"This one isn't right for you."
Ark was still staring in awe at the rainbow he'd just conjured when Ollivander plucked the wand from his hand, frowning.
"Walnut suits a clever wizard like yourself, but unicorn hair as a core? Far too sluggish. It can't keep up with you."
He pulled another box from the shelf and handed Ark the wand inside.
"Try this—Aspen, dragon heartstring. Excellent for combat magic. Who knows, perhaps you're destined to be a master duelist?"
Ark ignored the teasing. He raised the wand and flicked it. This time, instead of a rainbow, a fierce gout of flame burst forth, nearly setting the cabinet ablaze. Ark staggered back, startled.
"Not this one either. Far too hot-tempered," Ollivander said breezily, reclaiming the wand and already selecting another. "Here, try this."
So it went. Ark tested wand after wand—over a dozen in all. One spouted a stream of water, another whipped up a gale, another made flowers and vines sprout through the floorboards, yet another sent chairs and tables floating into the air. Each time, Ollivander shook his head, silver eyes gleaming, and whisked the wand away.
Even when Ark felt nothing particularly wrong, Ollivander clearly saw things Ark couldn't. And he never hesitated to declare: "Not a match."
Half an hour passed like this, and Ark thought wryly that it was worse than being dragged along on a shopping trip with a girl. Still, he couldn't deny he was fascinated by each strange reaction, so he kept at it without complaint.
If anything, Ollivander only grew more delighted.
"Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! I haven't had a wizard this particular in ages. Today is going to be a marvellous day."
The old man darted around with boundless energy, pulling down box after box. Even McGonagall, usually composed to a fault, began watching Ark with a different look in her eye.
Because the truth was simple: every wand was unique. Its power came from the wood it was carved from and the magical creature at its core. Once it found the right wizard, it bonded for life, growing with them. The more unusual the wizard, the more unusual the wand required. Which meant the fussier Ark was, the more extraordinary he was likely to become.
"It seems Hogwarts is about to welcome a rather special student," McGonagall murmured, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
Ark didn't notice. He was still focused, taking every attempt seriously.
A wand wasn't just a tool—it was a weapon. A sword to a swordsman, a gun to a marksman. Even grown wizards struggled to cast without one. And Ark was only a young wizard, just setting out on the path of magic.
In the past year, he'd only once experienced Accidental Magic—right after arriving in this world. Since then, he'd felt no different from an ordinary boy. Now, at last, he had a way to wield real power. There was no way he'd treat this lightly.
He lost count of how many wands he'd tried when, at last, he felt something different.
The moment his fingers closed around the next wand, the sensation was unlike anything before. Not a mischievous pet with a will of its own—this felt like an extension of his arm. Natural. Seamless.
Ark straightened, pulse quickening, and finally looked properly at the wand.
It was a rich brown-grey, with a deep, enduring sheen. Warm to the touch, yet steady, balanced between light and dark. The handle was sanded smooth, easy to grip, while the shaft bore delicate carvings, divided by a distinct bead-like ridge. It was beautiful—elegant without being showy, more like a conductor's baton than a crude stick.
Ark fell for it instantly.
On impulse, he raised the wand high and swept it down.
The world exploded.
The air vibrated, and around him surged wind, fire, water, lightning. Mist coiled through the cramped little shop, strange waves of energy washing over everyone inside. McGonagall and Ollivander both froze, then inexplicably felt lighter, happier, as if all their worries had been blown away.
Flowers burst from the floorboards in every colour. Tables and shelves transformed into animals—cats, dogs, birds, even piglets and calves—darting and bleating through the aisles. Chaos reigned.
Ollivander let out a wild laugh, even as his shop descended into bedlam.
"Merlin's beard! Incredible!"
"My word!" McGonagall gasped, already whipping out her wand to douse flames, dispel lightning, banish the fog, and restore the transfigured furniture.
Ark's heart lurched. He lowered the wand quickly, and the effects evaporated.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Ollivander. I didn't mean—" He looked around at the mess, horrified.
But Ollivander was grinning from ear to ear.
"No need to apologise, my boy. Not at all!" He clapped Ark on the shoulder, voice ringing with excitement. "If anything, I should thank you—for letting me witness such splendour, proof of a perfect match between wizard and wand!"
His silver eyes shone as he examined it.
"Hazel, phoenix feather core, fourteen and a half inches. Remarkable."
His words tumbled out, faster and faster.
"Hazel wands are extraordinarily sensitive, reflecting their owner's emotions. They respond best to those who understand and master their feelings, drawing on emotional energy to produce powerful magic. Loyal to the end—they wither when their master dies.
And phoenix feather—ah, the rarest of all cores. Versatile, capable of every form of magic. Slow to reveal their full potential, sometimes acting of their own accord, which many wizards dislike. But above all, they are choosy. A phoenix is fiercely independent, and so are its feathers. Such wands are the hardest to win over, the most reluctant to give their loyalty. But once paired with the right wizard—one who can truly command his heart—they are unmatched.
And at fourteen and a half inches, this is a long wand indeed. Everything about it screams exceptional."
He squeezed Ark's shoulder, laughing like a boy.
"I can't wait to see, Ark Byrne, what brilliant light this wand will shine in your hands."