Wands, Wands

Pushing open the door to the wand shop, the air was filled with the scent of aged wood, parchment, and a certain indefinable "magical mustiness"—like the smell of an old broom forgotten in an attic for a hundred years mixed with a snoring spellbook.

Thousands upon thousands of wand boxes were piled high against the walls, stretching all the way to the unseen ceiling, layered and dense, resembling a honeycomb constructed of magic.

Yulian had just stepped inside when he heard a crisp, slightly arrogant voice call out from behind a shelf:

"...So I told you, it's not this one! It even misspelled my name!"

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, silky black hair, skin so pale it was almost translucent, and eyes of a rare, pale gray, like the thin mist of a winter morning.

The girl wore a meticulously tailored dark green jacket, and on her chest was pinned a silver snake-shaped brooch—even though she hadn't started school yet, she already exuded a distinct Slytherin aura.

"My apologies, miss," Ollivander said helplessly, "wands don't spell names, they only respond to magic."

"Then it's just being difficult!" The girl turned away indignantly, nearly bumping into Yulian. She looked up and glared at him, "You're in the way."

"Excuse me, I'm also here to buy a wand," Yulian replied calmly, "just like you."

"Hmph." The girl sized him up, her gaze lingering for a second on his Muggle suit. Though the fabric and tailoring were clearly excellent, she still curled her lips slightly, "I hope your magic is stronger than your fashion sense. You go first."

Yulian didn't get angry; instead, he smiled, "Thank you, but I hope your patience is better than your temper."

The girl paused, seemingly surprised that anyone would dare talk back like that. She snorted coldly and stood to the side with her arms crossed, but her eyes couldn't help but sneak glances at him.

Ollivander cleared his throat, his silver-white eyes darting between the two, as if seeing through something. "Ah... interesting."

He turned to Yulian, "So, sir, shall we begin? May I have your surname?"

"Oh, my name is Shielum Yulian Black."

"Black?" Ollivander and the girl standing beside him with her arms crossed both raised an eyebrow.

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

Yulian thought to himself, No wonder that old geezer grandfather wouldn't come. This Ollivander's memory really is a talent.

"I come from a Muggle family," Yulian shrugged, offering no further explanation.

"Oh, oh, no problem." Ollivander mumbled, staring into Yulian's eyes, "But why do your eyes remind me of Harry Potter, whom I saw just the other day?"

Seeing that Yulian had no intention of speaking, Ollivander shrugged, "Alright, which hand do you usually use?"

"My right hand, sir."

"Very good." The scene that had unfolded at Madam Malkin's repeated itself. A measuring tape flew up and down again, taking Yulian's measurements, even more meticulously than at Madam Malkin's—at least making clothes didn't require measuring interpupillary distance.

The subsequent trials were a disaster.

"It is the wand that 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 one."

Yulian took it and was about to give it a wave when the wand let out a "poof" and spewed a thick plume of black smoke that smelled like burnt socks mixed with rotten eggs. He quickly dropped it, coughing from the fumes.

"Hmm~ Clearly, it felt you weren't pure enough," Ollivander said expressionlessly, tucking the wand back into its box. "Or perhaps it was in a bad mood last night."

"Ha, I think the wand's assessment was correct," the girl sneered from the side, arms crossed.

Yulian ignored her.

Ollivander brought out a second wand: Oak, Dragon heartstring, eleven inches.

This time it was worse. The tip of the wand went "crack," spewing a burst of flame that nearly singed Yulian's eyebrows. He frantically patted them down, but the smoke still got into his eyes, causing him to tear up for a good while.

"Uh oh, Dragon heartstring wands have fiery tempers," Ollivander commented. "Perhaps it thought you were too calm and wanted to add some 'passion'?"

The third wand was Grapewood, Phoenix feather, twelve inches.

"Try this one. It's most likely to choose a calm and agile young wizard and will be particularly helpful with Transfiguration."

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

The moment Yulian grasped it, it began to vibrate violently, emitting a "buzzing" protest. The next second, it violently wrenched itself from his hand and danced wildly in the air like a drunken hummingbird, knocking over wand boxes from several nearby shelves.

With each failure Yulian experienced (or, as Ollivander put it, each rejection), the girl let out a meaningful "tsk," as if enjoying a comical show.

"It seems some people," she drawled, "are simply not destined to be favored by wands. What a shame, hahaha."

Ollivander, however, far from being annoyed or angry, had eyes that shone with alarming intensity. "Interesting... very interesting!"

After a few more attempts, Ollivander grew increasingly excited. "Contradiction... fusion... child of the boundary..." he murmured, perhaps not even knowing what he was saying himself.

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

"Bloodline, ancient, heavy, carrying aristocratic arrogance; yet there's a fresh, natural power about you, like the first breath of spring wind, or the scent of earth after rain... a contradiction, yet harmonious. This isn't half-blood; this is... fusion."

At this, the girl beside him also stared at Yulian in surprise, her eyes now serious and devoid of their earlier amusement.

Ollivander suddenly's eyes flew open, as if struck by a bolt of inspiration. "Aha! I remember!" He suddenly dashed to the back of the shop and retrieved a dusty box from the highest shelf.

With a flick of his right hand, a wandless, noiseless cleaning charm swept the dust off the box. (Of course, maybe he just used his sleeve; Yulian couldn't see clearly.)

"Silver lime wood, thirteen inches exactly. Core—a Thunderbird's tail feather wound around moonstone crystal powder. What are you waiting for, open it!"

Yulian opened the box and saw a wand lying inside. The wand was long and slender, its wood smooth and warm like jade, emitting a faint silvery-gray luster, as if moonlight had solidified.

When Yulian picked up the wand, he immediately felt its warmth, like grasping his own flowing bloodline. He could even feel what seemed like a dual heartbeat beneath the wood.

One was a thunderous, passionate pulse, eager to tear through the clouds and shake the heavens; the other was a cool, moonlit flow, whispering of hidden secrets, nocturnal schemes, and silent pride. The two sensations intertwined and spun in Yulian's palm.

The tip of the wand no longer spewed black mist or flames, but began to condense into a tangible illusion—like a leaping blue-white lightning bolt, or like soft moonlight pouring like mercury, forming a dynamic, tension-filled, and beautiful picture.

All the wand boxes in the shop vibrated in unison, emitting a low resonance that left Isabella dumbfounded, forgetting even to maintain the arrogance befitting a noble.

"Right, right. It's just as I thought."

Ollivander's voice trembled slightly. "Silver lime wood, rare, from the Far East. Its wood is smooth and resilient, as its name suggests, and it feels warm to the touch. It is extremely loyal; once it recognizes a master, it wraps their will like the most magnificent brocade. Beneath its elegance lies an unyielding tenacity."

"This was an experimental piece from my youth. I haven't had such imagination in a long time," Ollivander sighed and continued, "Thunderbird, the embodiment of storms and freedom. Its tail feather pursues grand, intense power that changes fate. But Moonstone... that is the guardian of dreams, intuition, and the hidden self."