Before Alistair could say anything, an enchanted measuring tape sprang into motion and began taking measurements from his shoulders to his fingertips, apparently requiring no assistance from the wandmaker.
Vinda’s casual mention of Gregorovitch seemed to have wounded Ollivander’s professional pride, because he now approached the selection with considerably more intensity than Alistair remembered from the Harry Potter books and movies.
“Which is your wand hand?” Ollivander asked while the tape continued measuring him.
“Right hand, thank you,” Alistair replied.
Ollivander nodded and disappeared among the towering shelves.
He returned carrying a narrow box and opened it carefully.
“Let’s begin with this.
Eleven and a half inches, ash wood with a phoenix feather core.” Ollivander handed the wand to Alistair and explained, “Ash wands form particularly strong bonds with the witches and wizards they choose, and they aren’t fond of being passed from one owner to another.
Phoenix feather is capable of a particularly broad range of magic, although it can sometimes take longer than other cores to reveal its full character.” Alistair carefully wrapped his fingers around the handle.
Warm golden light immediately burst from the wand, filling the dusty shop like sunlight on a bright summer afternoon.
Alistair’s eyes widened, and for a moment he thought he’d somehow found his wand on the very first attempt.
Ollivander looked equally pleased, but before either of them could celebrate, the glow abruptly weakened.
Within seconds, the wand became completely still, as though its enthusiasm had simply vanished.
Alistair looked at Ollivander, and Ollivander looked back at him with a faint frown.
“Oh, that’s nothing unusual,” Ollivander said after a moment, though he sounded slightly less certain than his words suggested.
“Some customers try seven or eight before the right wand finally presents itself.” He took the ash wand back and selected another box from a nearby shelf.
“How about this one?
Ten and three-quarter inches, willow with unicorn hair.
Willow often chooses witches and wizards with considerable potential, particularly those with something to learn about themselves, while unicorn hair generally produces consistent magic and is among the most faithful of wand cores.” Alistair accepted the second wand with renewed anticipation.
This time, a cool green ribbon of light spiraled around his hand and traveled partway up his arm.
A refreshing sensation followed it, almost as though he’d stepped outside after a summer storm, and Ollivander’s expression brightened again.
Yet just like the first wand, the response didn’t last.
The green light faded, the pleasant sensation disappeared, and the wand became completely ordinary in Alistair’s grip.
Ollivander took it back slowly, staring at it with genuine confusion.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he muttered.
“Both responded immediately.
I could feel their eagerness, almost happiness, when you first touched them.” His brows drew together as he turned the willow wand over in his fingers.
“And yet, after establishing the beginning of a connection, both withdrew.” Alistair could offer no explanation, and Vinda, who had been standing nearby throughout the process, was rapidly losing patience.
She finally crossed her arms and said, “Mr.
Ollivander, if you don’t have a wand worthy of Alistair, don’t waste his time.
You’re hardly the only accomplished wandmaker in Europe.” Instead of taking offense, Ollivander suddenly froze.
Then his eyes lit up.
“That’s it,” he whispered.
Vinda raised an eyebrow.
“That’s it!” Ollivander repeated, this time with almost childlike excitement.
“I understand now.” He hurried toward the back of the shop, summoned a rolling ladder, and climbed until he was nearly hidden among the highest shelves.
After searching for several moments, Ollivander carefully removed an old wand box covered in a layer of dust.
He descended with unusual care, placed it on the counter, and gently blew away the dust before opening the lid.
Inside rested a dark, slightly crooked wand that looked far less polished than most of the others Alistair had seen.
Vinda’s reaction, however, was immediate.
“What is that?” Her startled exclamation was so sharp that Alistair turned toward her in surprise.
Vinda quickly regained control of herself, but her widened eyes revealed that the wand had clearly reminded her of something.
It was the first time Alistair had seen the normally composed witch lose her elegance so completely.
Ollivander barely noticed her reaction.
His entire attention was fixed on Alistair.
“Nine and a quarter inches,” he said softly.
“Elder wood, dragon heartstring.” Alistair hesitated.
“Go on, child,” Ollivander urged, pushing the box closer.
“Try it.” The wandmaker’s eager expression was so intense that, under different circumstances, Alistair might have taken a step backward.
Ollivander looked less like a respected craftsman and more like someone waiting to see whether an old experiment would finally come alive.
Vinda stood immediately behind Alistair, however, and showed no sign that he was in danger.
After a brief pause, he reached into the box and carefully wrapped his fingers around the wand.
Flame instantly ignited at the tip.
Before Alistair could react, the fire scattered outward in bright sparks and burst around him like miniature fireworks.
Unlike the responses from the first two wands, this connection didn’t weaken or disappear.
Warm power seemed to settle naturally into his hand, and the wand felt less like a foreign object than something that had been waiting for him.
Alistair didn’t need Ollivander to explain what had happened.
This was his wand.
Ollivander stared at it with almost reverent fascination.
“Elder is among the rarest wand woods and notoriously difficult to master.
It has little patience for mediocrity and tends to choose witches or wizards of unusual ability or destiny.” His gaze shifted toward the core.
“Dragon heartstring produces some of the most powerful and flamboyant magic, learns quickly, and is also more willing than many cores to change allegiance if won from its owner.” He smiled faintly.
“Put elder together with dragon heartstring, and you get something extremely powerful—but not particularly forgiving.” Alistair glanced down at the dark wand while Ollivander continued.
“This was one of my earlier creations.
At the time, I was obsessed with the idea of creating the most powerful wand possible, before experience taught me that the strongest wand is simply the one best suited to its owner.” He lightly touched the edge of the box.
“For years, no witch or wizard who tried this wand could properly command it, so it remained here gathering dust.
Dragon heartstring naturally produces strong spells, and elder wood can make that temperament even more demanding.” His pale eyes settled on Alistair.
“With a wand like this, the question isn’t whether it possesses power.
The question is whether its owner possesses enough strength to master it.” Vinda’s gaze moved between Alistair and the wand, clearly pleased by what she was hearing.
Ollivander, however, suddenly became thoughtful again.
“Do you know why those first two wands responded to you and then withdrew?” he asked.
Alistair slowly shook his head.
Ollivander continued studying him until even Vinda began to look impatient again.
Finally, he gave the answer.
“Because they didn’t believe they were worthy of you.” Alistair blinked.
For a moment, he thought Ollivander was still reacting to Vinda’s earlier criticism.
“Mr.
Ollivander, Mrs.
Rosier didn’t mean that your wands were inferior.
She was only impatient.
I’ve always heard that Ollivanders produces some of the finest wands in Britain.” Ollivander immediately lifted his chin.
“Naturally.
My wands are among the finest in the world.” Then he pointed toward the two rejected boxes.
“But I wasn’t talking about Mrs.
Rosier’s opinion.” Alistair frowned.
“I meant the wands themselves.” Both Alistair and Vinda stared at him.
“The first two accepted you initially,” Ollivander explained.
“They responded, established enough of a connection to sense something about you, and then pulled away.
They weren’t rejecting you because they disliked what they found.” His expression became increasingly fascinated.
“Quite the opposite.
They apparently concluded that they weren’t suitable for whatever they sensed.” Alistair looked down at the elder wand again.
“What exactly did they sense?” he asked.
“That, I can’t tell you,” Ollivander admitted.
“Perhaps unusual magical potential.
Perhaps your temperament.
Perhaps something deeper.” His gaze sharpened.
“Or perhaps ambition.” Alistair remained speechless, but Vinda’s eyes immediately gleamed.
Of course, she thought as she looked at him.
He’s the future leader of the Alliance.
Even his wand can sense the ambition carried by the Grindelwald bloodline.
To Vinda, there was nothing strange about it at all.
Their master had once possessed enough ambition to shake the entire Wizarding World, and now Alistair had chosen a wand that other witches and wizards couldn’t command.
In her eyes, history was already beginning to repeat itself.
End of Chapter 8 [Goal Tracker]