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Chapter 13: A Fateful Choice!
🕑 Added 2025-03-10 03:55:16 +0000 UTC[Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.]
Ian stood at the entrance of the shop, his heart brimming with an indescribable excitement.
"If you get this lost in thought while brewing a potion, only Merlin himself, fully committed to watching over you, could prevent you from blowing yourself to pieces."
Snape's trademark sarcasm never failed to make an appearance. The moment he noticed Ian lost in his thoughts, he seized the opportunity to deliver one of his usual cutting remarks, his tone dripping with derision.
"I was just thinking about something interesting, Professor," Ian responded with a sheepish smile.
"Clearly, Mr. Prince has a brain no different from that of a troll—much like those imbeciles in Hufflepuff." Snape sneered before reaching into his coin pouch and pulling out seven gleaming Galleons.
He tossed them toward Ian.
"Take your money and buy your wand. I'll be waiting here," Snape stated flatly, making it clear he had no intention of stepping inside.
Unlike more experienced wizards who might spend a fortune replacing their wands, first-years at Hogwarts all paid the same fixed price—a number that held deep significance in the wizarding world.
"Professor, you're not coming with me?" Ian asked, his clear eyes meeting Snape's.
"Are you a baby?" Snape shot him a scathing look.
"...Alright then."
Ian sighed as he caught the coins, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the legendary shop—one that had been the starting point for so many witches and wizards, both in history and in the stories he had read.
Ding!
The bell above the door chimed as Ian stepped inside, announcing his arrival.
The shop was small, its space cramped and cluttered with towering stacks of wand boxes. Despite its unassuming appearance, it held an unmatched reputation among wizards, standing as the gateway to every young witch and wizard's journey into magic.
Thousands of wands lay stored in dusty, aging boxes on simple shelves. It was hard to believe that this modest little store was where so many wizards had taken their first steps into the magical world.
"Ah, good afternoon. A... rather unique face."
The voice was old and measured, belonging to a hunched figure with a wild mane of white, brittle hair. Despite his frail appearance, his sharp, observant eyes seemed to miss nothing.
"Hello, sir," Ian greeted the shopkeeper with a hint of nervousness.
His gaze, however, was drawn to the countless wands stacked all around him, each one a potential partner for his magical future.
"Yes, yes. Another Hogwarts student—it's that time of year again..." Ollivander muttered, his keen gaze sweeping over Ian. "Did you come here alone?"
"A professor from Hogwarts brought me. Is there something wrong with that?" Ian replied honestly.
"Oh, no, not at all. It's just that..." Ollivander hesitated before letting out a soft chuckle. "Ah, never mind—just an old man's idle musings."
He cast a brief glance toward the shop window.
"I should have known—only he would bring you here. Yes, yes... Birchwood, phoenix feather... I remember. It feels like just yesterday..." he murmured cryptically.
Was he predicting something about Snape?
Ian knew that Snape's wand was indeed made of birchwood—so the old wandmaker did have an impressive memory.
"Sir, do you have the gift of prophecy?" Ian asked, feigning the innocent curiosity of a child.
"Just experience, just intuition, my boy." Ollivander chuckled, pulling out a measuring tape and beginning the ritual of wand selection.
"Every wand chooses its wizard—that is the true wonder of wandlore..." he explained as he carefully measured Ian's height and arm length, continuing with his well-rehearsed speech. "Now then, Mr. Prince, which hand do you prefer?"
Hold on.
He knew my name?
Ian hadn't introduced himself. Yet Ollivander had called him Prince without hesitation.
"You know who I am?" Ian asked, curiosity piqued.
"That is not a question for me to answer, Mr. Prince," Ollivander replied with a knowing smile. "I only sell wands."
Ian sighed. There was no prying any more information out of him.
"Left-handed. I use my left hand," Ian answered, returning to the conversation at hand.
"Ah, a rare preference," Ollivander remarked, retracting his measuring tape before moving toward the towering shelves.
"Many believe they are the ones choosing a wand," he continued, "but in reality, it is always the wand that chooses its master. A wizard should always remain humble before their magic."
Ian raised an eyebrow.
"Do you give this speech to every new student?"
Ollivander shot him an exasperated look.
"Such an ill-mannered child. This is not 'indoctrination'—it is proper wisdom."
With that, he began selecting wands.
"Rosewood, dragon heartstring, twelve inches—"
Almost the moment the wand touched Ian's hand, Ollivander snatched it back.
"No, no, not right."
He turned back to his shelves.
"Perhaps this one—birchwood, seventeen inches, infused with—no, that's not it either."
Ian barely had time to register each wand before Ollivander yanked them away.
"Elder wood, ten inches, unicorn hair—"
"Chestnut, twelve inches, Thunderbird tail feather—"
"Wrong, wrong, not quite right..."
The process dragged on. Ian's arm was starting to ache from holding out so many wands.
"This is more exhausting than I expected," he muttered.
Growing impatient, he decided to use some well-worn logic from his reading.
"Sir, perhaps I should try a wand made by your grandfather? Or maybe even one from his grandfather?"
In many wizarding stories, protagonists often ended up with an ancient, forgotten wand that held some special significance. Maybe that was the key here.
Ollivander, however, merely looked puzzled.
"A fan of antiques, are you?"
"Uh, yes. Absolutely." Ian nodded, trying to look as earnest as possible.
"How unfortunate, then. Each generation of Ollivanders only sells their own work. It is a matter of both pride and respect for our predecessors."
Ollivander's response shattered Ian's last hope.
A deep frown settled on Ian's face as he let out a sigh.
Reluctantly, he resumed testing the various wands that Ollivander handed him. The process was dull, to say the least. One after another, the wands failed to resonate with him. To Ollivander, it seemed as if none were a good match.
Dozens of wands later…
"How peculiar," Ollivander murmured, his curiosity piqued.
"I've never had such a difficult customer."
"Or perhaps… you possess some rather unusual qualities."
Their expressions were stark contrasts. While Ian grew increasingly frustrated, Ollivander's aged, clouded eyes shone ever brighter with intrigue. The harder it was to find a match, the more excited he became.
"A young wizard with an appreciation for the old and forgotten… Perhaps, just perhaps, you should try that wand," Ollivander mused, as if recalling something long buried in his memory.
Without another word, he hurried toward the back of his shop.
Moments later, he emerged, carrying an old, dust-covered box in his hands.
"Is this my grandfather's wand?" Ian couldn't help but ask.
"No," Ollivander said with a wistful smile. "This is one of my own creations—a piece of youthful arrogance, you might say. Many years ago, I read a certain tale… and, well, I found myself unwilling to accept its conclusion."
"You may not know the legend of the Elder Wand, but this was my attempt—an attempt to craft something that could rival that fabled wand. A foolish and naive endeavor, no doubt."
His gaze softened, lost in reminiscence.
"I failed, time and again. So many times that, by the last, failure had become nothing more than a dull certainty. Perhaps elder wood and a core meant to represent beauty were simply incompatible? Perhaps some things were never meant to be?"
"For a moment, I doubted everything. But then… perhaps Merlin himself took pity on me.
"It was a stormy night—the seventh of July, 1980. The sky roared with thunder, the air thick with the scent of rain. I fully expected another failure."
Ollivander's grip on the box tightened, his voice filled with a quiet reverence.
"That final bolt of lightning… I never knew if it truly succeeded. In all these years, I have never found a witch or wizard who could wield this wand."
Then, his eyes locked onto Ian with an intensity that sent a chill down the young wizard's spine.
"But I have a feeling… that you are the one it has been waiting for."
To Ian's shock, Ollivander even shifted to a more formal, respectful tone—a rare sight indeed. His expression carried something bordering on reverence, as if witnessing destiny itself unfold.
"Go on," Ollivander urged, offering the wand to Ian.
Ian hesitated for a moment, then reached out.
"…The seventh of July…" he muttered, a flicker of unease in his expression.
The instant his fingers wrapped around the wand's handle—
It was as if the wand had been waiting for him all along.
An indescribable sensation surged through him, so profound that no words could do it justice. His very being felt as though it had fused with the wand, an instinctive connection forming in a way he had never experienced before. The magic within him, normally restrained, now flowed effortlessly through the wood.
A breath.
A single, shuddering breath.
And then—
Silver-white threads of energy erupted from the tip of the wand, cascading through the shop like rolling mist. In mere moments, the entire space was engulfed. Phantom-like figures shimmered in the haze. Shadows flickered—some human, others bestial, shifting and twisting within the fog.
A roar echoed from within the visions.
Then another.
Ollivander stood frozen, eyes wide, awash with awe and something else—something near to worship.
"It works… It truly works!"
"This is… this is fate itself at work!"
His voice trembled, the words reverberating through the small, dusty shop, lingering in the charged air like a sacred chant.
He was witnessing a miracle.
And Ian was at its center.
