On the busiest stretch of Diagon Alley stood a shop that looked ready to fall over.
The sign above the door had lost almost all its red paint.
It hung as if it had been there for centuries.
Only the prime location kept Cedric from thinking they had the wrong address.
Ollivanders.
Every young wizard in Britain came here.
No wand, no Hogwarts.
A monopoly that refused to look the part.
Professor McGonagall pushed the old door open.
The bell above the frame gave a thin, clear ring.
From deep in the shop came the long scrape of wheels.
A ladder slid out sideways from beside a tower of boxes more than two meters high.
On top of it stood a white-haired man whose eyes were anything but cloudy with age.
He stepped carefully around the stacked boxes and came to the counter.
“Mr.
Ollivander.
It’s been some time.”
“Ah, Ms.
McGonagall.
Welcome, welcome.” He moved behind the counter.
“A new student for a wand?
First year?
And where are the parents?”
“This is Cedric Grey.
An orphan.” She leaned close and lowered her voice for the last part.
To Cedric the volume was no quieter than ordinary speech.
His hearing had been sharper than most for a full year.
Still, the consideration warmed him a fraction.
“Oh.
I am truly sorry.”
McGonagall gave him a look.
The old man wiped the apology away and softened his tone.
“Come along then, Mr.
Grey.
Let’s get straight to business.”
“Don’t be nervous,” McGonagall added, clearly thinking he might be shy with strangers.
Cedric walked forward.
The measurements that followed were pure nonsense.
Arm length.
Distance between the eyebrows.
Even the width of his nostrils.
With every number the same thought circled: What the fuck does any of this have to do with a wand?
An eleven-year-old still grew every year.
Arm length meant nothing.
Nostril spacing?
Some metaphysical bullshit he couldn’t begin to grasp.
Ollivander fussed over him for a long while.
When he finally straightened, his face was grave.
“Hmm.
This will not be easy.”
McGonagall stayed silent, waiting.
Ollivander crooked a finger.
A wand box floated down from a nearby shelf and settled in front of Cedric.
The lid opened.
He lifted out a brown wand.
“Pine may suit you.
Those who do well with pine are often solitary, a little mysterious.
It favors the creative.
Eleven inches.
Thunderbird feather core.
Quite a fiery temperament.
Give it a wave.”
Cedric took the wand.
The moment his fingers closed around the wood, something felt off.
He looked up.
“Is there anything else inside this besides pine?
What about the core?”
A wand without a proper core was just a tourist stick.
“The core matters less for you than you might think.” Ollivander’s eyes sharpened, as if he were studying something rare.
“But if you wish to know—Thunderbird feather.
Fiery, as I said.”
“Fiery.”
Cedric gave it an experimental flick.
Golden lightning exploded from the tip, tore through the shop, and reduced more than half the counter to black ash.
Ollivander stepped back, completely unsurprised.
“No.
Pine alone cannot hold you.”
He didn’t spare the ruined counter a second glance.
Another wand was already in Cedric’s hand.
“Maple.
Favored by travelers and the bold.
Thirteen inches.
Dragon nerve.”
The wand began to shake the instant it touched his skin.
Before Cedric could even raise it, a thick plume of black smoke erupted.
All three of them were blinded.
Cedric coughed hard and dropped the wand.
The smoke stopped.
McGonagall and Ollivander raised their wands together.
A clean gust swept the cloud straight out the door.
“Not this one either.” Ollivander clapped the ash from his hands, looking exactly as if he had expected it.
“You see?
Finding the right wand for you is no simple task.”