Damon and Dumbledore pushed open the door, sending a tinkling chime ringing from somewhere in the back of the shop.
The interior was tiny and just as shabby as the facade outside.
The confined space was crammed with slender boxes stacked neatly all the way to the ceiling—thousands of them, by Damon’s rough estimate.
His demon soul granted Damon heightened sensory perception.
He could clearly feel distinct fluctuations of magical energy emanating from those boxes.
That meant every single box housed a wand—just sitting out in the open like this?
According to Dumbledore, a wand cost seven Gold Galleons.
Even without knowing much about the wizarding economy, Damon knew that wasn’t an exorbitant price.
After all, a fitting wand was no less vital to a wizard than a fine blade to a swordsman.
Doing the math, this tiny room held wands worth tens of thousands of Gold Galleons—an astonishing fortune in a thinly populated magical society.
“Unimpressive appearance indeed!” Damon’s eyes sparkled.
Dumbledore assumed he was marveling at the vast array of wands, completely unaware that Damon—true to his dragon nature—was already plotting how to claim this room of treasures for himself.
Back when Damon was Shendu, his palace had been piled high with riches.
It was a pity temporal travel couldn’t bring those treasures along.
“Good afternoon,” a soft, aged voice sounded near their ears.
It belonged to Garrick Ollivander, the master wandmaker of this generation.
The old man possessed unforgettable silver-white eyes that shone like twin moons—though on a human face, they looked rather eerie.
“Professor Dumbledore, welcome.
I haven’t seen you escorting a new student since you became headmaster of Hogwarts,” Ollivander said.
“What a pity that as a wandmaker, I cannot personally choose a wand for a wizard as great as you,” Ollivander shook his head regretfully.
“Ollivander, this young man is today’s protagonist.
I brought him here to choose his wand.” Dumbledore gently nudged Damon forward a step or two.
“Mmm, yes.
I noticed him the moment you walked in.
Looking at his handsome features, I can tell he will be another extraordinary and demanding wizard.” Ollivander scrutinized Damon with his silver eyes.
“Which is your wand arm?” Ollivander asked, pulling a tape measure from his pocket.
“Right.” Ollivander nodded and began measuring Damon with the tape, from head to toe.
Anyone watching would think he was being measured for a suit.
*Creepy old codger,* Damon complained internally.
*Wands are held in the hand—what does measuring my head circumference and armpits have to do with anything?* The tape measure operated automatically, leaving Ollivander to weave between the shelves while muttering under his breath.
“Here!
Try this one.
Willow and unicorn hair, nine inches.
Give it a wave.” Damon took the wand and gave it a casual flick.
A burst of sparks shot from the tip, exploding into a ball of fire in midair.
“Not bad,” Damon commented.
He could feel the wand being obedient in his grip, actively channeling the magic within his body.
Ollivander paced back and forth before Damon, brows furrowed.
“It seems suitable, yet not quite right…
not perfect.
No matter, let us try another.” “Applewood and dragon heartstring, eight inches.
Try this—” Damon waved it again.
This time, the magic channeled even more smoothly and abundantly, producing a brilliant flame that illuminated the dark shop.
Ollivander’s eyes gleamed as he snatched the wand back and shoved another into Damon’s hand.
“Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, quite springy.” Damon tried wand after wand.
Each seemed to work well enough, yet Ollivander was never satisfied, his silvery eyes burning brighter with every attempt.
Tested wands piled up on the counter like a small mountain.
“Indeed…
indeed…” Just as Damon was on the verge of losing his temper, Ollivander clapped his hands together suddenly, rushed to the deepest corner of the shelves, and pulled a box from the very bottom of a stack.
“Forgive me, child, I haven’t asked your name,” Ollivander said as he walked back holding the box, in no hurry now to hand it over.
“Damon Ignis,” Damon said, exercising restraint.
“A fine name.
Mr.
Ignis, you possess extraordinary talent.
All those wands scrambled to serve you, but they were merely subjects offering submission—none were your equal partner.” Only then did Ollivander present the wand to Damon.
“Yew and dragon heartstring, twelve inches.
A creation from my younger days.” Damon gave the wand a flick.
Instantly, he felt every drop of magic in his body awaken; even the Fire Demon Qi deep within his soul stirred eagerly.
Magic gushed through the wand, transforming into a fiery dragon that soared and roared within the shop.
Ollivander shouted in excitement: “Magnificent…
marvelous…
just like that!” Staring at the flames illuminating his entire shop, memory washed over his eyes.
“In my youth, I strove to become the greatest wandmaker in the world, searching every corner of the earth for the finest materials.” “Yew combined with dragon heartstring…
it was destined to be a powerful yet exceedingly dangerous combination.
For decades, I could never find a master for it—not even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
I expect great things from you, Mr.
Ignis.” “I appreciate the sentiment, Mr.
Ollivander.” Hearing this, Damon suddenly found the old man much more agreeable.
*When I rule the wizarding world in the future, I might just leave a spot for this old man…* Damon thought to himself.
Ollivander smiled softly.
“I am rarely mistaken about people.
I suspect that day won’t be long in coming.” —————– Even after stepping out of Ollivanders, Damon continued to toy with the wand in his hands.
As a former Demon Sorcerer, he was versed in all manner of Dark Chi magic, but using a wand as a focus was a first for him.
Still, this wand would significantly boost his current strength.
“You seem quite pleased with that wand,” Dumbledore asked, having broken his long silence.
Ollivander’s words still seemed to echo in his ears.
As a legendary wizard proficient in all branches of magic, Dumbledore’s understanding of wands, while perhaps not as specialized as Ollivander’s, was hardly far behind.
He knew all too clearly what a yew wand with a dragon heartstring core signified.
Powerful and lethal.
If a wizard lacked absolute willpower and ability to master it, falling into darkness was frighteningly easy.
Furthermore, Dumbledore would never forget that his former student—the one who later became Voldemort—had wielded a yew wand.
“It suits me well, doesn’t it?” Damon said.
“Yew is a very peculiar wood,” Dumbledore spoke slowly, his tone like a lecture delivered to a class of one.
“Its sap is poisonous, yet new shoots sprout from the withered trunks of ancient trees.
It symbolizes death and rebirth.” He paused, turning his eyes toward the dark wand in Damon’s hand.
“And dragon heartstring is the most powerful among the three supreme cores, as well as the most easily turned toward the Dark Arts.
It can unleash astonishing force, but like a true dragon, it craves domination and conquest.” “So when yew meets dragon heartstring,” Dumbledore shook his head gently, “the wand whispers constantly to its master: *You can be stronger.
You can transcend all boundaries.
You need bow to no one.*” “Sounds like a compliment,” Damon said, the corner of his mouth curving slightly.
“To most, it is a poison.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes met Damon’s in a calm gaze.
“The same substance is a fatal poison in the wrong hands, but an elixir in the right ones,” Damon countered.
“Then I shall wait and see.” Dumbledore chose not to press the matter further.
“Where to next?” Damon smoothly changed the subject.
“To buy your books.”