Isaac’s striking combination of traits was deeply effective not only on Albus Dumbledore but also on an experienced, ancient wizard like Mr.
Ollivander.
The absolute moment Ollivander laid eyes on Isaac, he was instantly reminded of the tyrant who had once brought the European continent to its knees.
Why would Ollivander immediately think of Gellert Grindelwald?
It was primarily because Isaac was walking side by side with Dumbledore.
At this juncture, one might naturally wonder: why hadn’t anyone in the other establishments throughout Diagon Alley recognized the boy’s defining characteristics?
First of all, among Isaac’s unique traits, his prophetic talent was not an outwardly visible feature.
Passersby and merchants could only perceive his brilliant platinum-blonde hair and his remarkably rare heterochromatic eyes.
Furthermore, when Grindelwald was orchestrating his revolution across Europe, both he and Dumbledore were still in the flush of youth.
In the wizarding world, exceptionally powerful witches and wizards could enjoy vastly extended lifespans, but not every wizard belonged to that elite caliber.
Those who actually possessed the magical depth and historical perspective to recognize such traits rarely spent their free time idling about the thoroughfares of Diagon Alley.
Just look at Dumbledore himself—how many years had passed since he last set foot there?
In addition, consider the shops they had previously visited.
The bookstores, cauldron shops, and apothecaries were undoubtedly controlled behind the scenes by established pure-blood families.
Yet, the pure-blood aristocrats did not deign to run the storefronts themselves; instead, they hired managers and shop assistants to oversee daily operations.
It was much like the hair-care enterprise established by Harry Potter’s ancestors; the Potters had been dead for over a decade, yet no one had ever reported a shortage of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion in the wizarding world.
These front-line managers and shop assistants were almost entirely composed of the younger generation.
While they were certainly surprised that the great Albus Dumbledore was personally covering Isaac’s expenses, they lacked the historical context to connect the boy to Grindelwald.
At most, they simply assumed Isaac shared some secret kinship with the Headmaster—or, more crudely, that he was Dumbledore’s illegitimate child.
The most critical factor, however, was that although Grindelwald had led his zealots to ravage mainland Europe, Great Britain had remained a safe haven.
It was an island of security entirely because Albus Dumbledore resided there.
The citizens of the British wizarding world during that tumultuous era had been shielded by Dumbledore’s shadow; they had never truly witnessed or felt the horrific reality of Grindelwald’s campaign.
Consequently, even when confronting Isaac’s appearance, they had no reason to read into the resemblance.
Garrick Ollivander was an entirely different matter.
As Britain’s sole master wandmaker, he was an exceptionally powerful wizard in his own right, and with great power came an immensely long life.
He had lived through the terrifying height of Grindelwald’s ascension.
Furthermore, because Grindelwald had been the previous master of the Elder Wand, Ollivander had naturally studied his history with obsessive precision.
Most importantly, he was well aware of the deeply complicated, ambiguous history between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
How could a wizard like Ollivander not harbor an insatiable curiosity regarding gossip of that caliber?
Originally, Ollivander assumed that he would carry his questions about Dumbledore’s past straight to his grave.
Yet today, the Headmaster—who had not personally escorted a new student to Diagon Alley in decades—had walked into his shop with a child.
And that child bore the unmistakable, exact physical hallmarks of Gellert Grindelwald.
The good news: the legendary mystery he had quietly followed for half a lifetime seemed to be unveiling its secrets before his eyes.
The bad news: he stood absolutely no chance of surviving a duel with Dumbledore if he spoke out of turn.
“Ahem.
Garrick, are you quite all right?” Dumbledore’s gentle, inquiring tone instantly jarred Ollivander back to reality.
The wandmaker hurriedly composed his features, forcing his expression into one of strict, professional solemnity.
“Of course, Albus.
I was merely contemplating which wand materials might prove most suitable for this young gentleman,” Ollivander replied smoothly.
With a practiced flick of his wand, the silver tape measure resting on the counter leapt into the air, hovering gracefully as it began to record Isaac’s physical dimensions.
As the tape whirled about the boy, Ollivander asked, “So, how should I address our young guest?”
“Isaac Valdore.
Good evening, Mr.
Ollivander.”
“Very well, Mr.
Valdore.
And which is your wand hand?” Ollivander’s fingers twitched slightly upon hearing the name “Valdore.” He had secretly anticipated that the boy would bear the surname Grindelwald—or, at the very least, Dumbledore.
On second thought, however, he realized that using either of those notorious names so openly would be incredibly reckless.
Powerful, ancient wizards lived long lives, and those two specific surnames, pinned to a child with such distinct features, would bring nothing but relentless peril down upon him.
Valdore was a fine alternative; it was a safe, excellent surname.
“It’s my left hand,” Isaac answered.
He was naturally left-handed, and if given the choice, he absolutely preferred to wield his magic accordingly.
Once the measurements were complete, Ollivander stood perfectly still, studying Isaac’s face for an extended moment.
Finally, a look of decisive clarity washed over his pale eyes.
“Please wait here a moment, Mr.
Valdore.” Ollivander turned on his heel, disappearing into the towering shelves to search through the thousands of narrow boxes for a highly specific wand.
Eventually, deep within the labyrinth of shelves, he extracted a single, dusty container.
“Try this one: blackthorn wood, with a phoenix feather core.
Exactly thirteen inches,” Ollivander murmured, sliding the lid free.
Amid a small cloud of dancing dust motes, he presented a sleek, dark wand.
“A rare, temperamental wood, capable of channeling an exceptional range of magic, yet notoriously selective regarding its wielder.
Once it chooses its master, however, its loyalty is absolute.”
Ollivander deliberately omitted a crucial detail: the core of this specific wand had been harvested from Fawkes, Dumbledore’s own phoenix.
Upon hearing the words “blackthorn wood,” Dumbledore subtly adjusted the half-moon spectacles on the bridge of his nose.
A stray ray of late-afternoon sunlight pierced through the grimy shop window, causing his lenses to cast two brilliant flashes of white light across the room.
Isaac reached out and took the wand from Ollivander’s hand.
The instant his fingers brushed the wood, a profound sensation washed over him, as though he had suddenly grown an entirely new limb.
A sudden, irresistible impulse surged within his chest.
Finding himself filled with confidence under Dumbledore’s watchful eye, Isaac gave in to the feeling and brought the wand down in a sharp, fluid arc.
In the next fraction of a second, every speck of dust coating the shop’s interior swirled into the air, violently compressing before shooting out through the narrow cracks of the windows and doors all at once.
The cloud completely vanished into the atmosphere above Diagon Alley, leaving the interior of the wand shop immaculately clean.
The ancient decor still retained its historic charm, but the entire room looked entirely pristine.
Witnessing the display, Dumbledore observed cheerfully, “Aha, Garrick.
It seems he has saved you a significant amount of evening chores.”
Ollivander rolled his pale eyes at the Headmaster.
The entire interaction was nothing short of miraculous to the wandmaker; he had never once heard of Albus Dumbledore doting on a child with such shameless indulgence.
“Very well.
To show my appreciation to young Mr.
Valdore, I shall include a complimentary wand care kit.
It seems my intuition remains as sharp as ever.
That will be seven Galleons, please.”
As before, the wand was promptly paid for out of Dumbledore’s personal account.
Long after the Headmaster and Isaac had stepped through the door and into the street, Ollivander remained frozen behind his counter, staring blankly out at their departing figures.
For a true master wandmaker, analyzing a wizard’s wand was equivalent to reading their very soul.
What he had refrained from revealing to the boy was that a thirteen-inch blackthorn wand matched the exact dimensions and material of Gellert Grindelwald’s original wand before he claimed the Elder Wand.
And as for the phoenix feather core from Fawkes…
Fawkes and Albus Dumbledore shared an inseparable, spiritual bond.
How much of a distinction could there truly be between the creature’s essence and Dumbledore himself?
Of course, minor differences existed—Garrick Ollivander bound his craft strictly to three supreme cores, and Dumbledore’s beard certainly did not qualify as an acceptable magical substance.
Ultimately, it was a wand possessed of a deeply profound, almost dark irony.
And today, it had found its perfect master.
One only had to think about it—to think about it very carefully.