The new enmity panel still hovered in the corner of Theodore's sight when he blew out a slow breath. Lost one door, found another window.
Fine. If goblins only understood knuckles, he'd schedule knuckles later.
For now: the right wand.
Hagrid's stride took them to a narrow, timeworn shop with a faded purple cushion in the window and a single wand on display. The gold letters on the sign had peeled with dignity:
Ollivanders — Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
A bell chimed as they entered, and the pane blinked with cheerfully incorrect certainty:
[You have arrived at the Primordial sect: THE FORGE SECT. By virtue of your Chan affiliation, the sect master Ou Yezi receives you personally.]
[Befriending Ou Yezi will greatly aid your path in forging.]
[Acquaintance → Talent: Metallurgy & Silvering (exceptional purification of ores and noble metals).]
[Close Friend → Talent: Fire-at-Will (mastery over the control of heaven-and-earth flames).]
[Life-and-Death → Talent: Prove-the-Dao-by-Tools (forging talent soars; cultivation advances through craft).]
Behind the counter, Mr Ollivander lifted his pale eyes, all gossamer and measuring. In the System's script he was Ou Yezi; in the real world he was the wandmaker Britain whispered about.
Good. These rewards were excellent.
And first things first—the wand.
Would his wood be beech, apple, holly, even elder? Core unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, or phoenix feather?
After the gentle preliminaries—questions on dominant hand, temperament, odd habits—Ollivander produced a tape measure that measured him without being told what to measure. Theo quietly wondered whether the ritual did anything at all. In his last life, locksmiths could open your door in ten seconds, but they huffed and puffed for ten minutes to make the bill feel earned.
The wand boxes appeared.
"Try this," Ollivander said. "Hawthorn, unicorn hair—a steadfast pairing. Excellent for wards and protective charms."
Theodore took it—and felt a clean current run from palm to shoulder. The tip budded a soft white glow, warm with the sense of keeping darkness back.
Ollivander blinked. "Perfect compatibility? That quickly?"
That wasn't how his scripted reveal went. He usually needed four or five attempts to prime the customer's awe.
Theodore's understanding slid into place with the easy click of a well-oiled lock.
Seven-Apertures Heart.
His power might be thin for now, but his control and his sense of essence were obscene. Unless a wand had an extremely narrow temperament, he could likely match it on the first shake. And later, he wouldn't "major in Charms and fail at Transfiguration"; unless a spell itself demanded a special affinity, his casting should land.
Polite as could be, he smiled. "May I try a few more, Mr Ollivander?"
"Er—of course," Ollivander said, passing over beech, dragon heartstring. "Though I must warn you—when a wand chooses the wizard—"
The beech wand threw a crisp spray of gold sparks in his hand.
Ollivander stared. "Also… perfect?"
Wand after wand repeated the pattern. No fireworks, no explosions—just that gentle click of fit, every time.
By the fifth, Ollivander's eyes were alight. He rubbed his hands together, already talking quicker. "Mr. Ashbourne, this is most unusual. I have a small favour. If you'd consent to participate in a few harmless wandlore studies, I'll waive the cost of your wand—lifetime maintenance as well. Your magical signature is—pardon me—a treasure for my field."
Somewhere under his breath: "European number one… today, today…"
Theodore didn't have to fake the warmth. He'd hoped to befriend the wandmaker; having the wandmaker ask made it simple.
"Gladly. The Ollivanders are the most ancient and accomplished wandmakers in Europe. Assisting you is an honour."
Flattered pink, Ollivander visibly grew fonder by the second.
The pane approved, writing itself in neat green:
[Bond with Ou Yezi: Acquaintance.]
[Reward available: Metallurgy & Refining.]
[Claim now?]
He tucked that away for a moment. Choice of wand first.
Perfect compatibility with everything was… a luxury problem. But Copper Skin & Iron Bones plus the Staff Mastery he intended to earn from Hagrid suggested a practical requirement:
If the wand could double as a stick, he wouldn't need to carry two things.
He cleared his throat. "Mr Ollivander, do you have anything… unconventional? Longer. Sturdier. Built to take a beating. If I had to, I'd like it to hurt if it hit someone."
Hagrid coughed into his beard.
Ollivander's mouth twitched despite himself. "There are traditions for duelling batons and walking-stick wands—unfashionable in Britain, but not unheard of. A full quarterstaff is… legally delicate. However—" He disappeared into the stacks and returned with a long, cloth-wrapped case.
He unrolled: a wand fifteen and a half inches, just shy of a baton—octagonal grip, spine-reinforced shaft.
"Hornbeam—responsive to discipline and intent. Core: dragon heartstring—potent, and will not shy from force. The shaft is laminated—flexible under stress, springy for impact. If you insist on… robust usage, this will complain the least."
Theodore took it.
A soundless exhale ran the length of the wood, the faintest prickle of heat gloving his palm. Sparks flowed, not in a showy burst but in a steady, confident ribbon—as if the wand were saying: I'm built for work.
Ollivander's eyes shone. "Yes. Yes."
Theodore turned the baton-long wand once, feeling weight and balance. He pictured parry, thrust, snap-strike—and the wand liked being moved that way.
"Sold," he said.
"Waived," Ollivander corrected warmly. "And please—when you have time—we shall test resonance curves, response under heat, and—oh!—cross-affinity against your remarkable universal fit."
"Gladly." Theodore smiled—and in the mental corner of his sight, tapped the waiting button.
[Claim Metallurgy & Silvering?]
"Claim."
A quiet, clean comprehension slid into his hands. Metal and ore felt… legible—which veins hid slag, which wants a different flux, what temperature a stubborn alloy would forgive. In a world of galleons and goblin silver, that had all kinds of uses—from alchemy to coin-sense to, yes, wandwork.
"Another question," Theodore said, twirling the baton-wand as if testing the memory in a fencing foil. "Do you stock wand sheaths that mount along the forearm? Something I can draw without reaching for a pocket."
Ollivander brightened again. "I have a leather bracer—goblin-worked clips, ironically; spring release, wand locks flush and won't rattle. Discreet, but quick."
"I'll take it."
"And Mr. Ashbourne," Ollivander added, lowering his voice, "there are licences for overt batons. Use prudence in public. A baton draws eyes."
"I like eyes," Theodore said. "But I like discretion better. The bracer will do."
As they stepped back into the Alley's light, Hagrid gave the long wand a wary side-eye and then grinned. "Looks proper on yeh, that. Bit o' bite to it."
"Bite is the point," Theodore said, flexing his fingers. "Next—robes, books, a cauldron. And perhaps… a visit to Eeylops. I owe a certain owl some cuisine."
Hagrid chuckled, then paused as Theodore's gaze flicked sideways—just for a heartbeat—as if he were listening to something no one else could hear.
The pane, satisfied, faded—for now.
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