Harry had been a little disappointed not to find a blacksmith's shop.
He still wasn't used to his Hogwarts robes. He hadn't expected them to be so loose, and they kept making him feel as though they would get in his way.
He was more used to wearing armor. Even tight-fitting clothes would have been better.
Hagrid soon returned and took him to buy the rest of his things: a cauldron, herbs, and books. They also stopped by a pet shop, where Hagrid gave him an early birthday present—a beautiful snowy owl with a sweet smile.
His birthday.
July 31st.
He'd almost forgotten the date. Witchers were different from ordinary people. Though they were human at their core, they still celebrated birthdays. But most of the time, they were out in the wilderness, fighting evil—or running from humans and monsters. Harry hadn't had a proper birthday in a long time.
"All that's left is to get you a wand." Hagrid looked over the list and muttered, "Ollivander's the best wandmaker. You'll find the wand that suits you best there."
A wizard's "blacksmith's shop."
It wasn't quite what Harry had imagined. The place was small and shabby, and there was only one lonely wand on the dusty shelves.
When he pushed open the door, the atmosphere inside felt oppressive, too. No... it wasn't the surroundings.
Witchers had exceptionally keen senses.
The moment he entered, Harry noticed it.
The scents of thousands of powerful creatures mingled together, along with a jumble of magical energies.
"Oh, a perceptive young man." A soft voice suddenly came from behind a counter, startling Hagrid. Harry had been ready for it. He'd noticed the old man long ago... a man with so little presence that he could almost slip beyond Harry's senses.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. You're more perceptive than your mother." The old man, whose eyes were silver-white, emerged from behind the counter and studied Harry. "Can you sense the wands?"
Harry nodded. "Yes."
"I wish I'd had a gift like yours," Ollivander muttered. "It took me thirty years of working with wands before I could sense them that way."
"It's a wonderful feeling, isn't it?"
"A little wand, and yet each has its own presence, its own life, its own thoughts..."
"No," Harry said bluntly. "It makes me uncomfortable."
"It's like..."
"Suddenly walking into a nest where a thousand monsters are glaring at you."
"They're all dangerous."
Ollivander froze, then laughed. "Oh... an interesting point of view. In your eyes, is anything that doesn't belong to you a threat?"
"You're very different from your parents. Perhaps... that's one of the Chosen One's little peculiarities?"
"Usually, when a young wizard comes in, I think of their parents. Children always inherit something from them, so I have them try wands that can accommodate both parents' traits."
"Let me think..."
Ollivander turned and rummaged through the shelves behind the counter. Before long, he brought out a box. "Try this one. Beech, Dragon Heartstring, nine inches."
Harry took the wand. It, too, carried a jumble of scents, but it struggled in his hand only briefly before becoming remarkably docile. He gave it a gentle wave.
A flash of red light appeared, stirring up a breeze.
Ollivander stared at Harry in surprise. "Oh... strange."
He snatched the wand back, but didn't put it away. Instead, he set it aside and handed Harry another. "Try this one. Black Walnut, Phoenix Feather, eleven and one-third inches."
This wand struggled as well, but soon became obedient.
Harry gave it a gentle wave. A breeze stirred.
"Oh, how very strange!" Ollivander's eyes gleamed, and his voice grew excited. "Try this one. Fir, Unicorn Hair, ten and a half inches."
"The wand of a survivor should suit you better, shouldn't it?"
Harry took it and gave it a blank-faced wave.
"No, no, it doesn't suit you either." Ollivander snatched it back and handed him another. "Applewood, Dragon Heartstring, nine and seven-twelfths inches."
This one didn't suit him either.
Alder, holly, blackthorn...
They tried many, but not a single one satisfied Ollivander.
"Let me think, dear boy. Let me think carefully." Ollivander rubbed his head.
Harry asked, "So each wand material corresponds to a particular personality trait?"
Ollivander nodded. "Yes."
"Your mother was a gentle person, and your father was a capable leader. I thought that if you'd inherited their best qualities, beech would surely be the best match for you."
"That wand didn't resist you, but... it wasn't a kindred spirit. It was simply willing to submit to you."
"You're a perceptive young man, so I thought Black Walnut might suit you. It's perceptive, too, but like the last wand, it's a subject, not a partner."
"I started considering your other traits, but... they all responded the same way. None of them stood out."
At this, Ollivander raised his head and looked at Harry with a complicated expression. "Of course, every young wizard destined for greatness is like this."
"Perhaps they have some... quality that ordinary people can't easily detect. But wands are always very sensitive to such qualities."
"Just like that gentleman." Ollivander couldn't help shivering. His eyes fell on Harry's forehead. "The gentleman who left you that scar."
"I thought he might suit elm, acacia, or Vine Wood, but in the end, the one that suited him was yew."
"It's a wand particularly well suited to Dark Magic. Some of its owners could even be called notorious."
Harry's expression remained blank.
Hagrid shivered as he looked from Ollivander to Harry, uncertain what to make of it.
"But you're not like that." Ollivander frowned. "The wands suited to Dark Magic resist you even more than the others."
"In your hands... they're like prey."
Harry gave a self-deprecating smile. He was a Witcher, after all. Humans might curse them as freaks, monsters, and emotionless outcasts, but they were still "champions of justice," hunting down darkness and monsters.
"I thought Dumbledore was right, and that you'd be suited to the wand destined for you." Ollivander picked up a wand and showed it to Harry. "This one. Holly, Phoenix Feather, eleven inches."
"Two wands were made from feathers from the same phoenix. This is one of them."
"The other is yew, thirteen and a half inches. It was sold to the Dark Lord, whose name must not be spoken."
"But this one doesn't suit you either."
"You haven't been bound by destiny, as Dumbledore expected."
Harry raised a hand and touched his scar. "Is that so? What a shame."
Ollivander suddenly stood up and looked at Harry. "Oh, I have an idea!"
"Yes, you're clever and mature, but no young wizard—and hardly any adult wizard, for that matter—can grasp what it means to say that 'the wand chooses the wizard.'"
"You noticed it from the very beginning, though I can't say I like how you put it."
"Perhaps you should try this one?"
Ollivander searched through the shelves and found a wand. "Cedar, Phoenix Feather, eleven inches."
"I would never consider provoking the owner of a Cedar Wand. Few wizards have one, and they all possess exceptionally keen insight and powers of observation."
"I think it will suit you very well."
Harry reached out and took it. The wand's presence didn't resist him. It tentatively brushed against his hand, then wrapped around him with delight.
He gave it a gentle wave.
A breeze swept through the room, making Ollivander grimace.
"I knew it!" Ollivander clapped his hands in delight, paying no attention to his disheveled appearance. "This is the wand that suits you best."
"You're a very picky young wizard. Oh, I should write this down in my book. How extraordinary."
Harry turned the little stick over in his hands and nodded. "Thank you. How much is the wand?"
"Seven Galleons," Ollivander replied. Muttering to himself, he pulled a book from behind the counter. "Wand Care. This one's on the house."
"Remember to treat it well."
"If you ever need to find another wand that suits you, it won't be this easy."
Harry took out the Galleons and accepted the book. Casually, he asked, "By the way, Mr. Ollivander, there's something I'd like to ask you."
Ollivander raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"Do you know anywhere in Diagon Alley—or anywhere else—that has a blacksmith's shop?" Harry asked.
Ollivander froze, his eyes widening.
Good heavens...
What had he just heard?
"Why do you ask?" he stammered, looking at the wand in Harry's hand. He couldn't help cursing inwardly—he hadn't sensed the slightest trace of displeasure from it.
You've only just got your hands on your owner, and he's already thinking about other weapons!
Get a grip!
Stop fawning over him!
"I want to have two swords made," Harry answered earnestly. "I might be better suited to becoming... a wizard like Gryffindor." He borrowed the line he'd just heard in the clothing shop.
"Gryffindor only had one sword," Ollivander said flatly, his voice turning cold. He clicked his tongue. "And there are no blacksmiths in Diagon Alley!"
"A hundred years ago, Goblins still did that kind of work. They forged weapons especially for Muggle-born young wizards. But... times have changed. No young wizard would buy such a crude, brutal, barbaric thing now!"
"The Goblins all work at Gringotts these days."
Harry sighed. "What a shame. Do you know any Goblins, then? I'd like to ask..."
"No, I don't!" Ollivander gritted his teeth and cut Harry off brusquely. "Wizards only need to know how to use wands. You must treat it well!"
"Gryffindor's time is over!"
"Enough. Picking out a wand for a troublesome young wizard like you has worn me out. Just let me get some rest."
They were shown out.
Harry wasn't surprised in the slightest. Witchers seemed to have this problem.
They could be having what felt like a perfectly civil conversation, yet somehow, in the end... they always wound up settling things with a sword or their fists.
Hagrid looked at Harry with a strange expression. "I've never seen Mr. Ollivander get so angry before, Harry... You really are a true Gryffindor."
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
So...
Making people angry was the same as being a Gryffindor?
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