“Yes, I think I can help.” Mr.
Ollivander stepped forward with a smile, staring at the person beside Vincent for a long while before slowly shifting his gaze back to Vincent.
“You look so familiar. I feel as though I’ve met you somewhere, yet I can’t quite place it.”
Harry was about to say something when the small paper crane Vincent had released earlier suddenly flew inside.
It pecked repeatedly at Harry’s face, as if trying to lead him outside.
“Looks like your friend has something to talk to you about,” Vincent said.
“Go meet up with him first; I’ll wait here for you to come back.”
Harry needed to buy a wand of his own anyway, and he could come back with his friend.
Vincent didn’t mind meeting Harry’s new friend at all; on the contrary, he was extremely curious about who had guided Harry to Diagon Alley.
He himself had only received an owl-delivered letter and a long list of instructions—no one had escorted him to Diagon Alley.
He had noticed in Diagon Alley that Muggle-born wizards were accompanied by their parents.
Shouldn’t he have had a guide just like Harry?
He had also overheard wizards in Diagon Alley speaking reverently of “Harry Potter,” which struck him as equally strange.
According to them, Harry was supposed to be the Savior.
Why, then, had he spent a miserable childhood living with an aunt who mistreated him?
That hardly matched their attitude toward him.
Vincent’s curiosity grew deeper and deeper, but he didn’t ask Harry about it.
Harry surely didn’t know either—he had known Harry for three years and seen firsthand how unhappy his childhood had been.
Rather than indulging in wild guesses based on rumors, he preferred to trust the Harry Potter he knew with his own eyes.
Vincent watched Harry leave, then turned back to Mr.
Ollivander, who was staring intently at his face.
“Sir, would you mind helping me choose a wand first? My friend will be back shortly.”
Mr.
Ollivander seemed to snap out of a trance.
Nodding flusteredly, he began selecting wands for him.
“Try this one first. Unicorn hair core, camphorwood, thirteen and six-tenths inches, remarkably flexible—an ideal choice for beginners.”
Vincent knew nothing of the special connection between a wand and its core.
He simply took the wand from Mr.
Ollivander and gave it a wave—nothing happened.
“Oh, no matter, no matter. It isn’t just the wizard choosing the wand; the wand chooses the wizard as well. It seems you two are not the right match.”
He began pulling wand boxes out from the towering stacks one after another, listing one strange combination after another.
Time seemed to pass quickly, or perhaps very slowly.
Harry hadn’t returned yet, and Vincent had tried at least twenty or thirty wands.
For each wand, he didn’t even need to attempt magic—the moment he held it in his hand, Vincent just knew it wasn’t for him.
Where this strange feeling came from, he had no idea, but Vincent was certain that even if he forced magic through them, the result would not be pleasant.
Mr.
Ollivander looked quite troubled as well.
“Still no? Perhaps you have a preferred core? That might deepen your connection with the wand.”
Vincent shook his head.
He hadn’t had the chance to read the magic books he bought from the bookstore yet, so he didn’t understand the different preferences wizards in the magical world had when choosing cores.
“Mr. Ollivander, I keep hearing you mention the woods of the wands. Do you happen to have any made of yew? I’m rather fond of that kind of wood.”
“Yew?!”
Mr.
Ollivander reacted strangely.
Staring into Vincent’s eyes as if filled with a touch of dread…
he began recoiling backward.
“If he favors yew, please bring one out for him to try, Mr. Ollivander.”
The door pushed open suddenly, and an old, calm voice broke into the room occupied by only two people.
Vincent turned around to see a white-haired wizard in sweeping robes standing at the doorway.
Light caught his long beard, making tiny specks of light seem to dance upon it.
He wore half-moon spectacles, concealing the emotions in his eyes.
Perhaps obscured by the shadow and light, Vincent couldn’t make out his expression.
Mr.
Ollivander recognized the visiting wizard at once.
“Oh, Mr. Dumbledore! What a surprise to see you here. Have you come to guide this young wizard in choosing a wand?”
The wizard called Dumbledore nodded gently, forcing a polite and soft smile.
“Yes, Mr. Ollivander. Please select a yew wand for him.”
Vincent knew the name Dumbledore.
Although the signature at the bottom of his acceptance letter was Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Dumbledore’s name had been mentioned as well.
Dumbledore walked over to Vincent’s side while Mr.
Ollivander turned and darted back into his storeroom to rummage through yew wands, leaving the two of them a moment of privacy.
“I apologize for being late. I wrote your acceptance letter myself, and I hope my list of instructions was helpful to you,” Dumbledore said, looking down at him.
His expression was somewhat cool, and as he looked into Vincent’s eyes, he seemed to be gazing through him at someone else.
Vincent was intimately familiar with that look.
His parents used to look through his face to gaze at their deceased child.
Yes, a deceased child.
He had never told Harry that his adoptive parents hadn’t taken him in because they had no children.
Before him, they had had a child who shared a slight resemblance with Vincent, and he had been brought back merely as a replacement.
The expression on Dumbledore’s face made Vincent frown.
“Hello, Mr. Dumbledore. Your notes were indeed very helpful, and thank you for your generosity. I’ve already bought everything I need—I only lack a wand.”
Vincent was practically pointing at Dumbledore’s nose and saying: *You didn’t need to come.*
Dumbledore felt Vincent’s hostility, yet he showed no displeasure whatsoever, as though he had already anticipated this outcome.
“Go ahead and pick your wand.”
Mr.
Ollivander returned carrying several wooden boxes.
He had three to five handsome boxes adorned with fine patterns, though a dust layer clung to them—clearly wands kept deep in stock.
“Wands kept in reserve aren’t inferior! On the contrary, it’s because they are sufficiently demanding and particular that they’ve stayed here until now,” Mr.
Ollivander quickly explained, noticing Vincent’s gaze.
He didn’t want his wands to be undervalued.
Every wand was unique, and each deserved the finest master.
Vincent let out a soft smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I know, Mr. Ollivander. Every wand in your shop is top-notch.”
Who knew if they were actually the best?
Regardless, this was the only wand shop in all of Diagon Alley, so it probably was the best—otherwise, it wouldn’t have remained open for so many years.
Hearing this, a spark of delight touched the corners of Mr.
Ollivander’s eyes and brow—not because Vincent complimented him, but because he complimented his wands.
*He really is a discerning boy.
He merely shares a facial resemblance with that Dark Lord in my memory, but they are completely different people.
I must have been mistaken.*
Ollivander knew his own flaw.
When it came to wands, he could recite them like the back of his hand; even if sold decades ago, he could clearly recall which wand went to whom.
But when it came to faces alone, he really had to think twice, so getting it wrong once or twice was perfectly normal.
Reassuring himself, Ollivander set aside his heavy thoughts and began earnestly introducing the wands in his hands to Vincent.
Vincent, however, had no need for the introduction.
As Ollivander opened the boxes one by one to reveal wands nestled carefully on velvet cloth, Vincent’s eyes locked onto the box furthest from him.
“That wand,” Vincent said.
“May I try that one? It looks truly magnificent.”
Mr.
Ollivander’s face softened into something almost gentle.
“It is indeed an extraordinarily beautiful wand. Yew, fourteen inches, with a most peculiar core. It is a wand of tremendous magic.”
Vincent could barely avert his eyes.
As Ollivander handed the wand to him, almost instantaneously, he felt the magic within him surge vibrantly.
*Bang—*
Gorgeous mini-fireworks burst into beautiful colors throughout the room, forming lovely patterns, without a single spark touching the floor or igniting the flammable velvet.
“It likes you! You are the finest match!”
Mr.
Ollivander was almost more excited than Vincent himself.
Staring at the boy who had seemed somewhat distant moments ago, he shared the wand’s origins: “The core of this wand is extraordinarily rare; I only discovered it by chance among my father’s remaining works. It has stayed by my side for decades without finding a suitable master—I never imagined it would accept you in the end.”
Only at the very end did Mr.
Ollivander finally reveal what the mysterious core was: “Basilisk Horn—no one has ever truly seen a Basilisk, let alone a Basilisk horn. Many believed it to be nothing more than a legend, and until I saw it myself, I thought so too. My father inherited this magical material from a family elder, and it has been preserved ever since. If you hadn’t specifically asked for yew today, I might not have even brought it out.”
Basilisk horn—the horn from a Basilisk’s head.
Salazar Slytherin, one of the founders of Hogwarts, had once used it as the core of his wand.
Dumbledore naturally knew what a Basilisk horn signified.
He looked at Vincent in surprise.
Having received a wand he loved, a look of youthful delight fitting for his age finally appeared on the boy’s face.
Mr.
Ollivander was still immersed in the joy of finding a suitable master for this beautiful wand, completely forgetting that characters from old legends shouldn’t appear in real life, let alone a wand crafted from part of their body.
Vincent gripped the wand tightly, unwilling to loosen his hold for even a moment, and immediately reached for his money to buy it.
“I cannot measure the true worth of this wand, young sir. It was not crafted by my hand, but by my father’s. To be frank, had you not picked it up today, I would have worried whether it might lose its usability due to its great age.” Mr.
Ollivander stared intently at the wand—his gaze was not that of a seller looking at merchandise, but of someone beholding a cherished creation.
Of course, his father’s creation was still a creation.
He was not a merchant; he was a craftsman.
Vincent looked at him earnestly.
“Mr. Ollivander, I am willing to pay the price of the most expensive wand in your shop, along with a promise from me. I am still young, but I believe that one day, I will make this promise worth its maximum value.”
Vincent spoke with utmost sincerity.
Mr.
Ollivander couldn’t find it in himself to refuse.
He accepted thirty-five Gold Galleons with a smile—no wand was ever sold for so much—and threw in a wand care kit as an added gift.
Aside from speaking a few words at the beginning, Dumbledore had been relegated to a background presence the entire time.
He hadn’t intended to come in the first place; seeing the name on the new student list had left him with emotions more complex than anyone else’s.
Vincent stowed his wand away with a beaming smile, but the instant he turned back to Dumbledore, his expression shifted back into cool detachment.
“I know you want to talk to me, Mr. Dumbledore. Let’s find another place—we wouldn’t want to disrupt his business, would we?”