Fruit Tea did indeed have Kneazle blood.
Its sharp, bloodline-inherited senses had clearly picked up on something.
For the rest of their time there, it kept sniffing around Ron, its solemn feline face and piercing eyes making Ron’s knees knock together in terror.
He did not even dare to protest, only mourning silently for Scabbers.
With their miscellaneous purchases finished, Molly crossed another item off her list and nodded in satisfaction.
“Alright, only Ollivanders left.
Ron, Vaughn, my darlings, you’ll soon have your own wands.”
This good news finally brought Ron some comfort.
The family made their way through the crowd deeper into Diagon Alley.
Ollivanders Wand Shop was the oldest shop here, established long before The Leaky Cauldron became the gateway to the wizarding world (The Leaky Cauldron was founded in 1500).
Tucked away in the deepest corner of Diagon Alley, it was a tiny, shabby-looking shop.
With its peeling paint and dusty window, there was absolutely nothing to suggest its glorious history, save for the gold lettering on the sign:
[Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 328 B.C.]
The Weasleys stepped inside.
The shop was tiny, or perhaps it just felt that way because it was so cramped, packed with thousands of narrow, long boxes stacked practically to the ceiling.
They were piled up haphazardly, reaching almost to the ceiling.
The shop was dead silent.
The only sound was the soft, lingering chime of the bell from when they opened the door, making the floating dust motes and the quiet atmosphere feel as though they harbored some secret magic.
An old man with pale, wide eyes emerged from behind the shelves.
In the dim shop, his eyes shone like two pale moons.
“Ah, good afternoon, customers.
Welcome to Ollivanders.”
His voice was soft and dreamy.
Vaughn heard Ron swallow hard beside him.
Molly, however, was used to this.
She had stepped into this shop five times before, including when she was a student herself.
Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George had all started school in close succession, and there was simply no using second-hand wands for them.
She greeted him warmly, “Good afternoon, Mr.
Ollivander.
Do you remember me?”
“Of course, of course,” Ollivander said, nodding repeatedly, his voice airy.
“Molly Prewett Weasley.
No need to ask me that every time, my mind hasn’t gone yet.
So—”
He looked at Vaughn and Ron, whispering, “Two new Weasleys starting school?”
“Yes, Mr.
Ollivander.”
“Ah, the start of Hogwarts term is always my favorite time of year.
Not because of the money, of course—that’s only a small part of it.
More importantly, these wands I crafted with my own hands are finally waiting for their masters.”
Ollivander cupped a hand to his ear and whispered mysteriously, “Can you hear them?
Some of the wands are cheering…
So, who is first?”
“…Gulp!”
Ron was terrified.
He hurriedly dragged his mother toward the door.
“Let Vaughn go first, Mum!
I need some air!!”
Molly had no choice but to follow him out, leaving Vaughn with a completely unfazed Ollivander, who pulled a tape measure from his pocket.
“Mr.
Vaughn Weasley, which is your wand hand?”
“My right.”
Ollivander nodded and began measuring Vaughn, murmuring as he did so:
“Mr.
Vaughn Weasley, I’ve heard of your name.
A potions prodigy.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Mr.
Ollivander.”
“You don’t seem to be afraid of me?”
Vaughn glanced at him and shook his head.
“The first time I brewed a potion, I scared Ron into tears too.
He thought I was placing a curse on him, but I just have a habit of speaking quietly when I brew.”
Ollivander nodded repeatedly.
“Yes, yes.
Those who master a craft always have their little eccentricities, and ideas and convictions that outsiders cannot comprehend.”
Vaughn raised an eyebrow.
“So measuring every customer’s body is part of your conviction?”
“Of course, because every individual is unique, and so is every wand.
I need to know more about you to choose the perfect match.”
Vaughn looked up at the thousands of wands.
“I’ve heard you only use unicorn hair, phoenix tail feathers, and dragon heartstring for wand cores.
With such limited materials, how do you ensure no two are ever the same?”
“Ah, a question from a potions prodigy.
I must say, you’ve hit the nail on the head,” Ollivander replied, delighted.
“To other young witches and wizards, I could simply say that every unicorn, phoenix, and dragon is unique, because that is easy for them to grasp.
But since you asked, I must speak truthfully: it also concerns the choice of wand wood.”
By now, the measuring was complete.
After a moment’s contemplation, he pulled out a long box, took out the wand inside, and presented it to Vaughn with both hands.
“Twelve inches, dragon heartstring, fir.
It favors a focused, strong-willed, even dominant wizard.”
Vaughn took it in his hand and gave it a gentle wave.
Instantly, a fierce wind whipped through the tiny shop.
Ollivander snatched it back immediately and winked at Vaughn.
“You see?
It likes you very much, but you are not right for it!”
Before long, Ollivander pulled out another box.
“Ten and a half inches, dragon heartstring, elm.
There is a rumor that elm prefers pure-bloods, but in my experience, those are likely nonsensical myths passed down by pure-blood families.
I believe it favors a noble wizard with leadership qualities.”
This time, the moment Vaughn waved the wand, countless golden sparks showered the air.
But Ollivander snatched it away again.
“It likes you as well, but you are not a match…”
After these two tests, combined with his own maxed-out potions talent for judging materials, Vaughn had a vague idea.
When Ollivander said earlier that “some of the wands are cheering,” he might not have been just putting on a performance.
When Vaughn tested those two wands, he had indeed felt a faint sensation of their joy.
It was a very subtle feeling, somewhat hazy, yet undeniably real.
So, when Ollivander pulled out a third wand, Vaughn did not take it.
Instead, he asked, “You mentioned the choice of wand wood earlier.
Am I right to assume that every wand has a unique personality and preference, and this trait is determined by the wood?”
Ollivander paused, his wide, pale eyes blinking.
After a brief silence, he nodded gently.
“Exceedingly sharp, Mr.
Vaughn Weasley.
That is the secret of every wandmaker.
The core only determines what magic the wand is suited for, but the wood is the key to how the wand chooses its wizard!”
Vaughn grew thoughtful.
He couldn’t hear the “cheering of the wands” like Ollivander could, but connecting the two instances where Ollivander said “it likes you very much, but you are not right for it” to his own experience as a transmigrator…
Vaughn felt that perhaps only an extraordinary wand would truly suit him!
The relationship between wand and wizard wasn’t a simple matter of choosing and being chosen; it was a mutual realization.
That was why Ollivander said “not right.” He didn’t truly know Vaughn, nor did he know of his soul’s journey across worlds!
At this thought, Vaughn closed his eyes, releasing his magic and letting down the Occlumency he had kept running!
The next moment, he felt a tug.
Walking over to a messy stack of shelves, he pulled out a long box.
As he opened the box, he could feel this wand practically yearning to leap into his hand.
*Zzzzt—*
As Vaughn waved the wand, crackling arcs of lightning leaped into the air.
Like a swarm of agile serpents, they split, slithered, and glided over the surfaces of countless boxes.
Ollivander’s eyes went wide.
“Fourteen inches, dragon heartstring, and—elder!
Proud, extreme, and volatile…
It favors those with a truly unique destiny…”