Hexby indeed had catkin blood.
The sharp senses inherited from that lineage allowed her to detect something unusual, and she kept sniffing around Ron. Her serious feline face and keen eyes made Ron's legs tremble in fear.
He didn't even dare to protest—he could only mourn silently for Scabbers.
With the miscellaneous purchases nearly done, Molly crossed off another item on her list and nodded with satisfaction: "Alright, only Ollivander's left. Ron, Vaughn—my dears—you'll soon have wands of your own."
That news finally brought some comfort to Ron.
The family followed the stream of people toward the depths of Diagon Alley. Ollivander's Wand Shop was the oldest establishment there, predating even the Leaky Cauldron, which had been founded in the 1500s.
It was nestled at the very back of Diagon Alley, an unassuming little shop with peeling paint and dusty windows that gave no hint of its illustrious history. Only the sign above the door spoke to its legacy:
[Ollivanders – Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.]
The Weasley family stepped inside. The shop was small—or perhaps it only seemed that way due to the sheer number of wand boxes. Stacks of long, narrow cartons towered toward the ceiling in chaotic disarray—surely thousands of them.
It was dead silent inside. When the door opened, the soft chime of the bell stirred the dust, adding to the stillness as if the space itself held a mysterious magic.
An old man with large, pale eyes emerged from behind the shelves. In the dim shop, his eyes looked almost like glowing moons.
"Ah, good afternoon, guests. Welcome to Ollivander's." His voice was soft and ethereal.
Vaughn heard Ron swallow hard beside him. Molly, however, was unfazed. She had walked into this shop five times already, starting with her own school years.
Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George had all needed new wands. Their school schedules were too close together to reuse.
She greeted him heartily: "Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander! Do you remember me?"
"Of course, of course," Ollivander said, nodding with that whimsical air of his. "Molly Prewett Weasley. You ask me that every time—don't worry, I'm not senile yet. So—"
He turned to Vaughn and Ron, studying them quietly before speaking: "These two… more Weasleys?"
"Yes, Mr. Ollivander."
"Ah, every Hogwarts start is a delight. Not just because of business, of course—that's only part of it. More importantly, the wands I've crafted finally find their owners."
He raised one hand to cup his ear and said mysteriously, "Do you hear it? Some of them are cheering… So—who'll go first?"
"Gulp." Ron, already pale, grabbed his mother's hand and blurted, "Let Vaughn go first, Mum—I need some fresh air!"
Molly sighed but followed him out, leaving only Vaughn and Ollivander inside.
Not that the wandmaker seemed bothered in the slightest. He pulled out a measuring tape from his coat: "Mr. Vaughn Weasley, which is your wand hand?"
"Right," Vaughn replied.
Ollivander nodded and began measuring him, speaking softly as he worked: "Mr. Vaughn Weasley… I've heard of you—a potions prodigy, they say."
"Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Ollivander."
"You're not afraid of me, I see?"
Vaughn smiled faintly. "When I first brewed a potion, Ron thought I was cursing him and cried. I was just used to muttering during brewing."
"Ah, yes…" Ollivander nodded with understanding. "Those who master a craft often have quirks—habits and philosophies that outsiders can't grasp."
"So, measuring every customer in full is your philosophy?" Vaughn asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Indeed! Each person is unique, so too are wands. I must know my customers before finding their perfect match."
Vaughn glanced at the towering stacks of boxes. "I heard you use only unicorn hair, phoenix feather, and dragon heartstring for wand cores. Isn't that too limited? How do you prevent duplicates?"
"Ah, a fine question—from a potions prodigy, no less!" Ollivander beamed. "To most students, I'd explain that each dragon, phoenix, and unicorn is unique. But since you asked, let me tell you: the true uniqueness comes not just from the core, but from the wand wood."
He finished his measurements and, after some thought, retrieved a box. He opened it, presenting the wand inside with reverence:
"12 inches, fir wood, dragon heartstring. Prefers focused, determined, powerful wizards."
Vaughn gave it a light wave, and a fierce gust of wind surged through the shop.
Ollivander promptly took it back, chuckling: "See? It likes you. But you're not quite the right match."
He handed over another: "10½ inches, elm wood, dragon heartstring. They say it prefers pure-bloods—but I believe it chooses nobility and leadership."
This time, golden sparks burst from the wand as Vaughn waved it.
Still, Ollivander took it back with a shake of his head. "Again, it likes you—but you're not the one."
After two trials—and using his potion-honed instincts—Vaughn began to sense something. Maybe Ollivander hadn't been speaking metaphorically when he said the wands were cheering.
He hadn't heard anything, but… he had felt something. Subtle, hazy, but real.
When Ollivander moved to offer a third wand, Vaughn paused.
"You mentioned wand wood earlier," he said. "Can I assume that a wand's personality—its preference—is shaped by the wood?"
Ollivander was momentarily surprised, his pale eyes glinting. Then he nodded slowly.
"Very perceptive, Mr. Vaughn Weasley. That's the core of the wand-making craft. The wand core dictates magical affinity. But it's the wood that chooses the wizard."
Vaughn fell into thought. He couldn't hear 'cheering' like Ollivander, but when paired with the phrase "It likes you, but you're not suitable" and considering his own experience of being from another world, he realized: He would need a very special wand.
The bond between wand and wizard wasn't just about matching—it was about destiny.
That's why Ollivander couldn't quite find his match—he didn't know Vaughn had traveled through time and space.
Vaughn closed his eyes and released the magic he'd kept shielded under his Occlumency technique. And then—he felt it.
He walked over to a cluttered shelf, reached out, and pulled down a box. Even before opening it, he sensed the wand inside was yearning for him.
Schiii—
The moment he waved it, arcs of lightning burst into the air like agile snakes, splitting and sliding across countless boxes.
Ollivander's eyes widened.
"Fourteen inches, dragon heartstring, and elderberry wood! Arrogant, wild, explosive… It chooses those with singular destinies…"