Hogwarts Raven

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

Ian stood at the entrance of the shop, his heart racing with excitement he could hardly contain.

"If you get distracted like this during your Potions Class then Merlin himself might need to bless you just to keep you from blowing up," Snape's sharp tongue cut through the air, as punctual as ever. Noticing Ian lost in thought, he couldn't resist mocking him with his signature sarcasm.

"Professor, I was just thinking about something interesting," Ian replied, forcing a laugh that felt a bit awkward.

"Seems like Mr. Prince, like those foolish Hufflepuffs, has a brain no different from that of a troll," Snape sneered, his disdain palpable.

With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out seven shiny gold Galleons from his purse and tossed them to Ian.

"Take this money and buy your wand. I'll wait for you here," Snape said, his disinterest in entering the shop evident as he handed over the coins, leaving Ian to navigate this milestone on his own.

For Hogwarts students, the price of a wand was fixed, a symbolic number that held great significance in the magical world, unlike the varying costs for other wizards.

"Professor, aren't you coming with me?" Ian asked, looking up at Snape with hopeful eyes.

"Are you a giant baby?" Snape shot him a condescending sideways glance.

"Fine…" Ian sighed, accepting the Galleons. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door— the threshold that marked the beginning of his and many other's magical journey, both in the original story and in fanfiction.

"Ding-dong~"

The door swung open, ringing a crisp copper bell that announced his arrival to the shopkeeper.

Inside, the shop was small and somewhat cramped, its simplicity a stark contrast to the grandeur it held in the hearts of many Hogwarts fans.

Thousands of wands were stacked on cheap counters, and it was hard to believe this humble place was the starting point for all wizards. The ordinary storefront looked incredibly unremarkable.

"Good afternoon, oh... New Face," Came a hoarse voice from an old man hunched over. His hair was a tangled mess of white strands, but his piercing eyes were impossible to overlook.

"Hello, sir," Ian greeted the shop owner, the current Ollivander, a bit awkwardly, his gaze wandering over the various wands.

"Yes, yes, it's that time of year again, the Hogwarts new students... did you come on your own?" Ollivander scrutinized Ian's small figure from head to toe.

"A professor from Hogwarts brought me here. Is there a problem with that?" Ian replied honestly.

"Of course not, I just… let's say it's an old man's confusion," Ollivander chuckled lightly, casting a glance out the window.

"I should've realized, only he would have brought you here. Hmm, birch, phoenix tail feather, I remember, it seems like just yesterday." Ollivander muttered, lost in thought.

Was that a "prophecy" about Snape's situation? If Ian remembered correctly, this Death Eater professor's wand was indeed made of birch— he hadn't expected this wand-selling old zealot to be so insightful.

"Do you have the ability to predict things?" Ian asked, his youthful innocence shining through.

"It's just experience, just a feeling, child," Ollivander replied with a cheerful smile, grabbing a measuring tape to begin measuring Ian's height and arm span.

"Every wand chooses the most suitable master; this is the most magical feature of a wand..." Ollivander continued, his voice steady as he measured Ian, not forgetting to ask the age-old question, "Mr. Prince, which hand do you prefer to use?"

Indeed, there was something unusual! Ian hadn't even introduced himself, yet Ollivander had already called out his surname!

"You know my name?" Ian asked, curiosity piqued.

"That's not a question I need to answer, Mr. Prince. I'm only responsible for selling my wands," Ollivander chuckled.

"Left hand, I'm used to using my left hand," Ian replied, feeling a bit helpless under Ollivander's scrutiny.

"That's quite an unusual habit," Ollivander remarked as he put away the measuring tape and moved toward the wand display.

"Many people think that wizards choose their wands, but in fact, it is the wand that chooses its master. Maintaining humility is a quality every wizard should possess," Ollivander began his usual spiel.

"Uh, do you do this to every young wizard? Instill this kind of brainwashed thinking?" Ian felt a wave of déjà vu wash over him.

It was just like the plot in the original story. It was also reminiscent of the overused tropes in fanfiction.

"How impolite, I'm simply teaching you the correct understanding ... How can a businessman's actions be called brainwashing?" Ollivander shot Ian a reproachful look.

Then, he picked out a wand from the display and handed it to Ian.

"Rosewood, Dragon's nerve..."

Almost as soon as he handed the wand to Ian, Ollivander yanked it back with surprising force for a man in his seventies.

"No, no, try this one. Birch, 17 inches, from..." Ollivander didn't even finish introducing it before pulling it away.

"This one's not right either."

Ollivander returned to rummaging through the display.

"Ebony, ten inches, dragon's vein."

"Snow pine, twelve inches, Thunderbird's head feathers."

"No, no, maybe it should be this one, fir wood, fifteen inches, Phoenix tail feathers."

"Such a picky customer, well then, try this special combination— mimosa wood, fourteen inches, Veela hair."

...

Inevitably, the process of choosing a wand was much more complicated than Ian had anticipated.

He wasn't sure if every young wizard went through such a painful process, but by the time his arms were sore from holding wands, Ian couldn't help but speak up.

"Sir, perhaps I should try a wand made by your grandfather, or even your grandfather's grandfather?" Ian suggested, drawing from his years of experience as a bookworm.

However,

"Ah, you're a fan of old things?" Ollivander looked at Ian, utterly confused.

"Yes, yes, that's just the kind of person I am," Ian replied, trying to appear serious. He truly felt that the process of testing various wands was too agonizing, and perhaps the only solution was something like this.

After all, many protagonists in fanfiction ended up with a wand made by Ollivander's grandfather. Perhaps he, like those crossover predecessors, shared the same qualities?

"Mr. Prince, I regret to inform you that every generation of Ollivanders only sells wands made by themselves. It is a matter of pride, and respect for our ancestors," Ollivander's response shattered Ian's thoughts.

Ian couldn't help but show a bitter expression.

Reluctantly, he continued trying the various wands Ollivander handed him. It was a tedious process, and it seemed like almost every wand, in Ollivander's eyes, didn't quite suit Ian.

After testing dozens of wands...

"You are a truly rare person."

"I've never seen such a picky customer."

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

The expressions on both Ian and Ollivander were polar opposites. The more difficult it became to find a suitable wand, the brighter Ollivander's murky eyes seemed to shine.

"A young wizard who likes old things, perhaps, perhaps you should try that one." Ollivander suddenly seemed to recall something and dashed toward the back room.

After a moment, he emerged holding a dusty box.

"Is this your grandfather's wand?" Ian couldn't help but ask.

"No, this is my own work, a piece I created in my younger years... I read the story in that fairy tale, and then a rebellious thought arose in my mind."

"You may not know the legend of the old wand, but this... this is my attempt to create something that could rival that legendary wand. It was a naive and ignorant try."

Ollivander's gaze and expression were filled with nostalgia.

"I failed many, many times. By the last attempt, I had become numb to failure. Perhaps the Elder Wood and a core symbolizing goodness can never match?"

"I began to doubt my own beliefs, but perhaps with Merlin's help, on the final attempt, it was a thunderstorm. I thought I would fail again, as I had many times before."

"1980, yes, 1980, July 7th... That bolt of lightning, I don't know if it succeeded. For years, I've never found a wizard who was suited for it."

Ollivander looked at Ian with a fiery gaze.

"I have a feeling, you are the wizard it has been waiting for." Ollivander used an unexpectedly respectful tone, his eyes filled with excited anticipation.

"Try it."

Ollivander handed Ian the wand.

"Uh... July 7th... that day..." Ian took the wand with a peculiar expression.

The moment the wand touched his palm, he felt as though he and the wand had become one. No words could truly describe this sensation, and the surging magical power within him clearly flowed into the wand.

"Whoosh~"

Silver-white threads erupted from the tip of the wand, swirling and floating like mist, quickly filling the entire shop. Numerous ethereal, dreamlike scenes continuously surged within it an there were even flashes of figures.

It almost seemed like beasts were roaring in the mist.

"It really works! It really works !"

"This... This is truly... a destined miracle!"

Ollivander's exclamations echoed throughout the humble little shop, filled with a fervent reverence that seemed to resonate with the very walls around them. The air crackled with magic, and Ian could hardly believe what was happening.

(End of this chapter)