Alley could almost be called the financial center of the British Wizarding World, as the one and only magical bank in all of Britain, Gringotts, was located here.
But Diagon Alley was far from glamorous, a conclusion for which The Leaky Cauldron, its entrance, provided ample evidence.
The entire financial model of the Wizarding World was crude and barbaric, its framework riddled with loopholes. Any university student who had systematically studied finance could find a loophole in this network and make a fortune from it.
But crude did not mean unsuitable. An imperfect system not only meant there were loopholes to exploit, but also that the countermeasures were nearly limitless—William had seen a whole host of white-collar criminals in Azkaban, every one of them a self-proclaimed expert who thought they had discovered a systemic loophole.
Outsmarting the system? Not a chance.
Because the financial laws were imperfect, the length of one's sentence upon capture was determined entirely by whim. Daring to fleece the Ministry of Magic itself? Did they really think Azkaban was built just for show?
William remembered very clearly that in the felon's section of the prison, there was a guy who used Arithmancy to successfully predict a major upheaval in the Far East. He then swindled a huge amount of money from Muggles in the Muggle world. When this fellow was about to exchange the money for gold at Gringotts, the Ministry of Magic directly confiscated all of his property under a series of charges, including violating the Statute of Secrecy and disrupting financial order, and sent him to Azkaban for twenty years as a lesson to others.
Imperfect laws were the Ministry of Magic's greatest source of power. If everything was clearly regulated, how would the Ministry compete with the Pure-blood families?
But William was in no mood to complain right now. He was merely gazing at the main door of Gringotts, reminded of the prisoners in Azkaban. The extent of the Ministry of Magic's power was not something he could interfere with. After spending so long in Azkaban, grand ambitions like uniting the Ministry of Magic in a year or reforming the Wizarding World in two were long gone. Although he still held ambitions for the future, he could never be that delusional.
"If I remember correctly, I have less than thirty Galleons saved in the bank. But more importantly, there's that custom-made set of implements for brewing potions. While getting a new set wouldn't cost more than twenty Galleons, having one custom-made takes far too much time, and besides, I don't have that much money."
Unfortunately, it seemed to be payday for many, and a long queue had formed at Gringotts. Wizards lined up, clutching small pouches of gold, chatting about everything under the sun in front of the bank.
To make matters worse, the goblins showed no intention of speeding up their work despite the heavy traffic. There were only a few goblins guiding people to their personal underground vaults, and even though the line for the carts leading underground was packed, the bank made no move to dispatch more staff.
After queuing for a long time without seeing the line shorten, William simply gave up on his plan to retrieve the items he had previously stored in his Gringotts vault and headed straight for his second destination—Ollivander's Wand Shop.
Gringotts vaults were more aptly called security vaults. Before his imprisonment, when William was preparing for a smuggling operation, he had simply stuffed all his important belongings inside. But with Gringotts so busy, he decided he might as well go to the wand shop to find out what was wrong with his disobedient wand.
After a good deal of searching along the street, William finally found the shabby little shop after passing it twice. The sign by the doorway had faded, and on his first two passes, William had assumed the shop was closed for good. It was only after patiently examining the sign that he confirmed it was his destination.
"Ollivander's—Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
A thousand-year-old shop, the kind that came with a guarantee of quality.
William quipped internally before pushing open the shop door.
The shop wasn't spacious, not at all befitting its thousand-year-old sign. However, apart from a single chair, there was no other furniture, so it didn't feel too cramped.
His eyes were met with stacks upon stacks of boxes, piled all the way to the ceiling. Against this backdrop of ceiling-high boxes, an old man was hunched over, busy with something. At his side, an empty box, identical to those in the background, lay open.
"A new customer?" the man asked, lifting his head. His voice was gentle.
He glanced at William's pocket, which almost made William instinctively cover his wallet—he had known plenty of pickpockets in Azkaban. Nine-Fingers had been in that line of work; he got his nickname because he was always in a nine-fingered state after having one chopped off and before drinking a potion to restore it.
But the man's gaze wasn't on William's money pouch. It was fixed on the half-exposed wand in William's pocket.
"Oh, it's that one. Sold eight years ago. Twelve inches, red willow wood, quite powerful when waved. It's rare for a Young Wizard to get their own wand at the age of nine. This isn't Japan (Note 1), after all. You're William, is that right?"
"Yes, that's me."
William was astonished. The old man could still recall a sale from eight years ago just by looking at the wand—such an extraordinary memory was a stretch to explain even with magic. It was a miracle that a mind holding such a vast library of memories didn't just wipe itself clean every year.
"Is there a problem with it?"
"I believe so. I don't know why, but ever since I left Azkaban, it's become resistant."
William was honest, making no attempt to hide anything. He was genuinely afraid this walking data storage unit might discover something from the wand. Although the Azkaban story sounded a bit far-fetched, it was an excuse nonetheless.
"Azkaban, you say?"
Ollivander drew William's wand out, stroking it and carefully wiping off the fingerprints and sweat. Then, he regretfully handed the wand back to William.
"Normally, a Wizard's wand stays with its master for life, unless its master undergoes a profound change of will."
"Put it away safely, William. You no longer need it to give you courage. A new wand will accompany you on your journey forward as a companion."
William followed Ollivander's instructions without any hesitation. For a master wandmaker who could identify a master from a wand sold eight years ago, even the most cryptic words were worth heeding. He could probably glance at any wand in this room and recall its entire history, from creation to storage.
Such skill was practically a form of magic in its own right; a swindler couldn't possibly have this level of ability.
With this thought, William asked about the price of an empty box and spent three Sickles on one. He wiped the disobedient wand clean one last time, carefully placed it inside, secured it, and then put the box away.
Such a work of art deserved that much respect. Even though William didn't have a clue what his new wand would be, he was already certain of one thing: whether it was strong or weak, it would be the one most suited for him.
(end of chapter)