"What was that? It looked like… a coin."
Maka rolled the object between his fingers, silently replaying the eerie blue glimmer he'd glimpsed earlier. He put aside his impulse to leave for the moment and reached into another large basket beside the shelf, pulling out a piece of battered wood.
Putting on an air of casual curiosity, he asked a question or two. After listening to the short wizard's vague, half-true explanation, he feigned interest and asked the price.
"Ten Galleons! It has to be ten—absolutely ten! It's worth it. Look how rare it is—"
Seeing the man was about to launch into a full performance, Maka lifted a hand to cut him off and named his counteroffer without hesitation.
"Three Galleons. As far as I know, that's what it's worth."
His tone was firm—so firm it sounded as if he knew the "true value" of this so-called Herpo's Coffin down to the Knut.
"No! Impossible! Eight—eight at the very least! You have to understand, back in the day that infamous Dark wizard—the despicable Herpo—buried himself—"
Before he could finish, Maka interrupted again.
"Four Galleons. Not a single Knut more."
The short wizard faltered, stuck somewhere between protest and surrender.
At that exact moment, Maka let out a deliberately irritated grunt. With exaggerated carelessness, he reached into the narrow gap between the shelves and picked something out, then raised it up as if it were nothing at all.
"Fine," he snapped loudly. "Throw this in. Both together—eight Galleons. Otherwise I'm not buying either."
He slapped eight Galleons onto the counter and widened his eyes, staring the short wizard down.
The man went silent.
He glanced at the thing in Maka's palm, then at the eight coins on the counter—his face pulled into something that looked almost wronged.
It was an old coin—heavy for its size, grimy and dull, with nothing especially remarkable about it.
"Alright, alright," the shopkeeper muttered in helpless defeat, voice low. "Consider it a gift. Eight Galleons, then."
He swept the coins into a locked drawer with a resigned sigh.
…
Outside on the street, Maka was in an excellent mood. He turned the ancient coin over and over in his hand, pleased with himself, so smug he almost felt as if the narrow, shadowy lane had brightened.
Naturally, he didn't get to see what was happening back inside Melo Curiosities—where the short wizard was wearing the very same satisfied smile.
"Arrogance is humanity's most precious wealth," the man murmured in rapture, patting the drawer where the money sat. It answered with a bright clatter of coin. "It brings profit to Melo."
The "ancient coin" in Maka's hand had, of course, been enchanted by the shopkeeper.
In truth, it was nothing more than a dirty cast-iron token.
Leaving aside the petty tricks of a crooked merchant, Maka—perfectly content—judged that the timing was about right. He turned and headed back the way he'd come.
"Hm?"
At the intersection, his eyes caught a tall figure emerging from the doors of Gringotts.
"A half-giant… Hagrid?" Maka muttered under his breath, already walking that way.
When he pushed through the crowded street, he immediately spotted the small figure beside Hagrid.
"Oh!" Maka said, deliberately giving the boy an exaggerated once-over. "Could you be the famous… Mr. Harry Potter?"
Harry hadn't even managed to react before the people around them surged in.
"Oh my God—it's Harry Potter!"
"Really? Oh—!"
"No way! I feel like I'm dreaming!"
The crowd erupted into excited chatter. A few shoved forward as if they'd spotted some rare magical creature in the wild.
Maka took one look around, grabbed Harry by the sleeve, and bolted—calling for Hagrid to follow. They dove into a nearby junk shop, and only once they were inside did both boys finally breathe again.
"Ah—sorry," Maka said, looking genuinely embarrassed. "I didn't think they'd react like that."
"It's alright," Harry said, shaking his head. He looked at Maka—who seemed about his age—and frowned slightly. "But… why? This is the second time it's happened. Am I really that famous?"
Maka glanced at Hagrid, as if understanding something, and nodded slowly.
"Um… I'm sorry, but I don't think that's something I should be the one to explain," he said, scratching his head—mostly because he couldn't be bothered to go into it.
Harry opened his mouth, clearly about to press for answers, when Hagrid leaned in.
"Alright, alright! Since we're here, why don't we go get yeh a wand first?" Hagrid boomed cheerfully, then patted Maka's shoulder. "You too! Come along—er…"
"Maka," Maka supplied with a nod. "Maka McLean."
"Oh, right—Mr. McLean," Hagrid said, nodding back.
"No—just Maka is fine," Maka replied easily.
As he spoke, his hand landed—unfortunately—much lower than intended.
Right on Hagrid's backside.
Maka froze. A hot wave of embarrassment hit him so hard it nearly knocked him over.
"Good heavens, you're tall!" he blurted in a deliberately high, dramatic voice, trying to smother the awkwardness by sheer absurdity.
Hagrid's smile turned a bit stiff, but he didn't say anything.
Only then did Maka realize what he'd done. Hagrid probably did care about his bloodline. Or rather—given Hagrid's nature—he cared less about it himself than about what children thought of him.
Maka quickly pulled his hand back—shoulder, backside, he no longer cared—and forced an easy grin.
"Back in Gringotts," he said lightly, "a goblin told me the same thing."
"Hah!" Hagrid laughed, the tension easing. "At your age, yeh're not much taller than a goblin!"
Harry watched the two of them with a confused expression. He didn't understand what they were talking about—only that the atmosphere had gotten strange for a second, and then somehow normal again.
"Come on," Hagrid said, clapping his hands. "Let's go! Ollivanders is right across the way—an' there you'll get the best wand there is."
Yes—a wand.
The thing both Maka and Harry had dreamed of.
Ollivanders was a small shop that looked as if it had been half-rotting for decades. The gold letters on its sign were peeling away, but the words could still be read:
OLLIVANDERS: MAKERS OF FINE WANDS SINCE 382 B.C.
In the dusty display window, on a faded purple cushion, a single wand lay alone.
When they stepped inside, a series of faint, tinkling bell sounds came from somewhere toward the back. The shop was tiny; aside from one long bench, there was almost nothing in it.
Hagrid sat down to wait. Harry, however, felt something odd—as if he'd walked into a strictly managed library where even breathing too loudly might earn him a reprimand.
He forced down the swarm of questions bursting in his mind and stared at the thousands of narrow boxes stacked almost to the ceiling. He didn't know why, but a prickling unease rose along his skin. The dust, the silence—everything here felt like magic waiting in ambush.
"Good morning," said a gentle voice.
Harry jumped.
Hagrid seemed to jolt as well, because a loud crack-crack sound followed as he sprang up from the bench.
An old man stood before them. His eyes were very pale, and in the dim shop they shone like two bright moons.
"Hello, Mr. Ollivander," Maka greeted politely.
Harry looked stiff and uncertain, but followed Maka's lead with a quiet "Hello."
"Oh, yes," the old man said. "Yes, yes. I knew I'd be seeing you soon enough, Harry Potter—no trouble at all. You have your mother's eyes."
His voice took on a strange warmth, as though he were speaking of something that had happened only yesterday.
"She came in here for her first wand… ten and a quarter inches… willow… swishy… a lovely wand for charm work."
Mr. Ollivander stepped closer to Harry. Harry found himself wishing the man would blink more often; those silvery eyes made the hair on his arms rise.
"Your father was different. He preferred a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A bit more power—excellent for Transfiguration. I say he preferred it… but of course…"
Ollivander's voice sharpened with certainty.
"…the wand chooses the wizard."
He seemed not to notice Maka at all. He drifted closer and closer to Harry until his nose was nearly against Harry's face. Harry could see his own reflection in the old man's cloudy eyes.
"Oh… and this is…" Ollivander lifted a long, pale finger and gently traced the lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead.
"I am very sorry," he murmured. "That was caused by a wand I sold. Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful—very powerful. And it fell into the wrong hands… If only I'd known what that wand would do once it left my shop…"
He sighed softly, then raised his head and looked past Harry's shoulder, as if he'd recognized Hagrid. At last, Harry felt he could breathe again.
"Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How wonderful to see you again. Oak—sixteen inches—rather bendy, wasn't it?"
"True enough, sir," Hagrid said.
"A fine wand," Ollivander replied. Then his expression turned severe. "But when they expelled you, I imagine they snapped it in two, didn't they?"
"Aye," Hagrid said slowly, shifting his feet. "Snapped it. Yes. I still keep the pieces."
"But you don't use it?" Ollivander asked sharply.
"Oh—no, sir," Hagrid said quickly.
Harry noticed Hagrid's hand tighten around the handle of his pink umbrella.
Maka had no time to dwell on that, because at last Ollivander turned his attention to him.
"Oh," the old man said. "A new face. Hello, child. You haven't the same… history as Mr. Potter, I expect." His interest in Maka was plainly less intense, which made perfect sense—Maka had no famous tragedy stamped across his name. "What is your name?"
"Maka McLean," Maka answered.
"Ah. Very well, Mr. McLean." Mr. Ollivander's sharp gaze flicked between the two boys. "Now then—gentlemen. Which of you will go first?"
He drew a long tape measure marked with silvery lines from his pocket, his face settling into a grave professionalism.
Maka patted Harry lightly on the back, gesturing for him to step forward first.