Ah, the social games of grown-ups.
Flins made a quiet note of it in his mind.
Still, judging by the way Snape and the elder Mr.
Malfoy spoke to each other, their relationship seemed quite decent.
“Mr.
Flins, assuming you are aware that your poor professor has been waiting for you at the door the entire time.”
Snape spoke, his face dark and gloomy, his voice carrying no attempt to hide his impatience.
On the other side, the pale blonde man looked Flins up and down.
His gaze was full of clear scrutiny, his lips pressed slightly thin, faintly showing a trace of disdain.
“Sev, you must allow the children their conversations.”
The man spoke, his voice calm, smooth, and practiced with the measured air of one long accustomed to power.
He lifted his cane lightly and gave Draco’s head a tap.
“After all, they are both new young wizards heading off to Hogwarts.”
He paused and added in an offhand tone: “Draco, say goodbye to your friend.
We have other matters to attend to.”
Compared to the chatty, combative boy who wore every thought on his face moments ago, the Draco standing here now was like an entirely different person.
He stood straight, his chin pulled back slightly, his shoulders drawn with just the right amount of tension, carrying out the standard rules of etiquette in every movement.
He gave a slight bow to Flins and said in a tone of casual familiarity:
“It was very pleasant talking with you.
May I call you Kyryll?
I am Draco Malfoy, and you may call me Draco.”
Flins was taken aback for a second, then quickly understood.
During this time, he had learned quite a lot about the manners of this country—the older and deeper a family’s heritage, the more they cared about these fine boundaries.
Giving one’s full name at the very start was pride; but waiting until the end of the conversation to casually offer one’s given name was a clear signal of goodwill.
Flins put on a faint, polite smile:
“Very well.
See you at Hogwarts, Draco.
It was a pleasure meeting you.”
The moment he said that, Draco’s expression loosened noticeably, and a spark of satisfaction flickered in his eyes.
Flins looked up and took another glance at the elder Mr.
Malfoy.
The man had turned his head to speak to Snape, his cane resting on the floor, his posture relaxed and easy.
The trace of disdain he had worn earlier was now tucked away, as if he approved that his son had made a friend who at least understood the rules.
The way this father and son interacted was rather interesting—the father tapped the son’s head with the tip of his cane, not hard, showing fondness;
and instead of dodging, the son straightened his back instinctively after being tapped.
Flins looked away and silently added a thought: A very harmonious family, it seems.
After the Malfoys left, Snape gave Flins a look of unclear meaning:
“Do you know how your parents died?”
Flins raised an eyebrow with mild surprise, recalling the background Lumine had set up for him.
Then, thinking back on the Malfoys he had just met, along with the knowledge of this magical world he had picked up lately, he began to understand what Snape’s sudden question was about.
Yet, from what information he had gathered, this Professor Snape was hardly a clean person either.
It seemed the waters here were just as deep as those in Nordkalai.
Quite interesting.
A slight movement brushed Flins’s brow.
In those bright yellow eyes that had always stayed still and calm, a barely noticeable gleam of mischievous amusement finally surfaced.
He looked up, his tone remaining gentle:
“Of course I know, Professor.”
Snape stared at him for two seconds, as if trying to find a crack on that overly calm face.
Finding nothing, he switched the topic briskly:
“I suggest you stay away from the Malfoy family.”
He paused, lowering his voice a few degrees:
“While I have no idea what thoughts are turning inside that Devil’s Snare of a brain of yours, this is my advice.
Take it or leave it.”
Having said that, he stopped, turning his head half away: “Now, we are going to the wand shop.
You had better not keep me waiting outside for too long again.”
The moment the words fell, he turned and strode off, his black robes billowing behind him.
The wand shop was small and run-down, but it looked very old.
The peeling gold lettering on the door read:
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Flins walked inside alone.
An old man stood in the room, looking by his expression as though he was lost in memory.
Flins took in his surroundings for a moment, and then a voice spoke up:
“A young wizard with quite a sharp eye, it seems.”
The old man’s pale eyes stared closely at Flins.
Flins gave a slight bow and said:
“Hello, sir.
I am Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.
I have come to buy a wand.”
“Ah, Mr.
Flins.
You do not look British.” Ollivanders’s eyes were pale and wide, yet they looked deep as he fixed his gaze on Flins.
“I am rather curious about your wand.”
“Mr.
Flins, which arm do you use for your wand?”
“My right hand,” Flins said, thinking of his left hand, which usually carried his lamp.
“Hold out your arm.”
The tape measure ran from Flins’s shoulder to his fingertips, measuring every part of him.
…
“All right, try this one.
Aspen and dragon heartstring, nine inches.
Dependable, powerful—give it a wave and see.”
Flins took the wand.
Just as his fingertips touched the wood, elemental energy flowed into it through his skin.
He gave it a light flick—nothing happened.
The wand stayed quiet, just like an ordinary stick of wood.
Ollivander blinked his large, pale eyes, his voice tinged with confusion:
“Good Merlin, no reaction at all?
It seems this one is not right for you.”
He pulled the wand back and handed over another:
“Try this?
Mahogany and phoenix feather, a rather unusual match.
Ten inches, very supple.”
Flins tried again.
Still silence.
Over the time that followed, he tried wand after wand.
Ollivander’s face shifted from excited curiosity to complete confusion, and finally to a hint of worry.
“How could this be…”
He muttered to himself, his fingers digging through the boxes piled up like little mountains.
“Just like a Squib—oh no, my child, I meant nothing by that, I only…”
He offered a scrambled explanation and went right back to digging.
The boxes on the shelves piled higher and higher, with wands made of all sorts of materials scattered across the floor, yet every single one felt like a plain stick in Flins’s hand.
“How can there not be one…
let me think…
an unusual match…
an unusual…”
Ollivander’s murmurs grew fainter, and his searching hands suddenly stopped.
“Ah, look what I’ve found.”
From the very bottom shelf, he pulled out an old, dusty wooden box.
The paint along the edges had peeled away, and the brass latch was covered in dark green rust.
He opened the lid with great care.
Lying inside was a wand of solid, pitch-black wood—straight, dark, and carrying no shine at all.