Led by McGonagall, the two made their way through Diagon Alley and soon arrived at their destination.
If Gringotts was the most luxurious building in all of Diagon Alley, then Ollivanders was undoubtedly among the top three most dilapidated stores.
The dust on the windows had caked into grime, obscuring the view inside, and a crooked wooden sign hung haphazardly:
Ollivanders: Wandmaker since 382 B.C.
Seeing the inscription, Wayne couldn't help but scoff in disbelief.
'382 B.C.? Back then, this land wasn't even Anglo-Saxon territory—the Roman legions hadn't even arrived yet. The concept of "Britain" didn't even exist at the time, with Celtic tribes scattered everywhere. What kind of wand shop could he possibly have run?'
Still, as the sole arms dealer—no, wandmaker—in all of Britain, Ollivander probably didn't need to embellish his history to bolster his reputation.
Noticing Wayne's hesitation, McGonagall assumed he was put off by the shop's battle-worn aesthetic and stepped forward to push open the wooden door, reassuring him:
"Ollivander is just… a bit unconventional. His wandmaking skills are truly masterful—CRASH!"
Before she could finish, perhaps distracted by her explanation to Wayne, she applied a bit too much force, and the entire door of the wand shop was shoved clean off its hinges.
A thick cloud of dust billowed out, and even the grime on the windows shook loose, crashing to the ground in powdery fragments.
Wayne quickly raised his schoolbag as a shield to avoid getting covered in filth. "Professor, are you alright? Pfft! Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh."
Once the dust settled slightly, he lowered the bag and took in McGonagall's appearance—her emerald robes now a dusty pale grey—and couldn't hold back a chuckle.
[Laughing at a professor to their face: +10 points.]
'Damn it, stupid system. Was that laughing? That was sympathy, alright?' Wayne grumbled inwardly as McGonagall's expression darkened. Fortunately, a hoarse voice broke the awkward silence.
"Didn't the sign say to open the door gently? Why—oh, Minerva, it's you."
A white-haired old man peeked out from behind a shelf. First came a scolding, but upon recognising Professor McGonagall, a smile immediately appeared on his face.
The speed of his change in expression was truly remarkable.
"Garrick, your shop needs a renovation."
McGonagall's expression darkened slightly, but Ollivander simply laughed it off and changed the subject.
"You know, Minerva, seeing you every summer is always the highlight of my year. When you, Filius, or Pomona appear, it means a wand is about to meet its destined owner."
As he spoke, his deep blue eyes turned to Wayne. "Young wizard, may I ask your name?"
"Wayne Lawrence," Wayne replied, subtly stepping away from a nearby shelf. He had just noticed one of its legs was broken and could collapse at any moment.
"Ah, Mr. Lawrence—quite an uncommon surname. Might your ancestors have been from Rome or France?"
"French, I suppose, though my family has been in Britain for many generations."
Indeed, the Lawrence lineage traced back to Norman nobility who had arrived with William the Conqueror, and the surname was far more common in France.
"Seems your ancestors made the right choice. France isn't fit for dogs these days," Ollivander remarked casually as a measuring tape floated over to the young wizard.
Wayne's lips twitched in amusement—apparently, the centuries-old rivalry between England and France had even seeped into the wizarding world, with insults traded at every opportunity.
How absurd.
"Which is your dominant hand?"
"Left."
"Very well, let's try this one then."
After glancing at the tape's measurements, Ollivander disappeared briefly before returning with an armful of wooden boxes.
"Remember, child—the wand chooses the wizard. Only when a wand and its owner resonate perfectly can its full potential be unlocked."
"Let's begin. Some young wizards are quite particular—Minerva here, for instance, was rather finicky back in the day."
"Nine inches, cedar wood, dragon heartstring core—excellent for Transfiguration."
Professor McGonagall sighed.
"Garrick, must you bring that up every time we meet?"
"Forgive an old man who clings to such moments to jog his memory," Ollivander chuckled, handing Wayne a wand.
The moment it touched his palm, Wayne felt an inexplicable urge to cast something. He obeyed the impulse.
BANG!
A burst of white light shot from the wand's tip, blasting a gaping hole in the ceiling.
Rather than anger, Ollivander's face lit up with delight at the destruction of his own shop.
"Marvellous! Truly marvellous!"
"This wand is unworthy of your future achievements, Mr. Lawrence. While cedar suits the sharp-minded, it's ultimately too mild. How about this instead? Dragon heartstring paired with yew."
The moment the first wand was snatched away, another was thrust into Wayne's hand. This time, a searing fireball erupted. His brow furrowed—he disliked uncontrolled magic. The next instant, the flames vanished into thin air.
CLAP CLAP CLAP!
Ollivander beamed. "Your talent is undeniable, Mr. Lawrence! Few young wizards can command their magical power so precisely upon first contact with a wand."
"Still, I must ask you to refrain from doing so. Only by letting magic flow naturally can we find your perfect match."
Wayne reluctantly nodded, signalling he wouldn't interfere again. Even Professor McGonagall allowed a faint smile.
It seemed Hogwarts was welcoming another prodigy. And if he were sorted into Gryffindor? All the better. It must be known that Slytherin had already won the House Cup six times in a row, which had been gnawing at her for quite some time.
One by one, the boxes on the table were opened as Wayne tried various combinations of wands.
From fir wood to walnut, from dragon heartstring to thestral feathers.
Ollivander was completely in his element now, muttering incessantly under his breath. He relished such picky customers.
The more demanding they were, the more extraordinary the wizard proved to be.
In the wizarding world, conformity only led to mediocrity. Only those with distinct characteristics and personalities could scale the heights.
When Wayne achieved fame and success in the future, and people spoke of his wand, wouldn't that bring him honour? His grandfather had boasted for decades about selling a wand to Dumbledore, using that single achievement to suppress the other two prominent wand-making families.
Ollivander longed for such a day, too.
When that time came, the so-called "Big Three Wand-Making Families" would cease to exist. At the mention of wands, people would only think of him, Ollivander!
This testing session lasted a full half-hour, with nearly a hundred wands tried. Wayne remained remarkably calm.
So what if a transmigrator was special? It just meant trying a few more wands.
"Well then, let's try this one," Ollivander said, producing another box. "Rowan wood, unicorn feather core, eleven and a half inches."
Wayne took the wand indifferently, but in the next moment, a sudden sense of perfect harmony washed over him.