Wands Choose Wizards? Absurd!

At that moment, outside the shop.

Surrounded by Shadow Guards, Uchiha Madara had been standing in the twilight for quite some time.

The lingering rays of the setting sun cast his slender shadow across the peeling signboard and dust-covered display windows of Ollivanders Wand Shop.

The raven on a Shadow Guard's shoulder folded its wings, its blood-red eyes reflecting the dim yellow lights and vaguely shifting figures inside the display window.

Uchiha Madara stopped three paces from the shop entrance.

His scarlet Sharingan swept over the wand boxes piled deep within the display window before settling on the dust-covered inscription.

"Three hundred and eighty-two BC..." he murmured, a completely warmthless curve touching his lips.

"More than two thousand three hundred years," Madara said calmly, but his voice was like a slender icicle that effortlessly pierced the aura of mystery and sanctity this ancient shop had accumulated through time. "And after all that time, they still insist on binding power to external objects, going in circles around such a crude medium as a 'wand.'"

He tilted his head slightly, speaking to the Shadow Guards standing silently beside him like shadows, and perhaps to this wizarding world that clung stubbornly to old rules.

"What conservative, rigid arrogance."

As his words fell, he withdrew his gaze and raised a hand, his fingertips seemingly brushing carelessly over the thick dust on the display glass.

Sensing its master's intent, the raven's black crest flickered with tiny blue-white arcs of silent electricity for an instant.

Inside the display window, the dust atop the ancient wand boxes that had sat quietly there for who knew how many years seemed to be stirred by an invisible breeze, slipping away little by little.

"Let's go," Madara said, lowering his hand. No emotion could be heard in his voice. "Let's see what these two thousand years of 'excellence' actually look like."

He did not linger, stepping forward. The Shadow Guards followed soundlessly, like extensions of his own shadow.

The creaking old wooden door of Ollivanders Wand Shop was pushed open by a pale, steady hand.

The hinges groaned under the strain as the not-yet-settled twilight outside blended with the dim yellow light inside.

A cold, intensely tangible air, entirely unlike the shop's aged wood scent and magical materials, quietly flowed in.

Inside the shop, the joyous mood from having just acquired wands had not yet fully faded, but it was like a stone dropped into a lake—ripples surged, then everything fell into a sudden, subtle stillness.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, as well as Hagrid and Mr. Ollivander, all turned toward the door at almost the same moment.

Time seemed to stretch at that instant.

The creaking old wooden door of Ollivanders Wand Shop was pushed open, and the not-yet-settled twilight outside blended with the dim yellow light inside.

Hermione was the first to sense that something was wrong. She had been facing a display cabinet, intently deciphering the ancient runic labels on it.

Then the hairs on the back of her neck rose involuntarily.

It was not a change in temperature, but an indescribably cold and heavy sensation. Like ink dropped into clear water, it silently spread through the shop. Puzzled, she turned around.

Harry was next. He had just carefully placed his holly wand back into its box, the warm resonance still lingering in his heart.

But the next second, his heartbeat inexplicably skipped, as if an invisible hand had lightly clenched it.

His scar did not hurt at all, but an instinctive alertness, almost like an animal encountering its natural predator, made his back stiffen instantly. His green eyes snapped toward the doorway.

Ron was the last to notice. He was happily fiddling with his new wand, trying to make it spout a few more silver bubbles.

Only when the previously steady light around him seemed to dim and stagnate for no reason, as though even the air had become thick, did he look up in confusion.

The door was pushed fully open.

The first to enter were two figures dressed in dark, high-collared clothing, lean and sharp as unsheathed blades.

Their movements were precise and synchronized. Once they crossed the threshold, they silently took up positions on either side, heads slightly bowed. Their posture was respectful, yet carried the iron-forged discipline of steel.

In the dim yellow light of the shop, their eyes held an unusual dark red hue, like congealed blood. They swiftly and coldly swept across every corner, every face, even the shadows between every pile of wand boxes, assessing and standing guard as though they had instantly completed an absolute scan of the entire space.

They were Shadow Guards.

Then a boy walked in.

Uchiha Madara.

He wore the same impeccably tailored dark casual clothes, free of any unnecessary decoration. His short black hair was perfectly neat, and his slightly pale skin carried a cool sheen beneath the magical lamps.

His steps into the shop were light, even unhurried, yet every one seemed to land precisely upon some invisible point. The relaxed atmosphere of Ollivander and Hagrid catching up instantly froze and shattered.

He made no exaggerated movement. He simply stood there, his calm gaze passing over Hagrid and the startled Harry, Ron, and Hermione behind him as though they were insignificant background scenery.

Finally, his eyes settled on Ollivander, who had turned at the sound, traces of his earlier conversation still lingering on his face.

There was neither the curiosity or exploration a stranger should have upon seeing a new shop, nor the politeness or anticipation a fan should show before a legendary craftsman.

There was only... an almost indifferent appraisal.

Like a king inspecting a frontier town newly absorbed into his realm, or a scholar examining an unusual specimen he had never seen before on an experiment table.

Beneath that calmness lay the lofty superiority born from absolute confidence in his own power, rooted deep within his soul.

The moment Hagrid saw Madara and the Shadow Guards behind him, his bell-sized eyes shrank sharply to pinpoints!

All his previous ease and comfort froze completely on his face.

A nearly whimpering grunt escaped his throat. The warning at the ice cream shop and that chilling glimpse outside Knockturn Alley now became tangible pressure, weighing heavily upon his heart and shoulders.

His massive body shifted involuntarily, like a thick stone wall shielding the three children behind him.

Madara merely glanced at him. His gaze lingered briefly on the lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead before moving away, as though they were only pebbles by the roadside.

The shop was narrow and crowded, with wand boxes stacked all the way to the ceiling, giving off a mingled scent of aged wood and mysterious magic.

The instant Madara crossed the threshold, Ollivander's hazy, wandering eyes lit up. A flash of pure astonishment at an extraordinary magical presence passed through them.

He even forgot the measuring tape in his hand, simply staring blankly at Madara, at those black eyes that did not yet show the rumored scarlet tomoe, yet still felt deep and cold.

"Ah... a... truly extraordinary young customer."

Ollivander's voice returned to its distinctive, soft, dreamlike cadence. He had keenly sensed the abyss-deep power in Madara, utterly different from that of other young wizards.

"Welcome to Ollivanders Wand Shop. We have been making fine wands since three hundred and eighty-two BC. Every wand here is a unique work of art and a life. Of course, as everyone knows, the most important thing is..."

He began the opening speech he had repeated to countless new wizards, brimming with mysterious philosophical meaning. "The wand chooses the wizard..."

"The wand... chooses the wizard?" Madara's low voice rose, not loud, yet exceptionally clear as it pierced the stagnant air in the shop, carrying undisguised mockery.

To ordinary people, Ollivander's shop was merely a crowded space filled with old wand boxes.

But in Madara's perception, it became an entirely different scene:

Countless tiny streams of magical light, varying in color and intensity, seeped from the gaps between the wand boxes, leaping, circling, intertwining, probing one another, attracting or repelling each other in the air.

The restless crimson magic, like magma, came from dragon heartstring cores;

The gentle silver-white magic, flowing like moonlight, came from unicorn hair;

The blazing gold-red magic, carrying the aura of rebirth, came from phoenix feathers;

And there were dark and mysterious ones, cold and slick ones, ones brimming with vitality...

Together, they formed a dynamic and complex magical field that ordinary wizards could never perceive.

"Yes, young wizard," Ollivander said, not noticing anything unusual about Madara;

Or rather, he was immersed in the mysteries of wands. "There is a mysterious bond between wand and wizard, a mutual attraction, a resonance of souls..."

Madara's lips curved into a smile so cold it held no warmth at all.

[My thoughts are the same as Lord Madara's. How could wands possibly control wizards? I imagine all you great wizards feel the same way, right?]