“Yes, I believe I can help.” Mr.
Ollivander smiled and stepped forward.
He stared at the person beside Vincent for a long moment, then slowly shifted his gaze back to Vincent himself.
“You look remarkably familiar.
I feel as though I’ve seen you before, yet I can’t quite place it.” Harry was about to speak when the little paper crane Vincent had sent out earlier suddenly flew in, pecking insistently at Harry’s face as if trying to drag him outside.
Vincent glanced at it.
“Looks like that friend of yours needs you for something.
Go meet him first.
I’ll wait here for you to come back.” Harry still needed a wand of his own.
He could always return with his friend.
Vincent didn’t mind meeting Harry’s new acquaintance.
In fact, he was curious.
Who exactly was this guide who had brought Harry to Diagon Alley?
He himself had only received an owl-delivered letter and a long list of notes.
No one had escorted him here.
In Diagon Alley he had noticed that Muggle-born wizards were usually brought by their parents.
Shouldn’t he have had a guide the same way Harry did?
He had also overheard wizards talking about “Harry Potter” with open admiration.
That puzzled him even more.
According to them, Harry was the savior.
So why had he spent a miserable childhood with an aunt who treated him so poorly?
It didn’t match the reverence in their voices.
Vincent’s curiosity kept growing, but he never asked Harry.
Harry wouldn’t know the answers either.
They had known each other for three years.
Vincent had watched Harry’s unhappy childhood with his own eyes.
He trusted what he had seen far more than the stories other people told.
He watched Harry leave, then turned back to Mr.
Ollivander, who was still staring at his face without blinking.
“Sir, would you mind choosing a wand for me first?
My friend will be back shortly.” Only then did Ollivander seem to snap out of his daze.
He nodded hastily and began selecting wands.
“Try this one.
Unicorn hair core, camphor wood, thirteen and six-eighths inches, quite flexible—an excellent choice for a beginner.” Vincent had no idea what the special connection between wand and core was supposed to feel like.
He simply took the wand and gave it a try.
Nothing happened.
“Oh, no matter, no matter.
Wizards choose wands, but wands also choose wizards.
It seems the two of you simply aren’t the best match.” Ollivander started pulling one box after another from the towering stacks, listing strange combinations of woods and cores.
Time passed either very quickly or very slowly.
Harry still hadn’t returned.
Vincent had already tried at least twenty or thirty wands.
He didn’t even need to cast a spell with any of them.
The moment a wand touched his hand, he knew it wasn’t right.
The strange certainty came from nowhere, yet Vincent was sure of it.
Even if he forced magic through an unsuitable wand, the result would not be pleasant.
Ollivander looked increasingly troubled.
“Still nothing?
Perhaps you have a preferred core?
That can deepen the connection between you and the wand.” Vincent shook his head.
He hadn’t even had time to look through the books he bought at the bookstore.
He knew nothing about the preferences wizards held toward different cores.
“Mr.
Ollivander, you’ve been talking about the wood.
Do you happen to have any yew wands?
I’m rather fond of that particular tree.” “Yew?!” Ollivander’s reaction was strange.
He stared at Vincent’s eyes with something close to fear… and began backing away.
“If he prefers yew, then please bring one out for him to try, Mr.
Ollivander.” The door opened suddenly.
An elderly, calm voice entered the shop that until now had held only two people.
Vincent turned.
A long-robed wizard with completely white hair and beard stood in the doorway.
Light caught on the long beard, making tiny points of brightness dance.
Crescent-shaped glasses hid whatever emotion lived in his eyes.
Perhaps it was the play of light and shadow, but Vincent couldn’t read his expression.
Mr.
Ollivander recognized the visitor at once.
“Oh, Mr.
Dumbledore!
I never expected to see you here.
Have you come to help this young wizard choose a wand?” The wizard called Dumbledore gave a small nod and offered a polite, gentle smile.
“Yes, Mr.
Ollivander.
Please select a yew wand for him.” Vincent knew the name “Dumbledore.” His acceptance letter had been signed by Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, but it had also mentioned Dumbledore.
Dumbledore walked over to stand beside Vincent.
Ollivander had already hurried back into his storeroom to search for yew wands, giving them a moment alone.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Dumbledore said.
“I wrote your acceptance letter myself.
I hope the notes I included were of some help.” He looked down at Vincent, whose expression was a little cold.
His eyes seemed to be looking through Vincent at someone else entirely.
Vincent recognized that look.
His adoptive parents used to look at his face the same way—searching for the child they had lost.
Yes, the dead child.
He had never told Harry that his parents hadn’t been childless when they adopted him.
Before him there had been a son who looked a little like Vincent.
He had been brought home as a replacement.
The expression on Dumbledore’s face made Vincent’s brow tighten.
“Hello, Mr.
Dumbledore.
Your notes were very helpful.
Thank you for your generosity.
I’ve already bought everything I need—except a wand.” Vincent might as well have pointed a finger at Dumbledore’s nose and said: You didn’t need to come.
Dumbledore sensed the hostility and showed not the slightest offense, as though he had expected exactly this reaction.
“Choose your wand.” Mr.
Ollivander returned carrying wooden boxes—three or four of them, beautifully patterned yet dusty, clearly the ones that had been sitting at the bottom of the shelves for years.
“Wands that stay at the bottom of the pile are not inferior,” Ollivander said quickly, noticing Vincent’s glance.
“They remain because they are particularly particular.” He didn’t want any of his wands to be undervalued.
Every wand was unique and deserved the best possible master.
Vincent gave a small smile that never reached his eyes.
“I understand, Mr.
Ollivander.
Every wand in this shop is outstanding.” Whether they truly were the best was anyone’s guess.
There was only one wand shop on the entire street, so it probably was the best.
Otherwise it wouldn’t have stayed in business this long.
Ollivander’s expression brightened at the corners of his eyes—not because Vincent had praised him, but because he had praised the wands.
What a discerning child.
He simply happened to share a similar face with that dark figure from the past.
They were completely different people.
Ollivander must have been mistaken.
He knew his own habits.
He could recite the details of every wand he had ever sold, even ones from decades ago.
But when it came to faces, he sometimes had to think carefully.
Mixing up one or two people was only natural.
Having soothed himself, Ollivander set aside the heavier thoughts and began introducing the wands in his hands with care.
Vincent didn’t need the introductions.
As soon as Ollivander opened the boxes one by one, revealing the wands nestled carefully on velvet, Vincent’s eyes locked onto the box farthest from him.
“That wand,” Vincent said.
“May I try that one?
It looks truly beautiful.” Ollivander’s face softened with something almost tender.
“It is a very beautiful wand indeed.
Yew, fourteen inches, with a rather unusual core.
A wand of considerable power.” Vincent could hardly pull his gaze away.
The moment Ollivander placed the wand in his hand, he felt the magic inside him surge to life.
Boom— Brilliant miniature fireworks exploded throughout the shop, painting beautiful patterns in the air.
Not a single spark touched the floor or the flammable velvet.
“It likes you.
You are the perfect match.” Ollivander was almost more excited than Vincent.
He stared at the boy who had seemed so distant a moment ago and began explaining the wand’s history.
“The core is extremely rare.
I found it by pure chance among my father’s unfinished works.
It has stayed with me for decades without finding a suitable master.
I never imagined it would finally accept you.” Only at the very end did Ollivander reveal the mysterious core.
“Basilisk horn.
No one has truly seen a basilisk, let alone its horn.
Many believed it was only a legend.
Until I saw it myself, I believed the same.
My father inherited the material from the elders of our family, and it has remained with us ever since.
If you hadn’t specifically asked for yew today, I might never have brought it out.” Basilisk horn—the horn from the head of a basilisk.
Salazar Slytherin, one of the founders of Hogwarts, had once used it as the core of his own wand.
Dumbledore of course understood what a basilisk horn meant.
He looked at Vincent in quiet surprise.
The boy who had finally found a wand he liked now wore an expression of pure, age-appropriate delight.
Ollivander was still lost in the joy of matching such a beautiful wand with its proper master.
He had completely forgotten that certain figures from old stories were not supposed to appear in real life—let alone as components of a wand.
Vincent gripped the wand tightly, unwilling to loosen his fingers even for a second, and immediately reached for his money.
“I cannot put a price on this wand, young sir.
It was not made by my hand, but by my father’s.
To be honest, if it hadn’t chosen you today, I might have worried that the years had already robbed it of its usefulness.” Ollivander’s eyes burned as he stared at the wand—not the gaze of a merchant looking at merchandise, but of a craftsman looking at a creation he loved.
Of course, his father’s creation was still a creation.
He was not a merchant.
He was an artisan.
Vincent met his eyes seriously.
“Mr.
Ollivander, I am willing to pay the highest price any wand in this shop has ever commanded, and to add a promise of my own.
I am still young, but I believe that one day I will make that promise worth everything.” The words were sincere.
Ollivander could not refuse.
He smiled and accepted thirty-five Galleons—no wand had ever sold for so much—and threw in a wand-care kit as a gift.
Dumbledore, after those first few sentences, had become little more than background scenery.
He had not wanted to come.
When he saw the name on the list of new students, his feelings had been more complicated than anyone else’s.
Vincent tucked the wand away with a bright little smile.
The moment he turned back to Dumbledore, the distant expression returned.
“I know you want to talk with me, Mr.
Dumbledore.
Let’s find somewhere else.
We shouldn’t hold up the man’s business, should we?”