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“What you said at the start was strange.”
Professor McGonagall’s voice carried a clear frown.
“A wand’s nature depends on both wood and core.
Yet when you chose for Mr.
Grey, you barely seemed to care what the core was made of.”
Cedric had been holding the same question since the first wand.
As an orphan he was not supposed to know the basics of the wizarding world, so he had kept silent.
He had not expected McGonagall to ask it for him.
“It was not an oversight.”
Ollivander’s eyes stayed fixed on Cedric, bright with the look of a man examining something rare and priceless.
“Mr.
Grey is simply too compatible.
Phoenix feather, dragon heartstring—any core material matches him.
That level of affinity is something I have almost never seen.”
“Those reactions did not look friendly,” McGonagall said, her tone cooling.
“The materials seemed to reject him outright.
What went wrong?”
“Nothing went wrong.”
Ollivander shook his head.
“They matched him perfectly.
The problem is smaller and stranger.
They are afraid of him.”
Afraid.
Lifeless materials, afraid.
McGonagall found the idea absurd, but long habit kept her from questioning a master in his own craft.
Ollivander offered no further explanation.
He lowered his head and thought for a long moment, then seemed to reach a decision.
“Perhaps this one can balance the fear on the core’s side.”
He turned, reached into the deepest corner of the shelves, and brought out a box thick with dust.
The moment his gaze settled on it, a nostalgic light crossed his face.
“I made this when I was young.
It has sat here for decades.
I never found a suitable master.”
He looked at Cedric.
“Do not worry about the quality.
It is early work, but in strength and character it surpasses most of what I produce now.”
He drew the wand from the box.
The entire shaft glowed with a soft pale-gold light.
Rings of light-green pattern coiled along its length.
It was the kind of object that held the eye and refused to let go.
“This is it.”
Ollivander held the wand with careful hands.
“Fourteen inches.
A little long, but given your frame it should suit.”
He paused.
“The core is…”
A brief hesitation, then he spoke with a stiff face.
“A unicorn’s horn.”
McGonagall could no longer stay silent.
“Mr.
Ollivander—are you certain it is a unicorn’s… horn?”
“Yes.
A full horn.
Not powder scraped from the surface.
The core was shaped from an entire, complete horn.”
McGonagall drew a sharp breath.
Since unicorns had been declared endangered, the Ministry had established reserves and clamped down hard on their materials.
Anything that required the creature’s death—horn, liver, spine—was strictly forbidden.
The black market still traded in them for tens of thousands of Galleons, but discovery meant Azkaban.
Her mind was already turning over how to persuade the old man to turn himself in without destroying him.
“It was registered with the Ministry at the time,” Ollivander said quietly.
“It is not illegal.”
He continued, voice drifting back years.
“I did not make this wand without reason.
I was young then.
I did not yet understand the true nature of compatibility, or the two-way choice between wand and wizard.
I had only one thought: how to make wands stronger.”
“So I sought rare materials.
Through several quiet channels I learned of a unicorn horn.”
He looked at the wand in his hands, eyes distant.
“I obtained it.
I followed my own ideas and forged what I believed at the time to be the strongest wand I could create.”
“It was not easy work.”
He sighed.
“These days I would rather use unicorn tail hair than touch a horn.
Tail hair is gentler and matches more easily.
The horn is ferocious.
The demands it places on its user are so high that it can never become common.”
“And…”
Ollivander’s gaze remained on the wand.
“In those days I was chasing a legend.
I chose a very special wood.”
He raised his eyes.
“Elder.”