Beyond Fate's Wand

Failing to find a blacksmith shop left Harry feeling somewhat disappointed.

The Hogwarts robes also made him feel a bit uncomfortable—he hadn't expected them to be so loose, leaving him with a constant sensation that he might trip over his own feet.

He was still more accustomed to wearing armor; even a tight-fitting tunic would have been better than this.

Hagrid soon returned to take him to buy the rest of his supplies: a cauldron, herbs, books, and even a trip to the pet shop, where Hagrid gave him an early birthday present—a beautiful, sweet-smiling snowy owl.

Birthday.

July 31st.

He had almost forgotten the date. A Witcher is an outcast; though human by nature, they do celebrate birthdays. Yet, most of the time was spent in the wilderness, slaying monsters and upholding justice, or fleeing from humans and beasts alike. It had been a long time since Harry had spent a proper birthday.

"Last thing is to get you a wand." Hagrid looked at the list and muttered, "Ollivander is the best wandmaker; you'll definitely find the most suitable wand for you there."

A wizard's "blacksmith shop."

It was quite different from the environment Harry had imagined—small, dilapidated, with only a single wand sitting lonely in a dust-covered cabinet.

Pushing the door open, the atmosphere inside felt oppressive, no... it wasn't the environment itself.

A Witcher possesses extremely keen sensory perception.

The moment he stepped into the room, Harry sensed it.

The scents of thousands of powerful creatures were intermingled, accompanied by chaotic fluctuations of magic.

"Oh, a sharp young man." A soft voice suddenly emerged from behind a counter, giving Hagrid a start. Harry, however, had been prepared; he had long since noticed... this old man who possessed almost no presence, a man who could nearly slip through the cracks of his perception.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. You are even sharper than your mother." The old man with silvery-white eyes stepped out from behind the counter and studied Harry. "It seems you can sense the aura of these wands?"

Harry nodded: "Yes."

"I wish I had your talent." Ollivander muttered, "It took me thirty years of living with wands to be able to perceive them as you do."

"It's a truly wonderful feeling, isn't it?"

"A tiny wand, yet they have their own aura, their own lives, their own thoughts..."

"No." Harry said bluntly, "This feeling makes me very uncomfortable."

"It's like..."

"Suddenly breaking into a lair where thousands of monsters are eyeing me with hostility."

"They are all quite threatening."

Ollivander paused, then chuckled: "Oh... an interesting perspective. In your eyes, is everything that doesn't belong to you a threat?"

"You are very different from your parents. Perhaps... this is the little peculiarity of the Boy Who Lived?"

"Usually, when young wizards arrive, I recall their parents—children always inherit something from them, so I have them try wands that might balance the traits of both."

"Let me think..."

Ollivander turned around, picking and choosing from the shelves, and soon brought over a box: "Try this one. Beech wood, dragon heartstring, nine inches."

Harry took it. This wand also possessed a chaotic aura, but after struggling for a moment in his hand, it became exceptionally docile. He gave it a gentle wave.

A flash of red light emerged, kicking up a light breeze.

Ollivander looked at Harry in surprise: "Oh... strange."

He took the wand back, but instead of putting it away, he set it aside and shoved another one at Harry: "Try this one. Black walnut, phoenix feather, eleven and one-third inches."

This wand struggled as well, but soon became obedient and submissive.

With a gentle wave, a breeze stirred.

"Oh, how very strange!" A luster appeared in Ollivander's eyes, his tone becoming excited, "Come, try this one. Fir, unicorn hair, ten and a half inches."

"The survivor's wand, surely this should suit you better?"

Harry took it and gave it a wave, his expression blank.

"No, no, it doesn't suit you either." Ollivander snatched it back again and shoved another one over: "Apple wood, dragon heartstring, nine and seven-twelfths inches."

This one didn't fit either.

Alder, holly, blackthorn...

He tried many, but not a single one could satisfy Ollivander.

"Let me think, my dear, let me think hard." Ollivander rubbed his head.

Harry asked: "So, does every type of wand material correspond to a personality trait?"

Ollivander nodded: "Yes."

"Your mother was a gentle person, and your father was a capable leader—I thought if you inherited their virtues, then beech wood would be the most suitable for you."

"That wand did not resist you, but... it is not a partner that shares your ideals; it simply surrendered to you willingly."

"You are a sharp young gentleman, so I thought black walnut might suit you; it is also very keen, but like the previous wand, it is a subject, not a partner."

"I began to approach this from your other traits, but... their performance was the same, all quite ordinary."

At this, Ollivander looked up, observing Harry with a complex expression: "Of course, every young wizard destined for greatness is always like this."

"They might possess some... traits that ordinary people find difficult to perceive, but wands are always sensitive to such qualities."

"Just like that gentleman." Ollivander couldn't help but shiver, his gaze falling on Harry's forehead. "Just like the gentleman who left you that scar."

"I thought he would be suited for Elm, Acacia, or perhaps Vine, but in the end, the one that chose him was Yew."

"It is a wand highly adept at Dark Magic; some of its previous owners could even be called notorious."

Harry remained expressionless.

Hagrid shivered, looking from Ollivander to Harry, feeling somewhat uneasy and uncertain.

"But you are not like that." Ollivander frowned. "Those wands skilled in Dark Magic seem, if anything, more inclined to resist you."

"In your hand... it is as if you were the prey."

Harry gave a self-deprecating smile—he was a Witcher, after all. Even though humans might curse them as freaks, monsters, and emotionless mutants, they were indeed the "enforcers of justice" who hunted down darkness and monsters.

"I thought Dumbledore was right, that you were suited for the wand of destiny." Ollivander picked one up and showed it to Harry. "This one: Holly, phoenix feather, eleven inches."

"Two wands were made from the feathers of the same phoenix, and this is one of them."

"The other, Yew, thirteen and a half inches, was sold to that Dark Lord who must not be named."

"But it does not suit you either."

"You have not been bound by destiny as Dumbledore expected."

Harry reached up and touched his scar. "Is that so? That is truly a pity."

Ollivander suddenly stood up, studying Harry. "Oh, I have an idea!"

"Yes, you are clever and mature, but no young wizard—or even an adult wizard, for that matter—has ever truly grasped the meaning behind the saying 'the wand chooses the wizard'."

"You noticed it from the very beginning, though I must say, I didn't much care for your phrasing."

"Perhaps you should try this one?"

Ollivander rummaged through his stock and produced a wand. "Cedar, phoenix feather, eleven inches."

"I would never consider provoking the owner of a Cedar wand. Very few wizards possess them, but those who do are endowed with exceptionally keen insight and observation."

"I believe it will suit you well."

Harry reached out and took it. The aura of the wand did not struggle; instead, it tentatively touched his hand before wrapping around it joyfully.

He gave it a gentle wave.

A breeze stirred, causing Ollivander to wince and bare his teeth.

"Indeed!" Despite his disheveled appearance, Ollivander couldn't care less, clapping his hands in delight. "This wand is the perfect match for you."

"You are a picky little wizard. Oh, I must record you in my book; this is truly marvelous."

Harry toyed with the small stick and nodded. "Thank you. How much for this wand?"

"Seven Galleons," Ollivander replied, muttering to himself as he pulled a book from behind the counter. "Wand Care. This book is a gift for you."

"Remember, treat it well."

"If you were to look for another suitable wand, it would not be so easy."

As Harry took out his Galleons and accepted the book, he asked casually, "By the way, Mr. Ollivander, I have a question I would like to ask you."

Ollivander raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"Do you know if there is a blacksmith's shop in Diagon Alley, or anywhere else?" Harry asked.

Ollivander froze, his eyes widening.

Good heavens...

What had he just heard...

"Why are you asking about that?" he stammered, looking at the wand in Harry's hand, his heart silently cursing—he hadn't felt a shred of displeasure from the wand.

You master, you just got your hands on him, and he's already thinking about other weapons!

Wake up!

Stop fawning over him!

"I want to have two swords forged," Harry replied earnestly. "I might be better suited to becoming... a wizard like Gryffindor." He took the excuse he had just heard at the clothing store and used it directly.

"Gryffindor only had one sword." Ollivander was expressionless, his voice cold as he clicked his tongue. "And there are no blacksmiths in Diagon Alley!"

"A hundred years ago, there were goblins who did that line of work, forging weapons specifically for Muggle-born wizards, but... times have changed. No young wizard buys such crude, brutal, and barbaric things anymore!"

"The goblins all work at Gringotts now."

Harry sighed. "That is a real pity. Do you know any goblins, then? I would like to ask..."

"No, I do not!" Ollivander gritted his teeth, rudely cutting Harry off. "A wizard only needs to know how to use a wand; you must treat it well!"

"The age of Gryffindor has passed!"

"That's enough. I am exhausted from choosing a wand for such a troublesome little wizard; let me get some rest."

The two of them were ushered out.

Harry was not surprised in the slightest; it seemed all Witchers suffered from this same issue.

They would clearly be having a perfectly reasonable conversation, yet in the end... it would always devolve into settling matters with a sword or a fist.

Hagrid looked at Harry with a strange expression: "I have never seen Mr. Ollivander so angry, Harry... you truly are a qualified Gryffindor."

Harry nodded, lost in thought.

So...

Being able to make people angry is synonymous with being a Gryffindor?

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