Harry Potter : This Progress Too Much

Outside Gringotts, David turned a gold Galleon over in his hand, watching the way the light glinted off its surface. His brow furrowed in curiosity as he looked up at Professor McGonagall.

"Professor, is there real gold in this Galleon?" he asked.

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, amused by his question. "That is something only the goblins truly know. Wizarding currency is crafted by goblins and undergoes magical enhancements, including charms that keep the coins perpetually polished and resistant to wear or summoning spells."

David nodded thoughtfully, still examining the coin. His mind buzzed with questions about goblin metallurgy and enchantments, but he decided to save them for another time.

Professor McGonagall, noticing his pensive expression, sighed internally. If this boy didn't end up in Ravenclaw, she would be very surprised.

"Come along, Mr. Adrian," she instructed. "We must get your wand next. A wizard is not truly a wizard until they have the right wand."

With that, they made their way through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. Shops lined both sides of the cobblestone path, their windows displaying enchanted books, moving photographs, and magical creatures. The air was filled with the murmur of excited shoppers and the occasional pop of apparition.

Before long, they arrived at a small, unassuming shop. Unlike the grandeur of Gringotts, this building looked worn and cramped, with peeling gold lettering above the door reading:

Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

David hesitated for a moment, staring at the modest storefront. It was a stark contrast to the wealth and power displayed by Gringotts. He turned to Professor McGonagall with a questioning look.

"Don't let appearances fool you," she said knowingly. "The craftsmanship of the Ollivander family is second to none. Almost every witch and wizard at Hogwarts has found their wand here."

Reassured by her words, David followed her inside.

The shop was narrow, dimly lit, and filled from floor to ceiling with thousands of thin, dusty boxes. The sheer number of wands stacked haphazardly made the space feel even smaller. A scent of aged wood and parchment filled the air.

"Good morning!"

A soft yet energetic voice came from behind a towering pile of wand boxes. An elderly man with silvery eyes and wispy white hair emerged, smiling warmly.

"Ah, Minerva," he greeted, eyes twinkling. "Nine and a half inches, fir, dragon heartstring—an elegant wand, excellent for Transfiguration. It's as if you purchased it just yesterday."

Professor McGonagall sighed with a small smile. "Good morning, Garrick. That was decades ago."

Ollivander chuckled before turning his full attention to David. His piercing gaze swept over the boy, assessing him as if he could already see the wand that would choose him.

"And who might you be, young man?"

"David Adrian," he answered.

"Excellent. Step forward, if you please."

David obeyed, standing directly in front of the counter.

"Which is your wand arm?" Ollivander asked.

"Right hand, sir," David replied, raising his hand.

Instantly, a magical measuring tape shot forward, extending and contracting as it took various measurements—his arm length, the width of his palm, his height, even the distance between his shoulders. David glanced at Professor McGonagall, but she simply nodded, indicating this was normal.

The tape measure finished its work and collapsed to the floor.

Ollivander studied the results briefly before disappearing behind a tall stack of wand boxes. A moment later, he returned with several in hand.

"Every wand is unique," Ollivander explained as he set the boxes on the counter. "It is not the wizard who chooses the wand, but the wand that chooses the wizard."

He opened the first box and withdrew a slender wand. "Try this one—applewood, unicorn hair core, nine inches. A wand suited for those with lofty ideals and strong aspirations. Go on, give it a wave."

David accepted the wand and gave it a cautious flick.

With a loud bang, an entire stack of wand boxes tumbled from the shelves, sending up a cloud of dust.

"Ahem!" Ollivander coughed, snatching the wand back. "Well, that certainly wasn't the right one."

With a swift motion, he waved his own wand, restoring the fallen boxes to their proper places.

"Not to worry, young man. That was perfectly normal. Let's try another!"

He handed David a different wand.

"Redwood, dragon heartstring, eleven and a half inches. This wand is known for bringing good luck and holding considerable power. A fine balance indeed."

David took it in his hand, but almost immediately, his palm felt as though it were burning. He winced, waving the wand twice out of instinct.

A sudden burst of flame shot from the tip, nearly singing Ollivander's hair. The elderly wandmaker quickly retrieved it, patting down his head as though to check for damage.

"Hmm," he muttered. "Not quite right either. Let's keep going."

He passed David another wand.

"Cedar wood, phoenix feather, ten and three-quarters inches. A wand for those with sharp insight and strong intuition."

David took it and felt a strange buzzing sensation in his fingers. He waved it hesitantly.

CRASH!

A delicate vase, which had sat peacefully on a high shelf, suddenly exploded into shards.

Ollivander barely blinked. With a casual flick, he restored the vase.

"Well," he said cheerfully, "that certainly isn't the one either."

For the next hour, David tried wand after wand. Some let out sparks, others fizzled uselessly, and a few produced unexpected disasters—a burst of wind that knocked over a bookshelf, a sharp crack that rattled the walls, and even an eerie whistling noise that sent a shiver down David's spine.

Each time, Ollivander retrieved the wand and handed him a new one, unfazed by the destruction.

Professor McGonagall, however, had crossed her arms and was watching with narrowed eyes. "Mr. Ollivander, is it common for a student to have this much difficulty finding a match?"

"Ah, Professor," Ollivander said with a gleam in his eye, "when a wand is being particularly elusive, it simply means the wizard is a most unique individual. I do believe I know just the one."

He disappeared into the back room.

David exhaled, rubbing his hands together anxiously. What if no wand chose him?

Minutes later, Ollivander returned, holding a single, long box.

"Yes, yes," he murmured, mostly to himself. "I believe this will do quite nicely."

He opened the box and revealed a striking wand. It was a deep, polished mahogany, smooth and warm to the touch. The core, he explained, contained the tail feather of a Thunderbird—a rare and powerful creature.

"Mahogany, twelve inches, flexible, with a Thunderbird feather core," he said with quiet excitement. "A wand suited for those with strong ambition and adaptability. Try it."

David reached out, feeling a warmth spread through his fingertips the moment he grasped the wand. A comforting hum pulsed through his palm, as if the wand recognized him.

He gave it a gentle wave.

Golden sparks erupted from the tip, cascading in a brilliant display. A warm wind swept through the shop, rustling papers and stirring the dust in a pleasant swirl.

Ollivander smiled. "Ah, splendid! A perfect match."

David grinned, gripping the wand more firmly. It felt natural, like an extension of his own hand.

"You have found your partner, Mr. Adrian," Ollivander said. "Take good care of it, and it will serve you well."

As David paid for his wand, Professor McGonagall allowed herself a small smile.

"Welcome to the wizarding world, Mr. Adrian," she said.

And with that, they stepped back into Diagon Alley, ready for the next adventure.