Five minutes later, after listening to Clotaire Bassat's account, Dumbledore wore a faint, knowing smile. "He truly is a remarkable child."
"Headmaster Dumbledore, is Wyzett really an Obscurial?" Bassat pressed gently. "From his manner and behavior, I sensed nothing of the sort."
"There's an undeniable warmth about him," Bassat continued. "Honestly, even if you hadn't asked me to watch out for him, I doubt I'd have felt the need for caution. It's quite extraordinary."
"Well, that depends on whether you believe it or not," Dumbledore replied, sipping his tea. "Wyzett is indeed an Obscurial. I saw it with my own eyes."
"The situation was urgent at the time. The Ministry arrived before I did. Without any help from me, he managed to break free from the Obscurus state on his own."
"He recovered by sheer force of will? But he's only the age of a new student!" Bassat said in disbelief.
"This morning, I thought you wanted me to keep an eye on him because he might be unstable, to chat with him if I could..."
"So you misunderstood my intentions," Dumbledore said, shaking his head with a small smile. "I simply saw Wyzett lingering in the shop, worried he might be too shy to ask about buying books. That's why I asked you to look after him, to help out if he needed anything. You've done me a great favor this time, and I won't forget it."
"Oh, no, Headmaster, you flatter me!" Bassat protested, waving his hands. "If anything, I'm the one who's gained the most. I should be thanking you!"
"If we keep being so polite," Dumbledore chuckled, glancing at his watch, "perhaps we ought to discuss dinner plans. I have an interview this afternoon, so I must return to the Leaky Cauldron shortly."
"Of course. I should get back to the shop as well," Bassat said, already rising to leave. "I'll take my leave, then."
Watching Bassat's light steps as he departed, Dumbledore grew momentarily pensive. "Ariana... at least this time, I won't repeat the mistakes of the past..."
For the modern wizard, a wand was indispensable—woven into every aspect of daily life.
Of all the old buildings in Diagon Alley, Ollivanders was perhaps the most unassuming.
Its storefront was small and worn, the faded gold sign barely legible: "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
The display window was fogged with dust, a single battered wand resting on a faded purple cushion.
Wyzett pushed open the door and stepped inside. The shop was silent, a narrow passage leading to the heart of the store.
To call it a shop was generous; it felt more like a wand warehouse.
Shelves lined both walls of the passage, stacked from floor to ceiling with wooden boxes—like bricks forming a magical labyrinth.
The main room was equally cramped, a well-worn bench tucked into the corner.
Ding-a-ling...
The delicate chime echoed through the shop. In a blink, a figure appeared before Wyzett—as if conjured by the wind itself.
Ollivander was a silver-haired, beardless old man, his pale, silvery eyes shining in the gloom like twin moons.
In the dimness, those eyes seemed almost luminous.
"Good afternoon," Ollivander greeted softly. "Since the Statute of Secrecy took effect, Obscurials have become a rare sight. You're a most unusual customer... Wyzett, it's a pleasure to serve you."
There was a note of genuine excitement in his voice. "An Obscurial, and the chance to fit a wand—I've never seen the like. Which hand do you favor?"
"My right."
"Excellent. Please, raise your arm and relax—just a few measurements."
A tape measure leapt from Ollivander's breast pocket, settling on Wyzett's shoulder. It rolled slowly to his fingertips, then from wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, even circling his forehead.
The shop seemed to come alive. Ollivander glided between the shelves, and with a flick of his hand, three wand boxes soared into his arms.
"Here, wood, core, length—every detail matters. Every wand is unique."
"But rest assured, we always find the right match. Try this one—holly and dragon heartstring, thirteen inches, nice and supple."
The wand gleamed amber, its carvings flowing with the grain—serene, unhurried.
Wyzett barely wrapped his fingers around it before Ollivander whisked it away.
"No, not quite... Try this—blackthorn and serpent nerve, twelve and a half inches, very flexible."
Once again, before Wyzett could even grip the wand, it was snatched away.
"Let's see—holly and phoenix feather, thirteen and three-quarter inches, a balanced feel."
"Cedar, unicorn tail hair, ten and three-fifths inches—no, that's not it!"
Ollivander chattered on, darting between shelves with a spryness that belied his age.
Wyzett tried wand after wand, only for each to be whisked away before he could even sense a spark.
Soon, wands and boxes littered the floor, piling up around his feet.
"How about this? Ebony and dragon heartstring, nine inches..."
"Elder and serpent nerve, eleven inches..."
"Laurel and phoenix feather..."
Time slipped by, the pile of wand boxes growing into a small mountain.
At last, a radiant Ollivander paused, muttering in amazement, "Extraordinary. We've tried nearly every combination—how can this be?"
If he hadn't already cast a Shield Charm earlier, Wyzett might have started doubting whether he had any magic at all.
"Wyzett, I need to know more." Ollivander rubbed his hands together, almost impatient. "Would you share some of your past with me?"
"Try not to recall the unpleasant bits—just happy or interesting memories, preferably from before you met Dumbledore."
"Mr. Ollivander," Wyzett asked, his confusion plain, "is something wrong? Why doesn't any wand suit me?"
"It's quite common for wizards to be particular about their wands," Ollivander replied with a gentle smile. "The wand chooses the wizard, and the wizard chooses the wand."
"Sometimes, finding the perfect match takes real effort. We must go back to the beginning... Tell me about your past!"
"Before I met Dumbledore..." Wyzett frowned, searching his memory.
"Yes, just the things that interest you."
"There was a wizard's house," Wyzett recalled, "with an ancient book about magic. I was fascinated by it."
"A book of ancient magic?" Ollivander's eyes lit up with thought. "I think I have an idea. Wait here."
He drew his wand and gave a swift wave. The scattered wands zipped back into their boxes and flew neatly to their shelves.
Moments later, he emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop, holding a silver-blue box.
Wyzett's gaze locked onto the swirling symbol emblazoned on the lid—he knew it well.
It was the very same mark as on The Wizard's Practical Combat Guide.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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