Isaac’s “prophet three-piece set” didn’t just rattle Dumbledore.
It hit Garrick Ollivander just as hard.
The moment the old wandmaker laid eyes on him, Grindelwald’s face flashed through his mind.
Why?
Because Isaac was standing next to Dumbledore.
People might wonder why none of the other shopkeepers in Diagon Alley had reacted to the platinum hair and mismatched eyes.
Simple.
The prophetic gift wasn’t visible.
All anyone saw were the hair and the eyes.
Grindelwald had terrorized the continent decades ago, when both he and Dumbledore were still young men.
In the wizarding world, powerful witches and wizards lived long lives—but not everyone was powerful.
The ones who could have recognized the combination rarely bothered wandering Diagon Alley on a random afternoon.
Dumbledore himself hadn’t set foot here in years.
The shops they’d visited earlier—bookstore, cauldron shop, apothecary—were all controlled by old pure-blood families, but the families didn’t run them personally.
They hired managers and clerks.
Young ones.
Those clerks had been surprised Dumbledore was paying for everything, sure.
But they weren’t old enough to connect the dots to Grindelwald.
At most they assumed Isaac was some distant relative.
Or, privately, Dumbledore’s illegitimate son.
The biggest reason?
Britain had been a “safe island” during Grindelwald’s war.
Dumbledore had kept the worst of it away.
Most British witches and wizards had never truly felt the terror, so the two visible traits didn’t ring any alarm bells.
Garrick Ollivander was different.
As Britain’s only true wandmaker, he was powerful in his own right—and power meant longevity.
He’d lived through Grindelwald’s rise.
He’d also paid very close attention to the man who once owned the Elder Wand.
And then there was the messy, decades-old gossip between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
How could Ollivander not be curious about that particular scandal?
He’d honestly thought he’d die before he ever learned the truth.
Yet here was Dumbledore—after years of refusing to escort new students—personally bringing a boy who looked like a young Grindelwald straight into his shop.
Good news: the old gossip might finally get answered today.
Bad news: he still couldn’t beat Dumbledore in a fight.
“Ahem.
Garrick, you all right?” Dumbledore’s gentle voice snapped Ollivander out of his trance.
The wandmaker quickly smoothed his expression into something more professional.
“Of course.
I was simply considering which wand materials would suit this young man.” He flicked his wand and the measuring tape rose into the air, gently wrapping around Isaac to take his measurements.
“And what should I call you, sir?” “Isaac Waldore.
Good evening, Mr.
Ollivander.” “Very good, Mr.
Waldore.
Which is your dominant hand?” Ollivander’s hands paused for half a second at the surname.
He’d half-expected “Grindelwald.” Or at least “Dumbledore.” But those names would have caused the boy trouble.
Waldore was safer.
Much safer.
“Left,” Isaac answered.
He’d always been a lefty.
If he had a choice, he wanted the wand to match.
Once the measurements were done, Ollivander stared at Isaac’s face for a long moment, then seemed to reach a decision.
“Please wait here, Mr.
Waldore.” He turned and began searching through the towering stacks of wand boxes.
Finally he pulled one free from the middle of the mountain.
“Try this.
Blackthorn wood, phoenix feather core, thirteen inches.” Dust swirled as he opened the box and lifted out a sleek black wand.
“Rare.
Temperamental.
Tremendous range.
Extremely picky about its master.
Once it chooses, however, it is fiercely loyal…” He didn’t mention that the phoenix feather came from Fawkes—Dumbledore’s own phoenix.
Dumbledore pushed his half-moon glasses up his nose.
Sunlight from the window caught the lenses and flashed white.
Isaac took the wand.
The second his fingers closed around it, the wood felt like an extension of his own body—like he’d grown a new limb.
Power surged through him, hot and eager.
Dumbledore stood right beside him, steady and reassuring.
Isaac didn’t hesitate.
He gave the wand a single, instinctive flick.
Every speck of dust in the shop rose at once.
It rushed toward the walls, squeezed through every crack and crevice, and exploded out into the open air of Diagon Alley.
When the last particle vanished, the shop looked brand new.
Same old wood, same old charm, but spotless.
Dumbledore chuckled.
“Well, Garrick.
Looks like you just saved yourself a thorough cleaning.” Ollivander shot him a look that could have curdled milk.
“Fine.
As thanks for the free cleaning, Mr.
Waldore, I’ll throw in a wand care kit at no extra charge.
My eye for these things remains as sharp as ever.” “Seven galleons, please.” Dumbledore paid without comment.
They left the shop loaded with packages.
Ollivander stood in the doorway long after they disappeared, still staring at the spot where they’d stood.
For a wandmaker, a wand revealed a great deal about its owner.
What he hadn’t said out loud was this: thirteen-inch blackthorn had been Grindelwald’s exact wand before he claimed the Elder Wand.
And the phoenix feather?
It came from Fawkes—Dumbledore’s phoenix.
The bird and the man were practically one and the same.
Ollivander only ever used three materials for wand cores.
Dumbledore’s beard hair was definitely not on that list.
This wand had been crafted with a very particular, very wicked sense of humor.
And today it had finally found the one person it was truly meant for.
You could almost hear it laughing.