"How will we know which wand is right?" Yara asked, eyeing the thousands of boxes stacked to the ceiling with obvious uncertainty.
Ollivander's pale eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement. "You don't choose the wand, Mrs. Acton. The wand chooses the wizard. It's always been that way."
Michael frowned, his rational mind clearly struggling with the concept. "Is it alive, then? The wand?"
"Not alive, precisely," Ollivander said, moving deeper into his shop with a grace that belied his apparent age. "Aware would be more accurate. Each wand is made up of magical wood and contains a core. Dragon heartstring, phoenix feather, unicorn hair. These wand woods and cores give the wand... preferences. Affinities. They recognize their match when they encounter it."
James's parents exchanged a look. They were trying to process a world where objects could have preferences, where choice could be a mutual decision between person and thing.
"Now then," Ollivander said, turning those unsettling pale eyes on James. "Which is your wand arm?"
"Right," James answered.
"Hold it out, please. Like so." Ollivander demonstrated, arm extended, palm up.
James obeyed, and immediately a measuring tape sprang to life in Ollivander's hands. It measured by itself, zipping around James with manic energy. Shoulder to floor, wrist to elbow, shoulder to shoulder, around his head, between his nostrils, the circumference of his waist, and knee to armpit. The tape seemed determined to measure every possible dimension, no matter how absurd.
"That's quite enough," Ollivander said, and the tape fell still, curling itself sadly neatly on the counter.
The wandmaker moved to the shelves, his long fingers trailing across boxes as if reading them by touch. "Let's see... perhaps this one. Nine inches, elm and dragon heartstring. Quite whippy. Give it a try."
He handed James the wand. The moment James's fingers closed around it, the wand grew warm, then uncomfortably hot. He dropped it with a yelp.
"No, no, certainly not." Ollivander snatched it back before it hit the ground. "Perhaps... ah, yes. Ten inches, vine and phoenix feather. Reasonably supple."
This wand was snatched away the moment James touched it. Ollivander's expression soured. "Definitely not."
The process continued. Box after box, wand after wand. Some felt dead in James's hands, lifeless wood with no spark. Others reacted violently; one sent a jet of orange sparks that set a nearby shelf on fire. Ollivander extinguished it with a casual flick of his own wand, looking unbothered.
Another wand shattered the spindly chair in the corner the moment James gave it a tentative wave. Yara gasped. Michael looked increasingly concerned.
"Fascinating," Ollivander murmured, already reaching for another box. "Eleven inches, ash and unicorn hair. Quite flexible."
That one turned the remaining shards of the chair into what looked like thorns before Ollivander snatched it away. "Not quite right."
James noticed the wandmaker was moving deeper into the shop with each attempt, pulling boxes from higher shelves, from places that looked like they hadn't been disturbed in decades. Dust cascaded down as he retrieved box after box, and the pile of rejected wands grew steadily on the counter.
Ten wands. Twenty. Thirty.
"Curious, very curious," Ollivander said, but he didn't sound discouraged. If anything, he seemed more energized, his pale eyes brighter. "Very particular, aren't you?"
"Is this normal?" Michael asked quietly, watching his son try yet another wand that made the windows shatter before being confiscated.
"Every wizard is different," Professor McGonagall said from her position near the door. She was watching the proceedings with interest but not alarm. "Some find their wand in minutes. Others take longer. Mr. Ollivander has never failed to match a wizard with their proper wand."
"Never," Ollivander confirmed, disappearing into the very back of the shop. James could hear him rummaging through boxes, muttering to himself. "Not in sixty-three years of wand-making... ah. Yes. Perhaps this one."
He emerged carrying a box that was older than the others, covered in a thick layer of dust that suggested it had sat undisturbed for decades. The box itself was made of dark wood, almost black, with silver hinges that had tarnished with age.
Ollivander opened it carefully, reverently, and lifted out a wand.
It was beautiful. The wood was stained so dark it was nearly black, with curved line designs carved along its length that looked like flowing water or wind-blown grass. The handle was slightly curved, the grip delicate, almost feminine. It looked like it should belong to an artist or a dancer, not an eleven-year-old boy.
He held it out to James.
James took the wand.
Warmth flooded through him immediately, but not the uncomfortable heat of the earlier wands. This was different; it was like stepping into sunlight after being in shadow for a long time, like coming home after a long journey. Power thrummed through the wood, through his fingers, through his entire body. The wand felt right in a way nothing else ever had, perfectly balanced and weighted, like an extension of his own arm.
The carved designs along its length began to glow faintly, a soft silver light that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The air around James shimmered, and he felt his magic surge forward eagerly, recognizing a partner it had long been waiting for.
"James!" His mother's voice, sharp with alarm.
He turned to look at her, smiling, dizzy with the sensation of rightness flooding through him. "This is the one."
Yara looked scared, her face pale. Michael stood frozen beside her, his eyes wide.
"What's wrong?" James asked, the glow around him beginning to fade.
"You..." Yara swallowed hard. "You suddenly glowed. Your whole body, like you'd been lit from within. Your eyes..." She shook her head, unable to finish the sentence.
"A very powerful surge of magic," Ollivander said, and his voice was filled with recognition. "Very powerful indeed. I've only seen such a reaction a handful of times in all my years."
The wandmaker studied James with those pale, penetrating eyes. James met his gaze steadily, though his heart was pounding. Could Ollivander see his secret? Could he tell that James wasn't really eleven years old?
"Thirteen inches, Elder wood and phoenix tail feather," Ollivander said softly.
" Wands with phoenix feather cores have always been extraordinarily selective about their wizards," Ollivander said, his pale eyes studying James Acton carefully.
"The phoenix is among the most independent of magical creatures, utterly detached from the concerns of others. Because of this, their wands resist bonding, they're very difficult to tame, and they don't give their loyalty easily."
He turned the wand over in his long fingers, examining it as though seeing it for the first time. "As for elder wood... well, it's the rarest of all wand woods, and many consider it cursed. Elder wands are notoriously difficult to master, more so than any other type. They possess tremendous power, yes, but they have no patience for mediocrity. An elder wand will abandon any owner it deems inferior to those around it. Very few wizards can hold onto an elder wand for long. There's an old saying: 'wand of elder, never prosper.' It stems from fear of the wood itself, though the superstition isn't actually true. Some wandmakers won't touch elder at all, but that's more about doubting they'll find buyers than any real danger in working with it. The reality is simpler; only someone truly exceptional will be matched with an elder wand. When it does happen, when that rare pairing occurs..." Ollivander's gaze sharpened.
"I've learned to trust that such a wizard is marked out for a special destiny."
But James simply nodded slowly.
The wand hummed contentedly in his hand. He walked back to his parents, who had paled considerably after listening to Ollivander's rather ominous monologue about his wand.
"James, careful!" Yara reached for him, holding him by the shoulder. "Put that in its box before you hurt yourself."
"A wizard should always keep their wand on them," Ollivander interrupted. "The wand and wizard are partners. They should not be separated unnecessarily."
"Can I put it in my back pocket?" James asked.
"I mean, is there a better way to carry it? So it doesn't break?" He'd been about to ask about wand holsters, but how would an eleven-year-old Muggleborn know such things existed?
Ollivander's expression transformed into something that looked almost like physical pain, as if James had suggested murdering a family member. His face pinched, his pale eyes squinted.
"Break? A wand does not simply break from proper carrying, Mr. Acton. But no, the pocket is... inadequate. There are holsters available at proper leather goods establishments."
"Tredwell's Fine Leatherware will have a selection," Professor McGonagall supplied. "It's just next to Twilfitt and Tatting's."
"Seven Galleons," Ollivander said, and James's father counted out the coins without hesitation.
As they left the shop, James clutched his wand carefully, reluctant to let it go even for a moment. The connection between them felt fragile still, new, like a friendship that needed nurturing. He could feel the magic thrumming through it, patient and powerful.
"That was unsettling," Yara said once they were back on the street. "The way he looked at you, James. Like he was reading your entire life story. And the wand seems a bit unreliable."
"Ollivander has a reputation for being... perceptive," McGonagall said diplomatically. "But he's the finest wandmaker in Britain, possibly the world. If he says that the wand has chosen you, you can trust that it's your perfect match and will serve you well."