“There are quite a few wand shops in the wizarding world, but Ollivanders is the finest. At least, it is in Britain.”
Professor McGonagall introduced it to the group before adding, “Of course, it’s also rather expensive.”
Stopping in front of the shop, Fel looked up at the weathered storefront.
Its faded black wooden facade had patches where the paint had worn away, revealing the original wood beneath.
The display window was cloudy with age, and above the arched entrance hung a faded sign that read “Ollivanders Wand Shop.”
Above the right side of the window was another inscription.
“Making Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.”
The shop radiated an overwhelming sense of history and age.
Fel had no reason to doubt the date.
If it had been fake, competitors would have exposed it long ago.
At worst, perhaps it was a slight exaggeration.
Maybe it had started as nothing more than a roadside stall?
Professor McGonagall pushed open the door first, and the bell immediately rang with a crisp chime.
Fel looked around the interior.
The shop was narrow but surprisingly deep.
Shelves lined both sides, stretching far beyond a bend where they disappeared from view.
Boxes containing wands were stacked densely from floor to ceiling.
Fel estimated there had to be at least ten thousand wands here.
At seven Galleons each, Ollivander was secretly quite a wealthy man.
A ladder slid over from beyond the corner, and an untidy old man climbed down.
His messy white hair stuck out in every direction, and he wore an old gray tailcoat with curled edges.
His face carried a gentle expression.
“Welcome, Professor McGonagall. Oh, two young witches and wizards at once. Hello, you may call me Ollivander.”
Everyone greeted him, and Professor McGonagall deliberately mentioned Fel’s mother, Isa Hefis.
“Oh, Fel. Your black hair is exactly like your mother’s.”
“I still remember the day she came here to buy her wand. It feels as though it happened only yesterday.”
Ollivander spoke with certainty.
“Red oak, phoenix feather, twelve inches, fairly rigid.”
“Many ignorant people assume that owners of red oak wands are hot tempered, but in truth they simply react quickly, and they often become inventors of unique spells.”
“I believe red oak wands are the finest of them all.”
Fel became even more puzzled.
This was already the third person who had spoken about his mother, and each of them had been absolutely certain.
If his mother had bought a wand from Ollivander, then she must have been a witch.
However, Professor McGonagall had already promised to explain everything after he enrolled, so he decided not to dwell on it any longer.
Hermione gently nudged Fel’s arm before deliberately raising her voice.
“Fel, I want to choose my wand first!”
Fel snapped back to reality.
“No way. This is the one thing I have to do before you.”
While they spoke, Ollivander had already finished sizing Fel up.
He took a wand box from a corner and handed it over.
“Try this one. Red oak with a phoenix feather core. The same excellent combination as your mother’s.”
Fel accepted the box, drew out the wand, and gripped it.
It felt strange.
It was like opening only a tiny hole in a full barrel of water.
The flow was steady, but it lacked force.
He gave the wand a wave through the air.
Only a faint breeze appeared.
“Oh, not this one. It’s too sensitive. It doesn’t like you.”
“Remember, Fel, the wand chooses the wizard.”
“Do wands actually have minds of their own?” Fel asked curiously.
He still could not understand the difference between a wizard choosing a wand and a wand choosing a wizard.
“A wand is more than just a tool. They are living things, Fel. Some types make that especially obvious.”
“For example, sycamore wands crave new experiences. A dull and repetitive life causes them to lose their brilliance.”
“Even if they were once perfectly suited to their owner, once that owner reaches middle age and begins seeking a peaceful life, something interesting can happen.”
“When the wizard raises the wand and says, ‘Accio slippers,’ the wand bursts into flames.”
“It isn’t the wand that betrayed its owner, Fel.”
“It’s the owner who betrayed the wand.”
“When that happens, the wizard usually needs a new wand.”
At last, Fel finally understood one of the many questions that had been bothering him ever since arriving in the wizarding world.
They tried several more wands, but none of them were a good match.
Ollivander’s face gradually filled with both excitement and concern.
“I do enjoy customers who are difficult to satisfy, but Fel…”
He could not quite put his thoughts into words.
“I’d say there’s an eighty percent chance you’ll end up in Gryffindor, which I sincerely hope happens. Otherwise… only Slytherin remains.”
As he spoke, he took out another wand box.
“Try this.”
Fel opened the box.
Inside lay a jet black wand.
It was noticeably thicker than an ordinary wand, nearly one and a half fingers wide, and dark scorch like patterns ran along its surface.
The instant Fel grasped it, a powerful sense of exhilaration surged through his body.
It felt as though some hidden power deep inside him had burst free.
A powerful gust of wind circled around him, sending loose papers flying across the floor.
A crimson glow immediately surrounded his body.
Two or three seconds later, everything became calm again.
“Oh, this is the one!”
Ollivander spoke with a solemn expression.
“Blackthorn wood, dragon heartstring core, ten inches, exceptionally rigid.”
“Sir, could you tell me more about it?”
The memories in Fel’s mind told him that the future of the wizarding world would not be peaceful.
Since the wand in his hand might one day determine whether he lived or died, he wanted to understand it thoroughly.
He vaguely remembered blackthorn wands.
In the seventh film, Ron had given Harry a spare blackthorn wand.
When Harry cast the Engorgement Charm on a candle flame, it exploded with such overwhelming force that it looked as though a simple gas stove had transformed into a planetary engine.
The image had left a deep impression on him.
“Very well. Let’s begin with the dragon heartstring core.”
“Generally speaking, wands made with dragon heartstring produce the most powerful spells and the most spectacular magical effects.”
“Wands with dragon heartstring also learn more quickly than most others.”
Ollivander continued.
“However, among the three supreme wand cores, dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, and phoenix feather, it is also the one most prone to accidents.”
“It is the least stable.”
“It is also the most likely to turn toward the Dark Arts.”
“Fel, you must be careful with the choices you make and learn to master it.”
Fel nodded.
Dragons had always symbolized overwhelming power and brutality.
If he wanted to master a dragon heartstring wand, then he would have to be even stronger than it was.
“Now for the blackthorn wood.”
“It is an extraordinarily unusual wand wood and is exceptionally well suited for warriors.”
“Dark wizards also admire its remarkable power.”
Ollivander fixed his eyes on Fel.
“A blackthorn wand is either in the hands of an Auror or belongs to a resident of Azkaban.”
Fel’s expression turned serious.
“Only after surviving cruel thorns does it produce its sweetest berries after the harshest frost.”
“So wands made from blackthorn seem to require their owner to face danger and hardship alongside them before they become true companions.”
Ollivander looked at him with concern.
“Blackthorn combined with dragon heartstring creates a terrifyingly powerful combination, but it is also much harder to control.”
“Fel, your will must remain unwavering.”
“Think about the people who love you, and the people you love.”
Fel glanced at Hermione and Mr.
and Mrs.
Granger beside him.
Then he nodded solemnly and tightened his grip on the wand.
“Alright, my turn!”
Hermione’s slightly chubby face was filled with eager anticipation.