[Ollivander's Wand Shop – Crafting fine wands since 382 BC]
Ian stood at the entrance of the shop, his heart filled with indescribable excitement.
"If you were this absent-minded while brewing potions, only Merlin's wholehearted blessing could save you from being blown sky-high."
Snape's venomous tongue might arrive late, but it was never absent. Seeing Ian lost in thought, Snape mocked him in his uniquely sarcastic tone.
"Professor, I was just thinking about something interesting," Ian replied with an embarrassed smile.
"It seems Mr. Prince, like those foolish Hufflepuffs, possesses a brain no different from a troll's," Snape scoffed.
Then, he took out seven shiny gold Galleons from his money pouch and tossed them to Ian.
"Take your money and go buy your wand. I'll wait here." Snape seemed unwilling to go inside, simply handing Ian the money.
Compared to the cost of other wizards replacing their wands, the price for a Hogwarts first-year was fixed—an amount with extraordinary significance in the magical world.
"Aren't you coming with me, Professor?" Ian asked, his eyes clear.
"Are you a giant infant?" Snape glared at him mockingly.
"All right…"
Ian took the Galleons from Snape's hand, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door that, in both the original story and fan fiction, represented the start of a dream.
Ding-dong~
A crisp copper bell rang as Ian pushed open the door, signaling to the shop owner that a customer had arrived.
The shop wasn't large, with a somewhat cramped and narrow interior. Its simple storefront hardly reflected the place it held in the hearts of Harry Potter scholars.
Tens of thousands of wands were stacked on cheap shelves. No one would imagine this humble shop as the starting point for all wizards.
"Good afternoon, a... peculiar face."
The aged voice came from a hunchbacked old man. Despite his pale, messy, dry hair, his bright eyes were striking.
"Hello, sir," Ian greeted the shopkeeper, the current Ollivander, somewhat shyly, his eyes fixed on the many wands.
"Yes, yes, back-to-school season again. A Hogwarts little wizard... Did you come alone?" Ollivander sized up the slender figure before him.
"A Hogwarts professor brought me. Is there a problem with that?"
Ian answered honestly.
"Of course not. I'm just... well, think of it as an old man's curiosity." Ollivander chuckled, glancing out the window.
"I should've known—it could only be him. Hmm, birch, phoenix feather... I remember, as if it were just yesterday," Ollivander muttered, seemingly lost in thought.
Was that a reference to Snape?
If Ian remembered correctly, the professor's wand was indeed birch. He hadn't expected the old wand-seller to be so sharp.
"Can you predict the future?" Ian asked, taking advantage of his age to sound innocently curious.
"Just experience, just a premonition, child," Ollivander smiled, pulling out a tape measure and beginning to record Ian's height and arm span.
"Every wand chooses the most suitable owner. That's the most magical thing about a wand…" Ollivander explained as he measured Ian, then asked the age-old question, "Mr. Prince, which hand do you prefer?"
Ian froze.
He hadn't even introduced himself, yet Ollivander already knew his surname.
"You know my name?" Ian asked, curious.
"That's not a question I should answer, Mr. Prince. I'm only responsible for selling wands," Ollivander replied with a chuckle.
"Left hand. I'm used to using my left hand," Ian answered somewhat helplessly.
"A rare habit."
Ollivander tucked away the tape measure and walked to the shelves.
"Many think wizards choose wands, but it's the wand that chooses its master. A humble attitude is a virtue every wizard should possess."
"Um, do you say that to every little wizard?" Ian asked, sensing Ollivander's theatrical tone.
Just like the plot of the original story.
And just like fan fiction clichés.
"Impolite child. I'm simply teaching you the proper understanding... How could a businessman's lesson be called brainwashing?" Ollivander glared.
Then he handed Ian a wand.
"Purpleheart, dragon heartstring…"
But almost instantly, he snatched it back—surprisingly forcefully for someone his age.
"No, no. Try this one. Birch, 17 inches, from—" he stopped himself, then took it back too.
"This one is also wrong."
He rummaged through the shelves again.
"Ebony, ten inches, Dragon heartstring."
"Cedar, twelve inches, Thunderbird tail feather."
"No, no. Perhaps this Fir, fifteen inches, Phoenix feather."
"What a picky customer... Try this: Acacia, fourteen inches, Veela hair."
…
The process was more exhausting than Ian had anticipated.
Did every young wizard have to go through this?
With his hand going numb from testing so many, Ian finally said, "Sir, perhaps I should try wands made by your grandfather—or your grandfather's grandfather?"
After all, many fanfiction protagonists ended up with a wand from Ollivander's ancestors. Maybe he was like them?
"Do you like old things?" Ollivander asked, puzzled.
"Yes, I do."
Ian made his eyes look as sincere as possible. The process had become too tiring.
"Mr. Prince, I regret to say that every Ollivander sells only their own creations. It's a matter of pride—and respect for our predecessors."
Ollivander's answer crushed Ian's hopes.
Ian couldn't help but grimace.
He had no choice but to continue testing wand after wand. None seemed compatible.
After dozens more…
"Truly rare," Ollivander murmured.
"I've never seen such a picky customer."
"Perhaps... you possess some rare qualities."
His and Ian's expressions were complete opposites. The more difficult the match, the brighter Ollivander's eyes became.
"A little wizard who likes old objects... perhaps you should try that wand," he said suddenly and rushed into the back room.
Moments later, he returned with a dusty box.
"Is this your grandfather's wand?" Ian asked.
"No. It's my own—a self-proclaimed extraordinary work from my youth. I read about the Elder Wand in a fairy tale, and a sense of defiant ambition arose in me."
"You may not know the legend of the Elder Wand. This was my attempt to create something comparable. A naive attempt, perhaps."
Ollivander's expression turned nostalgic.
"I failed many times. By the end, I had become numb. Ebony and a core symbolizing beauty… maybe they just weren't compatible."
"But perhaps it was Merlin's blessing. That last time—it was a stormy day. I expected to fail again."
"1980. Yes, July 7th. I remember it well. Lightning struck… and something changed. Yet no wizard has ever been a match for it."
His eyes sparkled as he looked at Ian.
"I have a premonition—you are the one it's been waiting for."
"Give it a try."
He handed over the wand.
"Um… July 7th… this date…" Ian muttered as he accepted it, a strange look in his eyes.
The moment it touched his hand—
He felt as though he had become one with the wand. Words failed to describe the sensation. The surging magic within him flowed directly into it.
Whoosh~
Silver-white threads burst from the tip of the wand, filling the shop like drifting clouds. Misty, illusory scenes danced through the haze.
Figures gleamed.
Beasts roared.
"It can actually be done! It can actually be done!"
"This is truly... a destined miracle!"
Ollivander's exclamation echoed through the humble shop—
Carrying a sense of devout fanaticism.
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