Ollivander's Choice (Part 1)

The chill deep within Gringotts and the secret of the black box were interrupted by the goblin guide's dry "Please hurry." Ares quickly stuffed the gold Galleons from the stone platform into a money pouch enchanted with an Extension Charm that Dumbledore handed him, then carefully picked up the black box. The box was cold and heavy in his hands, and the dark red gem seemed to pulse with a faint heartbeat beneath his fingertips. He tried to touch it with the "Twin Soul Key," but the box showed no reaction.

[Detected high-intensity magical seal! (⊙?⊙) Requires specific conditions or incantation to open.]

Ares calmly stowed the box and key together, then swiftly scanned a few books on the shelves, picking out several ancient scrolls that seemed to cover magical history and basic theory, stuffing them into the pouch. He knew better than to bite off more than he could chew, and Dumbledore's gaze followed him like a searchlight.

When they rode the wild cart back up to the marble hall on the ground floor, Tom had already exchanged his currency and was standing there waiting. The money pouch in his hand looked a bit thinner than Ares's, but there was no frustration on his face—only a deep, calculating expression. When he saw Ares and Dumbledore emerge, his gaze lingered for a moment on the unremarkable black box in Ares's hand, a flicker of sharp scrutiny passing through his dark eyes.

"Next," Dumbledore said, as if oblivious to the silent exchange between the two boys, his tone light, "we'll go to Ollivanders Wand Shop. A wand that suits you best is a wizard's most important companion."

Those words instantly ignited a blaze in Tom's eyes. A wand! That was what he truly craved—the embodiment of power, the key to the hall of magic! He could barely contain his excitement, but still forced himself to maintain a calm exterior, only quickening his pace unconsciously.

Ollivanders Wand Shop was small and shabby, with peeling gold letters on the door reading: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. In the dusty window display, a single wand lay on a faded purple cushion.

The shop was tiny, with nothing but a bench taking up space, while thousands of narrow boxes stacked to the ceiling filled the rest. The air carried a faint scent of dust and a strange mixture of wood and metal, a magical aura steeped in countless years that pressed in on you, making you hold your breath involuntarily.

A faint bell chimed from the back of the shop, and an old man with graying hair and pale, moon-like eyes glided out silently like a ghost. His gaze immediately fell on Dumbledore.

"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore," Mr. Ollivander said softly, his voice carrying a dreamlike quality.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore replied with a smile. "I've brought two new students to choose their first wands."

Mr. Ollivander's pale eyes, as if they could see through everything, immediately turned to Tom and Ares. His gaze measured them like a precise ruler.

"Ah, yes," he murmured. "A new generation begins." He stepped toward Tom first. "And this young gentleman is?"

"Tom Riddle." Tom's voice carried a faint tension.

"Mr. Riddell," Ollivander said, pulling a long tape measure with silver markings from his pocket. "Which hand do you favor?"

"Right," Tom said.

The tape measure flew up on its own, measuring Tom's arm length, height, head circumference, and even the distance between his nostrils. Tom frowned slightly but endured without moving.

Ollivander began weaving through the shelves, pulling down one box after another. "Try this. Ebony and Unicorn Hair, nine and a half inches, reasonably pliable."

Tom took the wand, but the moment he gave it a wave, Ollivander snatched it back. "No, no. Try this—Hawthorn Wood, Dragon Heartstring, ten inches, quite rigid."

Tom tried again, and sparks shot from the wand tip, but Ollivander still shook his head. "No, no, not this one..."

After trying six or seven wands, the counter was piled high with boxes. Tom's face grew darker and darker; he hated this lack of control, being chosen by an object. Each failure felt like a challenge to his unique identity.

Ollivander, however, seemed increasingly excited, muttering, "A discerning customer, hmm? No matter, there's always the perfect match... Let me think..." His eyes roamed over Tom as if deciphering some invisible mark. Then, as if struck by an idea, he turned and took down a dusty box from the highest shelf, blew off the dust, and revealed the deep purple velvet lining inside.

"Then try this," Ollivander said with solemn anticipation. "Yew Wood, Phoenix Feather Core, thirteen and a half inches."

Tom took the wand. It was cold in his hand, the wood grain fine and delicate, carrying an ancient and powerful aura. The moment his fingers wrapped around the handle—

A surge of warmth seemed to flow directly from the wand into his heart!

He instinctively raised his hand and swung—

A crimson light burst from the wand tip like lightning, accompanied by a sharp crack, striking the opposite wall and leaving a scorched black mark! The entire shop seemed to fill with a dangerous, unsettling energy, and the air carried a faint scent like burnt bitter almonds (the smell of cyanide).

Tom stood frozen, the hand gripping the wand trembling slightly—not from fear, but from ecstasy! This was it! This power, this feeling of the wand being an extension of his own body, as if it were made for him!

Mr. Ollivander gasped, his moon-like eyes wide, muttering to himself, "Oh, how remarkable... What a remarkable combination..."

Dumbledore's blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles narrowed, turning sharp and grave. Yew wood symbolized death and resurrection, often linked to dark magic; the phoenix feather was extremely rare and powerful, but the aura emanating from this wand carried such a distinct sense of ill omen.

"A yew wand often grants its wielder... great power, especially in dueling and curses," Ollivander said, his voice tinged with a faint, almost reverent wariness. "And the phoenix feather... is one of the most difficult cores to tame, yet it can perform the widest range of magic, recognizing and remaining loyal to a truly powerful master. This wand has chosen you, Mr. Riddell, without a doubt."

He looked at Tom as if gazing at a walking legend, full of unknown danger.

Tom gripped the wand tightly, his knuckles white from the pressure. He felt the perfect resonance between the wand and his magical core—a dark, controlling, power-filled sensation of beauty. He raised his head, glanced at Ollivander, then at Dumbledore, and finally, his gaze landed on Ares. A cold, satisfied curve tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He had power now—true, recognized power.

Now it was Ares's turn.

Mr. Ollivander turned to Ares, his pale eyes lingering longer on him, filled with even more confusion and curiosity. "And this is..."

"Ares Phoenix," Ares announced. He could feel Ollivander's gaze nearly piercing through him, especially lingering on his heterochromatic eyes and the Blood Pact Mark.

"Phoenix... another ancient name," Ollivander murmured as the automatic tape measure flew over again, beginning to measure Ares.

The process was equally unsuccessful. The Elder Wood and Dragon Heartstring wand showed no reaction; the Laurel Wood and Unicorn Hair wand only emitted a faint glow; the Vine Wood and Veela Hair wand even burned his hand in rejection...

Ollivander tried one wand after another, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper. He looked at Ares with unprecedented confusion. "Most unusual... Your magical signature... I've never felt such a... contradictory yet harmonious existence. Light and darkness, so tightly interwoven..."

He had nearly exhausted every conventional combination in the shop, but not a single wand produced true resonance.

Just as Ollivander was clutching his messy hair, about to declare defeat, his gaze happened to sweep across a forgotten corner deep in the shop, where an ancient box, neither wood nor stone in material, sat covered in dust.

He froze as if struck by lightning.

"Wait..." he murmured dreamily, slowly walking toward that corner and carefully lifting the box. Its surface was thick with dust, but beneath it, a spiral pattern of deep gray and pale gold, as if naturally formed, was faintly visible.

"This wand..." Ollivander's tone carried a near-religious reverence. "Its origins... even I cannot fully explain. Legend says the wood was not naturally grown, but a creation of magic and emotion, born from extreme opposition and fusion. Its core... is utterly unique—Ashes of a Phoenix's Rebirth and the Wing Feathers of a Thestral that Perceives Death, perfectly fused through alchemy..."

He opened the box, and inside lay a wand. The shaft showed a deep gray and pale gold spiral texture, like two eternally chasing lights and shadows. It was cold to the touch, but after holding it for a moment, one could feel a warm, tidal pulse within, like a heartbeat.

Ollivander handed the wand to Ares, his voice as soft as a whisper: "Try this... 'Eternal Cycle.'"

Ares took a deep breath and reached out to grasp the handle.

The moment his fingers touched the wand—

A sudden change erupted!