Chapter 13
The bell above the door chimed softly as John stepped into Ollivanders. The shop was a labyrinth of towering, dusty shelves, crammed with thousands of narrow boxes. It smelled of parchment, old wood, and the faint, ozone-like scent of static electricity.
"Good afternoon." A soft, raspy voice came from the shadows.
Garrick Ollivander stepped out from behind a stack of boxes, his pale, silver-rimmed eyes seeming to look straight through John. He didn't look like a shopkeeper; he looked like the embodiment of passion brewed with a little bit of madness.
"Who might you be, young lad?" Ollivander wondered, drifting closer.
John straightened his posture, trying to keep his expression neutral. His heart hammered against his chest, his lips dry, his eyes wide, but he kept his cool, offering a polite nod. "Hello, Mr. Ollivander! My name is Johnathan Smith, and I am here for my wand. I am starting Hogwarts this year."
"A young man coming for his first wand, always a delight to see."
Ollivander didn't wait for a polite opening. He produced a long, silver measuring tape with silver markings from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, the tape unspooled, hovering in the air like a curious snake, beginning to measure the distance from John's shoulder to his fingers, then wrist to elbow.
"And tell me, Mr. Smith," Ollivander murmured, his eyes tracking the tape as it measured the circumference of John's head, "which is your wand arm?"
"Left," John replied, holding his arm steady.
'This is it,' John's mind raced, his eyes flickering around the dusty shelves containing countless wands. 'My wand is here,' he thought, his mind racing through the countless lore and fanfics he'd devoured for years. 'What will I get? Is it going to be classy like the transmigrators of those novels, like wands with Thestral hair, or maybe a feather of a Thunderbird, or the horn of a Horned Serpent? I can't wait to see which wand will choose me. I don't even want something flashy; a normal everyday wand would do me good too.'
"Every wand is unique and has a profound connection with its owner compared to other wands," Ollivander said, his voice echoing through the tiny space as the tape measure suddenly zipped back into his pocket. "It is a mystery that has baffled scholars for centuries; some wands resonate so much with their wielder that the essence of their magic itself changes sometimes."
"Woah... so how do I know which wand was made for me? How would I know what the correct choice is?" asked John excitedly.
Ollivander laughed heartily. "You don't... it's interesting, isn't it? You don't know which wand will be suitable for you unless you wield it. You can only guess so much."
"Is that so?" asked John, furrowing his brows.
Seeing this, Ollivander laughed. "Don't worry, Mr. Smith! When you live around as long as I have, you learn a thing or two about magic—"
"Does that mean—"
"No... can't say it does. One can never be too sure when magic is involved, and remember, young man, it's not you who chooses the wand. It's the wand that chooses the wizard."
Ollivander turned and darted toward the towering back shelves, his ladder sliding smoothly along the rail. He grabbed a narrow, weathered box and returned with the speed of a man half his age.
"Try this," he said, pulling a wand from the box. "Aspen and unicorn hair. Eleven inches. Supple."
John took the wand. It felt… like a twig. He gave it a flick, and nothing happened. Not a spark, not a hum. It was just dead wood in his hand. He looked at Ollivander, feeling a sudden pang of inadequacy.
"No," Ollivander whispered, snatching it back. "Too simple. Perhaps…"
He swapped the wand for another—black walnut, dragon heartstring. It felt dense, heavy. Before John could even flick it, the old man snatched it back.
Ollivander was relentless. He pulled down wand after wand, creating a chaotic pile on the counter. "Rosewood? No. Sycamore? Hardly. Willow and phoenix feather?"
John gave the willow wand a tentative swish, and a shower of sparks erupted from the tip—but they were sickly, sputtering sparks that smelled faintly of burnt ozone. It caught fire before the wandmaker snatched it back and smothered the fire between his fingers.
"Still no," Ollivander muttered, his brow furrowing as he paced around the counter.
"You are… difficult, Mr. Smith," said Ollivander, laughing, completely unaware that John was going through an early mid-life crisis with each disappointment in a wand.
"Is there a problem, sir?" he asked.
Ollivander stopped pacing, his pale eyes staring at John's face with unsettled intensity. "A problem? No, Mr. Smith. It's a puzzle waiting to be solved... a missing piece. A very stubborn missing piece... aha." Saying this, he disappeared into the back of his shop.
The shop fell into a heavy, expectant silence as Ollivander disappeared into the shadows of the back room. John stood by the counter, trying to keep his composure. Truthfully, he had expected a pretty average wand, not the fantasies he once read online. Now, whatever was happening in the store practically screamed 'destiny' to anyone looking at it.
But the wait was stretching out, and his initial excitement was curdling into a knot of anxiety. Truthfully, he did not mind any of the shenanigans if he got something good out of it, but it was also making him feel nervous.
A moment later, a floorboard creaked, and Ollivander emerged. He was holding a box that looked ancient, its corners frayed and the label worn to a ghost of its former self.
"It's surprising indeed," murmured Ollivander, before looking at John with a small smile.
"Looks like I found one for you, boy, and one of my originals, even."