The moment the door was pushed open, the bell chimed softly, and fine magical dust floated slowly in the slanting sunlight.
Ollivander’s Wand Shop was narrow but filled with mysteries; long, narrow boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling, and the air was a mix of dry wood shavings, ancient leather, and a faint, warm, and ancient scent.
Baelon stood in the center of the room, subconsciously clutching the hem of his clothes, quietly waiting for Britain’s most famous wandmaker.
Mr.
Ollivander stepped slowly out of the shadows, his eyes startlingly bright, as if they could see directly into the depths of one’s soul.
He offered no redundant pleasantries, merely sizing Baelon up before turning away to pull the first box from a shelf.
“Try this.
Ten inches, Birch, Unicorn hair.”
Baelon reached out to take it.
As soon as the wand touched his palm, it slipped abruptly, breaking free like a startled fish and landing on the floor with a clatter.
Ollivander didn’t mind, shaking his head slightly as he took down another one.
“Twelve inches, Oak, Dragon heartstring.
Very powerful.”
Baelon gripped it again.
The moment his fingertips applied pressure, the quill on the corner of the desk took flight without warning, slamming hard against the wall and snapping in two.
Not right.
None of them were right.
One after another, he continued to try under the old man’s direction.
Some were ice-cold to the bone, some were restless and hard to tame, some were submissive but soulless, and some even grew slightly hot in his hand, showing clear resistance.
With every failure, the expectation in Baelon’s heart sank a little further.
He even began to wonder if perhaps there wasn’t a single wand in this world that would choose him.
Until Ollivander’s movements suddenly paused.
His eyes, which seemed to see through everything, narrowed slightly as he gently pulled a particularly plain-looking wooden box from the highest shelf.
He opened the box with a gentleness that was almost reverent, as if touching a long-slumbering treasure.
“Few people can wait for it,” the old man whispered.
“Come, be careful, hold it.”
Baelon held his breath and reached out a slightly trembling hand.
The moment his fingertips touched the wand, a clear and warm power spread from his palm to his entire body, like the first ray of winter sunlight shining into his heart—quiet and soft, yet with an unquestionable firmness.
His previously anxious heartbeat suddenly steadied in that instant.
Baelon subconsciously gripped it tight.
The wand was smooth all over, with a light and clean color and neat, sparse grain.
It had no extra ornamentation, yet it exuded a clean temperament untainted by the world.
It was about thirteen inches long, neither heavy nor light in his hand, with a curve that fit his palm perfectly, as if it were born to belong to him.
A very faint, very soft golden aura slowly spread from the tip of the wand, illuminating a corner of the small shop.
The restless magical dust in the air quieted instantly, and even the wind outside the window seemed to stop for a moment.
Mr.
Ollivander watched this scene, a long-absent, truly satisfied smile appearing in his eyes.
“Found it,” he said softly.
“Sycamore, Phoenix feather core, thirteen inches.”
Baelon stared blankly at the wand in his hand, not yet recovered from that wonderful resonance, when he heard the old man speak slowly, word by word, clear and solemn.
“Sycamore symbolizes nobility and purity.”
“Clean, pure, not following the worldly crowd, holding fast to one’s heart, and upright in character—these are the only qualities a Sycamore wand recognizes.”
“Coupled with a Phoenix feather, representing loyalty, rebirth, and purity of soul.
It never chooses someone with a dark heart or selfish and despicable nature.”
Every word was like a small pebble, gently striking Baelon’s heart.
Noble and pure.
Baelon lowered his head abruptly, looking at this wand that symbolized such a dazzling character.
His fingertips tightened uncontrollably, and a strong sense of unease and self-doubt surged within him.
Noble and pure…
really?
Am I truly worthy?
He wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t firm enough; he could be timid, confused, and would shrink back out of fear.
He was full of imperfections, just an outsider who had escaped from a conspiracy.
How could he be worthy of a wand that symbolized nobility and purity?
It should belong to those born of light, the candid and fearless, to truly noble Wizards, and not to an ordinary person like him who couldn’t even see himself clearly.
Baelon didn’t dare look up at Ollivander’s eyes, feeling his throat tighten as he murmured in a low voice.
“…Did it really choose correctly?
I…
I’m not sure if I’m what you say.”
Mr.
Ollivander didn’t laugh, nor did he argue.
He just looked at him quietly with that all-seeing gaze, his voice gentle yet incredibly firm.
“The wand chooses the Wizard, child, never the other way around.”
“What it sees is the truest form deep within your soul—not who you think you are now, but who you are destined to become.”
“Since the Sycamore has recognized the nobility within you, then it must exist.”
Baelon gripped the wand in silence, the warm power in his palm seeming to respond wordlessly.
After a long while, he took a soft breath and finally asked the next question.
“…How much?”
Ollivander withdrew his gaze and turned back behind the counter, his tone returning to its usual flatness.
“Seven Galleons.”
Baelon nodded, reaching for his coin pouch, then remembered the damp weather here and quickly added a sentence.
“Excuse me…
do you have Wand maintenance tools here?
A set.”
The old man pulled a small, dark green box from under the counter, containing a cleaning cloth, maintenance oil, a measuring needle, and anti-cracking paste—everything needed.
“A set of maintenance tools is four Galleons.” He pushed the box toward him.
“The wand plus the maintenance tools, that’s eleven Galleons in total.”
Baelon counted out eleven glittering gold Galleons, placing them gently on the counter one by one.
The crisp sound of metal clinking was exceptionally clear in the quiet shop.
Ollivander carefully placed the Sycamore wand into its long box, wrapped it together with the maintenance tools, and pushed it toward him.
“Cherish it well.” He looked at Baelon with a rare look of seriousness in his eyes.
“Once a Sycamore wand recognizes its master, it will follow them for life.
Don’t let it down, and don’t let yourself down.”
Baelon took the wand box and held it tightly in his arms.
Thirteen inches, Sycamore, Phoenix feather.
Symbolizing nobility and purity.
He was still unsure if he deserved such a description, but at least from this moment on, he was willing to strive to become that kind of person for the sake of this wand that had chosen him.
Pushing open the shop door, the afterglow of the setting sun spilled over him.
Holding the wand in his arms, Baelon felt, for the first time, a true expectation for the upcoming magical world that was no longer filled with apprehension.
The sunlight outside was even brighter than before, and at a glance, he saw Professor McGonagall standing at the street corner.
She was still wearing her neat, dark green wizarding robes, her expression serious yet not without warmth.
Seeing Baelon come out, she nodded slightly.
“It seems you have found your wand,” her voice was steady and clear.
“Very good.”
With that, she took a finely printed Hogwarts Express ticket from her robes and gently handed it to Baelon.
“Keep it safe.
On September 1st, at the time on the ticket, go to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King’s Cross Station to take the train to Hogwarts.
Don’t be late.”
Baelon took the train ticket with both hands, his fingertips feeling slightly warm as nervousness and anticipation intertwined in his heart.
“Furthermore,” Professor McGonagall continued, “I have already contacted the Owner of the Leaky Cauldron and reserved a room for you.
You can settle in there temporarily and make further plans after resting.
The owner will recognize you; just give your name to check in.”
Baelon thanked her hurriedly.
The wand box in his arms seemed to sense his mood as well, transmitting a faint, gentle warmth.
Thirteen inches, Sycamore, Phoenix feather.
A ticket to Hogwarts.
A safe place to stay in Diagon Alley.
Everything truly began at this moment.