A suitable wand not only allowed a wizard’s magic to be fully unleashed— it could also vastly amplify the power of spells.
And yet Vincent Wayne, standing inside Ollivanders Wand Shop, had already tested eleven wands.
“Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.”
Remembering the golden words on the badly peeling sign outside, Vincent had begun seriously doubting the shop’s professionalism.
The boxes and dust scattered all over the floor clearly suggested poor craftsmanship.
After all, every time he gripped a wand, the tip immediately exploded with blasts of displaced air.
“Child, try this one.”
For the twelfth time, Ollivander spoke with unwavering confidence, his silver eyes still filled with excitement.
Feeling slightly nervous, Vincent grasped the thirteen-inch wand made from walnut wood and dragon heartstring.
As expected— the wand tip erupted once again, violently shaking the surrounding air.
Already prepared, McGonagall waved her hand and canceled the shockwave before it could kick up clouds of dust.
Aside from the first two attempts— this was already the tenth time she’d cast wandless magic.
Even Eric, who cared the least about magic, could perfectly anticipate the entire sequence by now.
“Oh!
A remarkably picky customer!”
Ollivander looked unusually thrilled.
His eyes when looking at Vincent even carried a trace of indescribable fanaticism.
“Mr.
Wayne, your physique suggests that longer wands suit you best—”
After disappearing briefly, Ollivander returned holding a worn and wrinkled box.
“If even this one fails to satisfy you…
I’m afraid nobody in Europe could craft a better wand.”
Vincent smiled awkwardly.
“That’s alright.”
With those words as reassurance, he felt certain the wand inside this long box wouldn’t be another defective product.
He had no system.
No cheat ability.
No overpowered golden finger.
No matter how special he was, he couldn’t possibly have magical power yet be unable to use a wand entirely.
Vincent had an incredibly strong feeling— the thirteenth wand would belong to him.
“Alder is among the least flexible woods.”
“And one of the finest materials for casting nonverbal magic.”
From a mountain of boxes, Ollivander carefully lifted a pale gray wand over fifteen inches long.
“This wood is stubborn.”
“So stubborn that even when broken, it refuses to abandon its original straight shape.”
The wand narrowed near the tip, while its handle featured carvings of some unknown bird with tail feathers wrapped around the grip.
Honestly— it looked extremely suitable for bonking someone on the head.
Reluctantly, Ollivander handed it over.
“The phoenix feather inside came from an ancient phoenix of the East.”
Vincent stared at the unknown bird and looked surprised.
“This carving…
is that what the phoenix looked like?”
“Yes.”
Nostalgia flickered through Ollivander’s silver eyes.
“She was the largest phoenix I’ve ever seen.”
“Even now, I’ve never forgotten how beautiful it was.”
Vincent paid no attention to Ollivander using she for a phoenix.
His tiny amount of wizarding knowledge had already taught him one thing:
Wizards were strange.
“Come now, child.”
“You and she will accomplish great things together.”
Under the gaze of four pairs of eyes, Vincent decisively gripped the wand.
Warmth immediately spread from the handle and slowly traveled upward around his left hand.
Tiny points of light drifted from the wand tip— brilliant like dazzling fireworks.
“Magnificent!”
Ollivander’s mouth slowly fell open.
“The last time I saw a match this perfect…
was earlier this morning.”
Vincent’s mouth twitched.
He was absolutely certain this so-called finest wandmaker in Europe said that exact line to every young wizard.
“Six Galleons total.”
Hoot poked its head into the money pouch and pulled out five gold coins.
Then it stared pitifully at Ollivander— as if silently hinting that life was difficult.
“Fine.”
“Five Galleons.”
McGonagall’s expression immediately softened with satisfaction.
These hundred Galleons represented the Wayne family’s entire savings.
Every single coin needed careful planning.
“Minerva, eighty percent off is my absolute limit.”
Madam Malkin smiled very stiffly.
“Whether the size fits doesn’t matter.”
“The important thing is durable fabric.”
McGonagall glanced toward Vincent’s wand.
“Mr.
Wayne, robes only require a simple Transfiguration spell to remain perfectly fitted.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
As Hoot reluctantly pulled three Galleons from the pouch, its large eyes glared furiously at Madam Malkin.
“Child, your pet is adorable.”
Vincent gently rubbed Hoot’s head as it peeked out from the money bag.
“It isn’t my pet.”
“It’s my first friend in the magical world.”
Madam Malkin took two Galleons from Hoot’s beak.
“Child, you’re truly kind.”
“No wonder Minerva treats you so well.”
“Madam, you have excellent judgment.”
Vincent gave a playful wink.
That amusing response instantly earned him synchronized eye-rolls from both of his parents.
Other families spent money sending children to school.
Their son, however, somehow managed not only to avoid spending money— but actually return with profits.
The more Eric thought about it, the more uneasy he became.
Next year— under absolutely no circumstances— would he ever set foot inside the Leaky Cauldron again.
He was technically a famous figure in the magical world now.
Breaking an oath would create serious consequences.
the moment he stepped into Flourish and Blotts— that decision was violently launched straight into outer space.
“Oh?
You’re Mr.
Wayne?”
“I am…
but you people are…?”
Several young witches and wizards suddenly gathered around Eric, their large eyes sparkling brightly.
“Could you give me an autograph?”
“Of course.”
Eric immediately flashed an extremely radiant smile.
The speed at which news traveled in the magical world, it seemed, wasn’t much slower than the era before Vincent’s transmigration.
“Professor, are reporters from the Daily Prophet always this efficient?”
“The newspaper changes according to events happening that very day.”
McGonagall requested a copy from one of the bookstore employees.
“Look.
The front page has already changed to your father.”
The article praising the Ministry’s latest policies had been unceremoniously pushed underneath a Muggle successfully completing the Gamp Ale challenge.
The moving photograph of Eric showed the exact moment he’d lowered the bottle and roared out his vow to quit drinking.
Apparently, some enthusiastic wizard in the pub had kindly provided it.
“Unbelievable!
This Muggle Has Surpassed Every Wizard of the Last Three Hundred Years!”
Just reading that exaggerated headline gave Vincent an extremely bad feeling.
As an example— that famous magical celebrity, Mr.
Potter, had apparently suffered school bullying in his first year, alongside wildly different treatment from professors, both good and bad.
Vincent had only watched the first movie in his previous life, so he didn’t dare make assumptions about the long-term consequences.
But he knew one thing:
Harry definitely hadn’t lived comfortably.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
“According to our investigation, Mr.
Wayne’s only son is among this year’s incoming Hogwarts students…”
Vincent immediately wore an I knew it expression.
That shameless reporter had somehow even acquired a moving rear-view photograph of him.
The picture itself only showed him elegantly folding a napkin.
But the article?
The article dramatically described the Wayne family as some kind of fallen Muggle aristocracy.
“Professor…
does the magical world have portrait rights?”
“Portrait rights?”
McGonagall blinked.
“What does that mean?”
Vincent now looked completely dead inside.
The pain had gone beyond despair.
Slowly turning the newspaper around, he sighed.
“It’s nothing.”
“I just think the Daily Prophet feels a little strange.”
He shrugged and began pouring out his grievances toward McGonagall.
“Fine, being on the front page is one thing…”
“But why are these huge sections all about our family?”