A Fated Choice!

13: The Fated Choice!

[Ollivander's Wand Shop, crafting fine wands since 382 B.C.]

Ian stood at the entrance of the shop.

His heart was filled with an indescribable sense of excitement.

"If you were to lose focus like this while brewing potions, I fear only Merlin himself could save you from the fate of being blown to the ceiling."

Snape's sharp tongue was never late, though it was certainly never absent. Watching Ian lost in his own thoughts, Snape mocked him with his signature sarcastic tone.

"Professor, I was just thinking about something interesting."

Ian replied with a sheepish grin.

"It seems Mr. Prince, much like those foolish Hufflepuffs, possesses a brain no different from a troll's." Snape sneered at Ian.

Immediately after.

He reached into his money pouch, pulled out seven gleaming Galleons, and tossed them to Ian.

"Take your money and go buy your wand. I shall wait for you here." Snape seemed unwilling to enter, simply providing the funds for Ian to make the purchase himself.

Compared to the costs of other wizarding supplies, the price of a wand for a Hogwarts freshman was fixed—a number that held profound significance in this magical world.

"Are you not coming with me, Professor?"

Ian looked at Snape with clear, inquisitive eyes.

"Are you a giant baby?"

Snape squinted at Ian with a look of disdain.

"Alright then..."

Ian took the Galleons from Snape's hand, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door that, in both the original work and fan fiction, represented the setting sail of dreams.

"Cling-clang~"

The door was connected to a crisp copper bell. As Ian pushed his way in, the bell let out an impossible-to-ignore chime, as if alerting the shopkeeper to a customer's arrival.

It was not a large shop, and the space felt somewhat cramped and narrow. The simplicity of the storefront was far beneath the status it held in the hearts of many Potterheads.

Tens of thousands of wands were stacked on cheap shelves; no one could imagine this place as the starting point for every wizard. The ordinary, nondescript storefront looked incredibly humble.

"Good afternoon, a... particularly unique face."

The aged voice came from a hunched old man. Although he had a head of messy, dry, white hair, his bright, piercing eyes were impossible to ignore.

"Good afternoon, sir."

Ian greeted the shopkeeper, the current generation of the Ollivander wandmakers, with a hint of restraint. His gaze remained fixed on the various wands scattered about.

"Yes, yes, another school year, another young wizard from Hogwarts... did you come alone?" Ollivander looked the small, thin figure up and down.

"A Hogwarts professor brought me. Is there a problem with that?"

Ian answered the question honestly.

"Of course not, I was just... you may consider it the ramblings of an old man." Ollivander chuckled softly, casting a glance out the window.

"I should have realized; only he would bring you here. Hmm, birch, phoenix feather, I remember it as if it were yesterday." Ollivander whispered cryptically.

Had he "predicted" Snape's situation?

If Ian remembered correctly, the wand of this Death Eater professor was indeed made of birch—he hadn't expected this old wand-selling mystic to actually have a knack for it.

"Do you have the ability to see the future?"

Ian, banking on his young age, spoke without inhibition.

"It is merely experience, a sort of intuition, child." Ollivander laughed heartily, grabbing a measuring tape and beginning to measure Ian's height and arm span.

"Every wand chooses its most suitable master; that is the most magical characteristic of a wand..." Ollivander began his "brainwashing" while measuring Ian's physical dimensions, not forgetting to ask that age-old question, "Mr. Prince, which hand do you use?"

There was definitely something to this!

Ian hadn't even introduced himself, yet Ollivander knew his surname!

"You know my name?"

Ian couldn't help but ask out of curiosity.

"That is not a question I am meant to answer for you, Mr. Prince. I am only responsible for selling my wands." Ollivander replied with a wheezing chuckle.

"My left hand. I am left-handed."

Ian answered Ollivander's initial question with a touch of helplessness.

"That is a rare habit indeed."

Ollivander put away the tape measure and walked toward the shelves where the wands were stored.

"Many believe it is the wizard who chooses the wand, but in truth, it is the wand that chooses the master. Maintaining a humble attitude is a virtue every wizard should possess."

Ollivander began his customary indoctrination of Ian.

"Er, do you instill this philosophy into every young wizard who comes in?" Ian felt a strong sense of déjà vu from Ollivander at this very moment.

It was just like the plot of the original story.

It was also like a trope that had been written to death in fanfiction.

"You impolite child, I am merely teaching you proper understanding... how can a businessman's affairs be called indoctrination?" Ollivander looked at Ian with indignation.

Immediately after.

He selected a wand from the shelves and handed it to Ian.

"Rosewood, dragon heartstring..."

Almost the moment the wand was placed in Ian's hand, Ollivander snatched it back—yes, snatched it back. It was hard to imagine such force coming from a man of seventy or eighty.

"No, no, try this one instead. Birch, 17 inches, from..." This time, Ollivander snatched the wand back before he had even finished his introduction.

"This one isn't right either."

Ollivander returned to the shelves to rummage through them again.

"Ebony, ten inches, dragon heartstring."

"Cedar, twelve inches, Thunderbird tail feather."

"No, no, perhaps it should be this one: fir, fifteen inches, phoenix tail feather."

"What a picky customer. Then let us try this special combination: acacia, fourteen inches, veela hair."

I have to say.

The process of choosing a wand was far more complicated than Ian had anticipated.

He wondered if every young wizard had to go through such an agonizing selection process. In any case, with his arm already feeling numb from being held up, Ian finally couldn't help but speak.

"Sir, perhaps I should try a wand made by your grandfather, or your grandfather's grandfather?" Ian felt a strong sense of déjà vu regarding everything happening right now.

He offered the suggestion based on his years of experience as an old bookworm.

However.

"A child who likes old things, is he?"

Ollivander looked at Ian with a face full of confusion.

"Mm-hmm, yes, that is exactly the kind of person I am."

Ian tried his best to make his gaze look earnest. He truly felt that the process of testing various wands was far too grueling, and perhaps this was the only solution to such a situation.

After all.

Many protagonists in fanfiction eventually obtained wands made by Ollivander's grandfather. Perhaps he, too, possessed the same traits as those predecessors who had transmigrated?

"Mr. Prince, I am sorry, but every generation of Ollivander only sells the wands they have crafted themselves. This is a matter of pride, as well as a sign of respect for our ancestors."

Ollivander's response shattered the hope in Ian's heart.

Ian couldn't help but pull a long face.

He had no choice but to continue trying the various wands Ollivander handed him. It was a tedious process; one could say that, in Ollivander's eyes, almost every wand was a poor match for Ian.

Dozens more wands were tested.

"Truly rare."

"I have never seen such a picky customer."

"Perhaps... you possess some rare qualities."

Ollivander's expression and Ian's were at two different extremes. The harder it was to find a matching wand, the brighter Ollivander's cloudy eyes became.

"A young wizard who likes ancient objects... perhaps, perhaps you should try that wand." As if remembering something, Ollivander rushed toward his back room in astonishment.

A moment later.

He walked out holding a dust-covered box.

"Is this your grandfather's wand?"

Ian couldn't help but ask.

"No, this is my own work—a pretentious piece from my early years... I had read the story in that fairy tale, and a stubborn desire to compete arose within me."

"You may not know the legend of the Elder Wand. In truth, this was my attempt to create a work that could rival that legendary wand. It was a naive and ignorant experiment of mine."

Ollivander's eyes and expression were filled with nostalgia.

"I failed many, many times. By the last attempt, I had become numb to failure. Perhaps elder wood and a core symbolizing beauty could never be a match?"

"I began to waver in my convictions. However, perhaps with the help of Merlin, that final time—it was a thunderstorm—I thought I would fail just as I always had."

"1980, yes, 1980, July 7th... that bolt of lightning. I do not know if it succeeded. All these years, I have never been able to find a wizard suitable for it."

The look Ollivander gave Ian was filled with a burning intensity.

"I have a premonition that you are the wizard it has been waiting for." Ollivander actually used an uncharacteristically deferential tone, and his gaze toward Ian was filled with a somewhat agitated anticipation.

"Give it a try."

Ollivander handed over the wand.

"Er... July 7th... this date..."

Ian took the wand from Ollivander's hand with a strange expression.

Almost the very moment the wand touched his palm, he felt as if he had merged into one with it. No exquisite vocabulary could adequately describe this sensation; the surging magic within his body flowed with absolute clarity into the wand.

"Whew~"

Silvery-white threads gushed from the tip of the wand, swirling and drifting like clouds, filling the entire shop in the blink of an eye. Countless dreamlike, misty visions undulated within them!

Human figures flickered.

It was as if beasts were roaring as well.

"It really is possible! It truly is!"

"This is truly... truly a miracle of destiny!"

Ollivander's exclamation echoed for a long time in the humble little shop.

Carrying a sense of... devout fanaticism.