Ollivanders' Wand Shop.
After several attempts, Harry had managed to handle the wands with a sort of reluctant grace, yet the results were all equally unimpressive.
The old man watching him wore an expression that flickered between curiosity and unease.
Harry tilted his head, and suddenly, almost unconsciously, a ripple of power emanated from him—his astonishing five points of Charisma bursting outward like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
Boxes rattled and leapt from their shelves, toppling over in a chaotic dance, as if every wand in the shop was desperately vying for his attention.
The old man's famous saying—"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter, not the other way around"—stuck halfway up his throat, lost beneath the weight of Harry's presence.
Harry exhaled and muttered under his breath, half amused, half exasperated, "Honestly, why are you all being so forward today? I can't very well boast about this later if you don't act with a little restraint, ladies."
After an extended and rather theatrical process, the old man finally handed him a wand.
"A remarkable combination—holly, phoenix feather core, eleven inches long," Ollivander announced, the reverence in his tone palpable.
When Harry took it in hand, he felt it immediately. The connection. The weight of destiny humming beneath the polished wood. It didn't look different from the others, yet it carried an invisible gravity—like a sword from legend, heavy with prophecy and story.
Among all the wands, this one resonated with him most deeply. Ollivander couldn't know it, but Harry understood instinctively why: his unnaturally high Charisma didn't just charm people—it warped destiny itself. Like a monarch whose very presence inspired loyalty, his will shaped the connection between himself and the wand.
It fit him perfectly, like a pair of shoes tailor-made by fate itself.
This, he realised, was another power of Charisma. It wasn't just charm or allure—it was discernment. The ability to see the hidden worth in others, in objects, in destiny itself.
He smiled faintly. "At a critical moment, this wand might even be able to bear the Lightbringer's radiance," he thought. "Even if only for a minute or two."
It wasn't a sword, of course, and thus ill-suited as a true vessel. But for brief, desperate moments—two minutes, perhaps—that would be enough. Most wands wouldn't last two seconds under such strain.
Ollivander gently took the wand back, placed it reverently into its slender box, wrapped it in brown paper, and murmured softly to himself, "Curious… curious…"
Harry arched a brow. "What exactly do you find so curious?"
The old man's pale, misted eyes fixed upon him. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Potter. Every single one. The phoenix whose feather rests within this wand—its twin feather resides in another. You are destined to wield this one… and its brother—ah, yes—it was that very wand which gave you your scar."
He paused, studying Harry's expression. "Thirteen and a half inches. Yew wood. Extraordinary. Truly curious. Despite all that's happened, the wand still chooses the wizard. I daresay you are destined for great things, Mr Potter."
Harry merely raised an eyebrow. So, that was the connection.
When he had first touched this wand, he'd felt something stir deep within his scar—a pulse, faint but undeniable. That same ancient force he had long since learned to suppress had stirred, echoing faintly against his soul.
It must be linked to Voldemort. The other magic—the one that had always coiled around his own, opposite in nature yet intimately connected—might well be the reason he had survived the Killing Curse all those years ago.
It seemed that, sooner or later, he would have to understand this magic. It was knowledge worth pursuing—not only to uncover his past but to strengthen himself for what lay ahead.
This summer, he decided, would not be wasted. Besides recovering his strength and robbing banks—a delightful pastime in itself—he would pre-study his first-year curriculum.
Even Hagrid, after all, had managed to master a decent number of everyday spells before his unfortunate expulsion. There was no reason Harry couldn't surpass that.
He paid Ollivander seven Galleons, accepted the wrapped wand, and stepped out of the shop. Ollivander bowed low as the doorbell tinkled behind him.
Hogwarts wouldn't open until September, more than a month away.
Hagrid had already returned to the castle, but Harry had no intention of going back to the Dursleys. They had long since reached a mutual loathing so pure that even the gods might have admired it. Instead, he rented a room upstairs at the Leaky Cauldron.
He didn't have much luggage—one trunk, a few robes, his wand, and a black ritual sword that would certainly not pass Hogwarts' entry rules.
Before he'd left, Hagrid had relayed a message from Dumbledore: the Headmaster wanted Harry to go home, believing him still too young to live alone. Hagrid, bless him, had hesitated to argue—but after seeing Harry's strength and composure firsthand, he had reported honestly that there was no need to worry.
Later, Dumbledore replied, conceding reluctantly, though he requested that Harry "return home" at least once after his first year.
Harry had simply smiled. "We'll see about that."
Meddlesome old man.
Still, he couldn't entirely blame Dumbledore. Ordinary wizarding children likely didn't get such treatment, but Harry wasn't exactly ordinary. After all, he had survived the Killing Curse as a baby. Monitoring him was only to be expected.
Time slipped by quietly as Harry threw himself into study and training.
He devoured meat like a dragon cub, circulating his qi to rebuild his strength. His body grew taut with power. Every motion was a practice, every breath a meditation.
He began to experiment with magic—those same childish charms he had once dismissed. But now, he used them seriously.
"Aguamenti!"
"Incendio!"
"Reparo!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
"Alohomora!"
"Locomotor Mortis!"
And then, his personal favourite—"Lumos!"
He grinned as the soft light bloomed from his wand's tip. "Lumos… Lumos… Lumos."
It wasn't a particularly powerful spell, but there was something deeply satisfying about conjuring light from darkness. Perhaps it was symbolic—the messenger of light wielding literal illumination.
He also discovered some unusual interactions between his charisma and magic.
Take Alohomora, for example—the unlocking charm. For most wizards, it worked only on simple locks. But for Harry, as long as he believed something was a lock, he could open it.
It was bizarre and difficult to explain. He didn't need to hypnotise himself or suspend disbelief—his sheer presence altered the perception of the world around him. Locks believed they were locks because he decided they were. And when he commanded, they opened.
Charisma, he realised, could bend the rules of magic itself.
The Locomotor Mortis jinx worked in a similar way. When he cast it on a person, their legs stiffened, as expected. But when he cast it on a machine… it froze too. Gears halted, engines died, and even enchanted brooms quivered mid-air.
His Charisma didn't just influence people—it influenced existence.
According to the system's notes, Charisma, Divine Power, and Intelligence were all "higher attributes"—superior even to qi and magic power. The latter could transform the body, but the former could transform reality.
Fascinating.
He also began experimenting with potion-making.
At first, it was merely curiosity. But after a few attempts, he discovered he had a real knack for it—perhaps an inherited talent from his parents. Still, talent meant little without practice, and practice required… money.
And money, while plentiful, was locked away.
So, on one particularly stormy night, Harry decided to do something about that.
He broke into several of the upper vaults—those untouched for a century or more—and helped himself to their contents. He was careful, taking only gold coins and cleansing their lingering auras with divine power before pocketing them.
He tried using Alohomora at first, but even with the boost of Charisma, the locks held firm. It wasn't that the spell was wrong—it was that his technique was still crude.
He smirked. "No matter. If Alohomora won't open it… the Mighty King's Open will."
And indeed, divine force triumphed where magic faltered.
In his spare time, he began to study languages. His system's ancient interface had always used strange symbols—once he had assumed them Japanese, but the more he researched, the less certain he became.
After days buried in Muggle libraries, he finally realised the truth.
It wasn't Japanese.
It was Chinese—the script of the ancient Daoists.
Could it be that his entire system had been designed by Daoist immortals from another world?
The idea intrigued him deeply. The notes, cultivation methods, and skill annotations all made far more sense now. Yet there were still countless untranslated passages—cryptic commentaries whose true meanings remained obscured by poor translation or simple ignorance.
If he wanted to understand them properly, he would have to learn the language himself.
And so, to his already formidable schedule, he added a new subject: Chinese.
Hours of tone drills, writing practice, dictionary work—an exhausting, humbling process that tested even his legendary patience.
More than once he found himself muttering, "Damn the Seven Gods… this is much harder than learning magic."
Still, he persisted. Because somewhere within those ancient words, he felt, lay the key to mastering the Lightbringer fully—and perhaps, the secret of his own soul.