Five pounds was one Galleon, which equalled seventeen Sickles, which in turn equalled twenty-nine Knuts.
Nietzsche looked at the heavy bag of Galleons in his hand. He had never imagined that Watson, whose purse was usually under the strict control of Sherlock and Mary, could exchange so much that even the Goblins refused to trade any more Muggle money.
To Goblins, Muggle currency was worthless, so they imposed limits.
"If you gambled a little less, maybe we could take over the whole of Diagon Alley," Nietzsche muttered resentfully.
"Happiness is priceless, my boy." Watson puffed out his chest, defending his few pleasures in life. "Just as you've punched so many people and I've never complained about the compensation fees."
It almost sounded reasonable.
Hermione's eyes widened beside them.
So that was it. No wonder Nietzsche always found excuses for himself; he must have learnt it at home.
Such a good person, yet already on the wrong path. Hermione's heart ached. She swore she would set Nietzsche straight, and not let him go on breaking rules and justifying it afterwards.
Professor McGonagall led them out of the bank, explaining the school curriculum as they went.
"We'll buy books first, then wands from Ollivander's." She pulled out her own wand, different in style from Snape's. "A wizard's essential, unless you can master wandless magic."
Wandless magic?
It sounded extraordinary, like being able to fire a shot without ever holding the gun.
"Are you referring to a small stick made of cedar wood?"
McGonagall was surprised; she hadn't expected the Muggle to recognise it at a glance.
"Not just cedar. There's also a dragon heartstring inside. I know Muggle factories can mass-produce things, but believe me, every wand is unique. There are only twin wands, never two exactly the same."
"Like there aren't two identical leaves in the world?" Watson interjected with a knowing smile.
The Professor gave him a look of appreciation.
"I grew up in the Muggle world too," she admitted. "Though I've been apart from it for many years, the principle is much the same."
Ollivander's wand shop stood opposite Gringotts, looking more dilapidated than the cauldron and robe shops nearby. The sign above hung precariously, its golden letters flaking.
It read: Ollivanders – Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
"Cough, cough…"
Nietzsche pushed the door open and was immediately hit by a cloud of dust and the sharp scent of incense.
The shop was cramped, with only a long bench in the centre. Hermione examined the wands displayed on purple cushions while the Grangers and the Watsons followed close behind.
Sherlock Holmes, however, had vanished again.
"Your wands are all bought from here?" Nietzsche asked the Professors with a look of pity.
He really couldn't imagine how the wizarding world, so detached from Muggle society, could seem so shabby.
"Nietzsche!" Hermione hissed, twisting the flesh at his side. "Mind your manners. This is why teachers don't speak up for you."
McGonagall only shook her head, glancing at the two with a trace of envy.
Snape, by contrast, dismissed them entirely.
Ah, childhood sweethearts. Fate could be cruel, but at least these two would not suffer as their own generation had.
"Ollivander! We have customers!"
A clatter came from the back room, where countless narrow boxes were stacked high.
The old wandmaker slid down a ladder with surprising agility, carrying a pile of half-sorted wands. When he noticed Snape, however, he gave a faint shiver.
"It's the start of term already," he murmured, then strode towards Hermione. Without preamble, he took her arm. "Which is your dominant hand?"
"Right."
"Try this one. Aspen with river monster spine. The purer the heart, the stronger it becomes."
Hermione felt at once that it suited her. Words like "honest" and "elegant" rang in her ears. But with one flick, the wand blew up a nearby cabinet.
The Grangers recoiled, startled.
Fortunately, Watson was used to such things. He whipped up his trench coat to shield them from the flying splinters.
"No, no, try another."
"Panther fur…"
"Werewolf hair, leaning too close to the Dark Arts. No good for you…"
One after another. Hermione's confidence gave way to embarrassment, then hesitation, and finally numb endurance.
Nietzsche watched, recalling how Ollivander had said the wand chose the wizard, their natures needing to align. It reminded him of fortune-telling or tarot.
Glancing at his watch, he suggested, "Do you have vine wood?"
"Vine wood?" Ollivander waved his wand, and a box soared into his hand. "Vine with dragon heartstring. Suits wizards with a gift for learning."
Miraculously, Hermione's flick this time produced only a strong ripple, no explosions or whirlwinds.
"Perfect!" Ollivander exclaimed, delighted. "How did you know she was suited to vine wood? Wizards who bear it are destined for great things."
"Am I really that sort of person?" Hermione asked in surprise.
"You're only held back by your own conventions."
Hermione immediately took a wary step away from Nietzsche. To her, he looked like a comic-book villain, always scheming to manipulate her.
Of course, Nietzsche had no idea what she was thinking, only that her stare gave him goosebumps.
Her eyes sharpened further.
"Sir, which is your dominant hand?" Ollivander asked him.
"Right."
"Then try this: laurel with thestral hair. Deadly, but honourable, never deceitful."
It sounded like the wand of a gentleman.
But under Watson's approving gaze, Nietzsche failed utterly. He had grown up with Holmes, and open honour was not his strength.
"Pear wood, perhaps?" Ollivander tried again, choosing a wood known for warmth and wisdom.
Nietzsche touched it, and lightning crackled dangerously. A bolt singed Ollivander's scalp and smashed into the ceiling.
Dozens of wands later, and seven rapid repairs to the shop, Nietzsche finally felt something click.
The black walnut wand's grain shimmered beautifully. The moment he grasped it, his arm and the wand seemed to fuse.
"Black walnut, unicorn tail hair, fourteen inches," Ollivander declared, though with some regret. "You'll struggle in Defence Against the Dark Arts, child."
"What do you mean?"
"Unicorn hair is wonderfully steady, but highly resistant to dark magic. It makes for reliable spells, but not great power."
Hermione gave a sigh of relief. The Dark Arts sounded evil enough; at least this odd boy would not stray further into them.
"It's fine," Nietzsche said calmly. "Reliable casting is excellent for Transfiguration."
To McGonagall, that was comforting news. Snape, however, only gave a cold scoff.
"At least Slytherin will not be boasting of new prodigies this year."
But Nietzsche pressed further. "So a wizard can only be powerful by relying on the Dark Arts?"
"Not only. But few can master pure white magic like Headmaster Dumbledore. Duelling magic and battle magic both draw on darker roots, which makes them dominant in combat."
Was a wizard meant to duel by levitating objects?
So without dark magic, one's career was likely in charms research, while work as an Auror or similar would be out of reach.
Nietzsche's mind swarmed with questions, but he decided to seek answers later, at the bookshop.
"Much obliged. Each student's first wand is five Galleons. Do not damage it; after this, replacements cost much more."
As they left the wand shop, Hermione proudly puffed out her chest.
Her wand had a dragon heartstring, the very core of Professor McGonagall's. The heart of a dragon—it sounded powerful.
"It's all right. Unicorns are sweet too."
Nietzsche clenched his teeth and held his tongue.
Fine. Let her be smug for now.
Once he uncovered the principles of magic, he would repay her pride a hundredfold.