Wand, Wand

When Yulian pushed open the door to the wand shop, the air was filled with the scent of aged wood, parchment, and some indescribable "magical mustiness"—like an old broom forgotten in an attic for a hundred years mixed with a spellbook that snored.

Thousands upon thousands of wand boxes packed the walls, stretching up to a ceiling lost from sight. They were stacked in layer upon layer, so dense they looked like a beehive built from magic.

As soon as Yulian stepped inside, he heard a clear, slightly haughty voice from behind the shelves:

"...So I told you, it's not this one! It can't even spell my name right!"

He walked around a towering row of boxes and saw a petite girl standing with her hands on her hips in front of Ollivander. She had long, smooth black hair, skin so pale it was nearly translucent, and rare light-gray eyes like mist on a winter morning.

The girl wore a finely tailored dark green jacket, with a silver snake-shaped brooch pinned to her chest. Though she hadn't started school yet, she already had the unmistakable air of a Slytherin.

"Sorry, miss," Ollivander said helplessly. "Wands don't spell names. They only respond to magic."

"Then it's just humoring me!" The girl spun around in a huff and nearly bumped into Yulian. She looked up and glared at him. "You're in the way."

"Sorry, I'm here to buy a wand too," Yulian replied calmly. "Same as you."

"Hmph." The girl sized him up, her gaze lingering for a second on his Muggle suit. It was clearly made of fine fabric and expertly tailored, but the girl still gave a slight curl of her lip. "I hope your magic is better than your taste in clothes. You can go first."

Yulian wasn't offended. He smiled instead. "Thanks, but I hope your patience is better than your temper."

The girl blinked, apparently not expecting anyone to talk back to her. She snorted and folded her arms as she stepped aside, though she couldn't help sneaking glances at him.

Ollivander cleared his throat, his silvery eyes moving between them as if he'd seen right through something. "Ah... interesting."

He turned to Yulian. "Well then, sir, let's get started. Your surname?"

"Oh, my name is Shiloh Yulian Black."

"Black?" Ollivander and the girl standing beside him with her arms folded both raised their eyebrows.

"I don't recall any young wizards in the current generation of the Black Family."

No wonder that old geezer of a grandfather refused to come. Ollivander really does have a gift for remembering people.

"I come from a Muggle family," Yulian said with a shrug, offering no further explanation.

"Oh, oh, no problem." Ollivander stared into Yulian's eyes, muttering to himself. "But why do I feel like I saw eyes just like yours on Harry Potter a few days ago?"

When Yulian showed no intention of answering, Ollivander shrugged. "All right. Which hand do you usually use?"

"My right hand, sir."

"Very good." What happened next was a repeat of the scene at Madam Malkin's. A measuring tape once again fluttered all around, taking Yulian's measurements—though this time the process was even more complicated. At least making clothes didn't require measuring the distance between his pupils.

The trials that followed were nothing short of disastrous.

"The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around," Ollivander muttered as he handed over the first one. "Hawthorn wand, Unicorn hair core, nine inches. Try this."

Yulian took it, and had barely started to wave it when the wand gave a puff and spewed out a cloud of thick black smoke that smelled like burnt socks mixed with rotten eggs. He hastily dropped it, coughing and choking.

"Hmm. Clearly, it thinks you're not pure enough," Ollivander said expressionlessly, putting the wand back in its box. "Or maybe it was in a bad mood last night."

"Ha. I think the wand got it right," the girl sneered from the sidelines, her arms folded.

Yulian ignored her.

Ollivander's second wand was oak, with a Dragon heartstring core, eleven inches long.

This one was even worse. The wand tip gave a sharp crack and shot out a ball of flame, nearly setting Yulian's eyebrows on fire. He frantically patted at them, but the smoke still stung his eyes, and he wiped away tears for ages.

"Uh-oh. Dragon heartstrings have fiery tempers," Ollivander commented. "Perhaps it thinks you're too calm and wants to add a little 'passion'?"

The third wand was Grapewood, with a Phoenix feather core, twelve inches long.

"Try this one. It usually chooses calm and quick-witted young wizards, and can be of particular help with Transfiguration."

As it turned out, this wand was a complete drama queen.

The moment Yulian gripped it, it began to vibrate violently, seemingly buzzing in protest. The next second, it wrenched free of his hand and went careening wildly through the air like a drunken hummingbird, knocking wand boxes off several nearby shelves.

Every time Yulian failed—or, as Ollivander put it, every time he was rejected—the girl would make a meaningful "tsk-tsk," as if she were enjoying a comedy.

"Looks like some people," she drawled, "are destined never to be favored by a wand. What a shame. Ha ha ha."

Ollivander, however, wasn't annoyed or in a hurry. His eyes were instead alarmingly bright. "Interesting... very interesting!"

After they tried a few more wands, Ollivander grew more and more excited. "Contradiction... fusion... child of the boundary..." he murmured, perhaps without knowing what he was saying himself.

Then his eyes suddenly lit up, and he stared intently at Yulian.

"An old, heavy bloodline, with an aristocratic arrogance; yet there's also a fresh, natural power within you, like the first breeze of spring, or the scent of soil after rain... Contradictory, yet harmonious. This isn't a Half-blood. This is... fusion."

The girl beside them stared at Yulian in surprise, her eyes now serious, no longer mocking.

Ollivander's eyes suddenly widened as if inspiration had struck him like lightning. "Aha! I remember!" He hurried to the back of the shop and took a dust-covered box from the highest shelf.

He flicked his right hand, and a silent, wandless cleaning charm swept the dust from the box. (Or perhaps he just used his sleeve; Yulian hadn't seen clearly.)

"Silver lime wood, exactly thirteen inches. The core—Thunderbird tail feather wound around moonstone crystal powder. What are you waiting for? Open it and see!"

Yulian opened the box. Inside lay a wand with a long, graceful shape. The wood was smooth and warm as jade, and glimmered with a faint silvery-gray sheen, as if moonlight had been made solid.

When Yulian picked up the wand, he immediately felt its warmth, as if he were holding his own surging blood in his hand. He could even feel what seemed like two heartbeats beneath the wood.

One was a thunderous, fervent pulse, longing to tear through the clouds and shake the world. The other flowed coolly like moonlight, speaking of hidden secrets, nighttime schemes, and silent pride. The two sensations intertwined and swirled in Yulian's palm.

What gushed from the wand tip was no longer black smoke or flame. Instead, it began to form a vivid illusion—part leaping blue-white lightning, part gentle moonlight flowing like liquid silver—creating a dynamic scene filled with tension and beauty.

Every wand box in the shop trembled in unison, humming with a low resonance. Isabella stared, dumbfounded, and even forgot to maintain the arrogance expected of a girl of noble birth.

"That's right, that's right. Just as I thought."

Ollivander's voice trembled. "Silver lime wood, rare, from the Far East. Its wood is just as its name suggests: smooth and resilient, and warm to the touch. It's extremely loyal. Once it has chosen its master, it wraps their will like the finest silk. Beneath its elegance lies an unyielding strength."

"This was an experimental piece from when I was young. I haven't had an imagination like that in a long time." Ollivander sighed, then continued. "Thunderbird: the embodiment of storms and freedom. Its tail feathers seek grandeur, intensity, and the power to change fate. But moonstone... that's the guardian of dreams, intuition, and the hidden self."