Milo definitely had Kneazle blood in her.
Her sharp senses picked up on something, and for the rest of their shopping trip, she kept circling Ron and sniffing at him. Her serious expression and piercing eyes made Ron's legs shake.
He did not even dare complain. He just silently mourned for Scabbers.
Once they finished the rest of their shopping, Molly crossed another item off her list with satisfaction. "Alright, just Ollivander's left now. Ron, Warren, my darlings, you'll have your own wands very soon."
That good news finally cheered Ron up a bit.
The family followed the crowd deeper into Diagon Alley. Ollivanders was the oldest shop there, even older than the Leaky Cauldron, which had served as the gateway to the magical world since 1500.
It was tucked away at the very end, a small, shabby shop with peeling paint and dusty windows that offered no hint of its long history. Only the sign above the door hinted at the truth.
[Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.]
The Weasleys stepped inside. The shop felt tiny, mostly because it was so crammed with merchandise. Boxes were stacked in narrow piles everywhere, reaching nearly to the ceiling. There must have been thousands of them.
It was very quiet inside. The only sound was the soft tinkling of the doorbell as they entered. The dust and stillness gave the impression that secret magic was hiding in the shadows.
An old man with large, pale eyes emerged from behind the stacks. In the dim light of the shop, his eyes gleamed like two moons.
"Ah, good afternoon. Welcome to Ollivanders."
His voice was soft and airy. Warren heard Ron gulp loudly beside him.
Molly, however, was accustomed to the scene. She had been to this shop five times before, not counting her own school days. With Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George all having gone off to school in rapid succession, hand-me-down wands had never been an option.
She greeted him with a bright smile. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander. Do you remember me?"
"Of course, of course." Ollivander nodded several times, replying in his airy tone. "Molly Prewett Weasley. You need not ask me that every time you visit. I am not yet in my dotage." He looked at Warren and Ron. "So. Two new Weasleys starting this year?"
"Yes, Mr. Ollivander."
Ah, the start of term at Hogwarts is always my favorite time of year. Not simply because of the business, though that is certainly part of it. More importantly, the wands I have crafted finally get to meet their owners.
Ollivander cupped a hand behind his ear as if listening to a distant sound.
Ron was terrified. He grabbed his mother's sleeve and tried to pull her toward the door. "Let Warren go first, Mum. I need some air."
Molly sighed and followed him out, leaving Warren alone with Ollivander. The wandmaker seemed unperturbed by their departure. He took a tape measure from his pocket. "Mr. Warren Weasley, which is your wand arm?"
"Right."
Ollivander nodded and started measuring Warren, murmuring softly. "Mr. Warren Weasley, I have heard of you. The potions prodigy."
"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."
"You don't seem frightened of me at all."
Warren glanced at him. "The first time I brewed a potion, I made Ron cry because he thought I was cursing him. I simply have a habit of muttering to myself while I work."
Ollivander nodded approvingly. "Yes, yes. Those who master a craft often harbor their own little eccentricities, adhering to principles and persistence that others find hard to understand."
Warren raised an eyebrow. "So measuring every customer in this manner is your principle?"
"Naturally. Every witch and wizard is unique, and every wand is unique in its own right. I must understand you as deeply as possible to find the perfect match."
Warren cast his gaze toward the thousands of wands stacked high around them. "I have heard that you rely solely on unicorn hair, phoenix feather, and dragon heartstring for your wand cores. With such a restricted palette of materials, how do you ensure that no two wands are exactly the same?"
Ah, an excellent question from our potions prodigy. You have put your finger right on it. Ollivander seemed pleased by the inquiry. With other young witches and wizards, I simply say that every unicorn, phoenix, and dragon is unique. It is easier for them to grasp that way. But since you have asked, I will be honest with you. It also depends on the wood of the wand.
He had finished his measurements by then.
He pondered for a moment, then produced a box and presented the wand inside to Warren with both hands.
Twelve inches. Dragon heartstring. Fir wood. It prefers witches and wizards who are focused, strong-willed, and perhaps even dominant.
Warren took it and gave it a gentle wave. A gust of wind swept through the tiny shop, rattling the boxes on the shelves.
Ollivander immediately took the wand back. He blinked at Warren. "You see? It suits you well enough. But you are not the right match for it."
Soon he selected another box. "Ten and a half inches. Dragon heartstring. Elm wood. There's an old superstition that it favors purebloods, but in my experience, that is likely nonsense perpetuated by the purebloods themselves. I believe it prefers those with a noble bearing and natural leadership instead."
When Warren waved the wand this time, golden sparks erupted in the air like fireworks.
But Ollivander took it back.
"It likes you too, but it is still not the perfect fit."
After two attempts, Warren drew on his maxed-out Potions affinity and understanding of materials to form an idea.
When Ollivander had said earlier that some wands were cheering, perhaps it was not mere theatrics. Holding those first two wands, he had sensed their eagerness. It was a vague feeling, hard to describe, but it was definitely real.
So when Ollivander offered him a third wand, Warren did not take it. Instead he asked, "You mentioned the wood earlier. Does that mean the type of wood determines a wand's unique character and preferences?"
Ollivander paused, his pale eyes blinking slowly. After a moment, he nodded.
Very perceptive, Mr. Weasley. In truth, that is a wandmaker's secret. The core determines the type of magic for which the wand is best suited, while the wood determines the wizard the wand will choose as its master.
Warren considered this. He could not hear the wands singing as Ollivander could. However, recalling the old man's words that the wand had liked him but was not a match, and considering his own unique history as a traveler from another world, Warren felt he might need a special wand. He needed one that was truly meant for him.
The bond between wand and wizard was not simply about choice. It was about mutual recognition.
That explained why Ollivander had claimed it wasn't a good match. He didn't truly know Warren. He knew nothing of Warren's past life.
With this realization, Warren closed his eyes and let his magical signature expand by releasing the Occlumency shields he maintained around himself at all times.
Then, he felt it.
He walked over to a cluttered shelf and took down a box.
As he opened the lid, he could sense the wand inside practically leaping into his hand.
Ssshhhwwwoooop.
As Warren waved the wand, arcs of electricity danced in the air. They split and flowed like living serpents, skittering across the surfaces of the countless boxes surrounding them.
Ollivander's eyes went wide.
Fourteen inches. Dragon heartstring. Elder wood. It is proud, unforgiving, and volatile. It favors those with an unusual destiny.
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