Chương 12: Chapter 13 : Wand Selection I

Tyson stood before the narrow old shop squeezed tightly between two much taller buildings. Its dusty windows were half-obscured by towering stacks of wand boxes, some piled so high they looked ready to collapse at any moment. Above the crooked door hung a faded hand-painted sign:'Ollivanders — Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B. C.' Tyson stared at it for a moment, then let out a quiet breath before stepping forward. He'd offered for his parents to come along.

His mother had even wanted to, not exactly thrilled at the thought of letting her son disappear into yet another strange corner of the magical world unsupervised, and no doubt curious to see the famous wand shop for herself. Professor McGonagall, however, had refused. She had made it very clear that the wand selection process was considered deeply personal and intimate, and it was suggested that the wizard attend it alone. It was a tradition dating back centuries. So Tyson entered alone.

A small bell chimed overhead as the door shut behind him. As his eyes darted around, Tyson found that the inside of the shop looked far closer to the films than the books had described. It was narrow, dimly lit, and stretched farther back than the exterior suggested. Towering shelves lined both walls, packed with countless slim boxes that stretched all the way to the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of aged wood and dust, thick with the scent of polished timber.

Every available surface seemed buried beneath more wand boxes. Dust drifted lazily through thin shafts of sunlight breaking through the grimy front windows. The whole thing looked less like a proper shop and more like an attic abandoned to time. But Tyson found a particular order to the chaos. It was pretty strange. After a few moments of silence, Tyson raised his voice.

"Mr. Ollivander? Are you here?"

"I am." The reply came from directly behind him, almost making Tyson jump in surprise. He shut his eyes briefly, swallowed the urge to swear, and turned. The man standing before him was old. Very old. Thin to the point of frailty, with silver-gray hair clinging flatly to his scalp and pale eyes so light they almost looked colorless.

"I'm Tyson Steward, sir," Tyson said politely.

"Professor McGonagal told me your shop sells the finest wands in Britain. I'm starting Hogwarts this year, and I am in need of one."

"Ah... Professor McGonagal." A faint smile appeared on Ollivander's lips.

"It has been quite some time since I last heard from her. I am delighted she holds me in such high regard." His smile sharpened ever so slightly.

"Though she is, of course, entirely correct."

'What a narcissist,' Tyson muttered inwardly, feeling a bit uncomfortable as Ollivander began circling him, studying him with unsettling focus. The way his appraising eyes bore into him made Tyson feel like he wasn't looking at him as a human being, but as some valuable raw material.

"Though I must correct you, Mr. Steward," Ollivander said softly.

"Wands are not bought. They choose their owners."

'Shit, rookie mistake.' Tyson resisted the urge to wince. Outwardly, he only nodded, as if he understood.

"Excellent." Ollivander clapped his hands together once.

"Let us not keep your wand waiting any longer, then. What is your dominant hand, Mr. Steward?"

"My right hand, sir."

"Hold it out." Tyson complied. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. The moment he did, a measuring tape suddenly shot out from somewhere inside Ollivander's robes. Tyson blinked. Before he could react, it suddenly sprang to life, wrapping around his forearm. It measured each finger individually, darted across his wrist, up to his elbow, then to his shoulder, all while scribbling invisible notes only it seemed capable of understanding.

Tyson stood perfectly still while the tape worked its magic, both literally and figuratively.

"Tell me, Mr. Steward," Ollivander asked suddenly, his voice casual despite his sharp gaze, "what do you know of wandlore?"

"Nothing, sir. I'm Muggle-born." It was a lie, of course. Tyson wouldn't call himself an expert in wands, not even close, but he wasn't completely ignorant either. As far as he knew, magical cores and wand wood were the two most essential components for a wand, and both influenced its nature. A Muggle-born wasn't supposed to know any of that. So he kept the information to himself lest he blow his cover. But the moment the words left his mouth, the measuring tape froze. Ollivander stopped as well.

For the first time since Tyson had entered the shop, genuine surprise crossed the wandmaker's face. Tyson was confused. Had he said something wrong? Then, just as quickly, Ollivander smoothed his expression away, replacing it with a knowing smile.

"Oh, are you now? Splendid. Muggle-borns often bring... unpredictable surprises." Tyson narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

'What the hell does that mean?' There was definitely something fishy here. Was there something unusual about him being Muggle-born? Before he could press it, the measuring tape resumed its work.

"Every wand contains a magical core and a wooden body," Ollivander continued, but Tyson could tell he was trying to steer away from whatever had caught his interest.

"At Ollivanders, we use only three supreme cores—unicorn hair, phoenix feather, and dragon heartstring. They produce finer wands than any other combinations."

"Wouldn't two wands with the same wood and core be mostly identical?" Tyson asked, playing along with him. Fine. If he didn't wish to tell him, he'd figure it out on his own. Ollivander smiled again, clearly pleased by the question.

"No two wands are truly alike, Mr. Steward," he explained patiently.

"Just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are identical, neither are the wands crafted from them. Each possesses its own nature and temperament." The tape continued circling Tyson despite the fact that Ollivander had already wandered off between the shelves.

"And while another wizard's wand may serve you in a pinch," his voice called from somewhere deeper in the shop, "it will never perform as faithfully as the wand that truly belongs to you." That much Tyson already knew. A moment later, the wandmaker returned, a long narrow box tucked neatly beneath his arm.

"We shall begin, then." He opened the box and revealed a pale wooden wand resting inside.

"Ash. Eleven inches. Unicorn hair. Flexible." Ollivander handed it over with practiced care.

"Give it a wave." Tyson carefully took the wand. As he gave it a small wave, a few sparks came out of the tip, but they faded quickly, and then... that was it.

"No, no. Not this one." Ollivander snatched it back with a frown. He pulled out another box from the nearby shelf, opened it, and handed the wand over.

"Try this—holly wood and dragon heartstring, ten and a half inches." Tyson waved it. This time, a thin ribbon of gray smoke rose from the tip, curling lazily upward before fading into the air.

"Interesting," Ollivander murmured, sounding more curious than disappointed.

"But this one doesn't suit you either." He scanned the shelves for a while.

"There's something… wait." He suddenly moved to a side shelf, where older boxes sat stacked beneath a layer of dust. He rummaged through them for a moment before pulling out a smaller, more worn box than the rest.

"Holly. Phoenix feather." There was a flicker of interest in his eyes now.

"Let's see how you respond to this." Tyson carefully took the wand. The moment his fingers wrapped around it, his eyes widened in surprise as warmth spread through his hand and climbed up his arm like sunlight sinking into his skin. It wasn't painful. If anything, it felt... welcoming. The tip shone with a soft golden spark that flickered once before fading. Ollivander nodded slightly.

"Good. Phoenix feather suits you. They are rare cores. Difficult to understand and predict. Loyal, mind you, but fiercely independent. They often choose those destined to walk unusual paths." Tyson noted the information in his mind. Then Ollivander continued.

"Now we find the wood that matches it." After that, the pace quickened. Wands passed through Tyson's hands one after another in rapid succession. Elm, oak, cherry, ebony, yew. He tried wands with varying woods and lengths, all with phoenix feather cores. Each gave him that same mild warmth, but he always felt like something was missing. Like something could be better. It was like trying on shoes that fit well enough but never quite comfortably. Ollivander seemed to notice it too.

The glow in the wandmaker's eyes grew more intense with each trial, until finally, he turned toward the highest shelf and carefully retrieved a long, narrow box buried beneath years of dust. This one looked old. Older even than the one that had held the first phoenix feather wand he had tried. Ollivander opened it slowly with unusual care. The moment Tyson saw what rested inside, he understood why.

Inside lay a wand of pale white wood, smooth and polished, its grain running in fine, straight lines from handle to tip with almost unnatural symmetry. It was longer than most wands, around thirteen inches, perhaps a little more, and age had softened the wood's original color into a faint ivory tint, giving it a quiet elegance beneath the dim shop light. Tyson couldn't peel his eyes off it for a moment. Of all the wands he'd seen today, this one was undoubtedly the most beautiful and aesthetic.

"I am rather curious to see how this one will respond to you, Mr. Steward," Ollivander said at last. He picked up the wand with gentle care, as if it were something extremely delicate, and offered it to him.

"Come on. Give it a wave," he said.