4: Chapter 4 Ollivander's Strange Gaze

Leaving Gringotts, Harry kept looking back repeatedly.

The Galleons in his pocket weighed down the hem of his robes, clinking as he walked.

For a child who grew up in a cupboard, suddenly possessing his own vault did more for his confidence than any magic class could.

Allen had little interest in gold coins.

Money was certainly important, but it was just an admission ticket.

What really concerned him was the cracked pocket watch in his Portable Space.

After it was stored inside, there had been slight fluctuations in the surrounding space.

It wasn't repulsion, but more like a pull between things of the same kind.

A remnant of a time-turner.

To think that such a thing was hidden in the Potter Family vault.

The original book didn't mention it.

That's good.

Because it wasn't in the book, there was room to maneuver.

"Alright, lads." Hagrid clapped his hands, his booming voice making a Witch selling cauldrons by the roadside flinch. "Time to go get your wands. A Wizard can't do without a wand."

Harry clutched his money bag tightly, his face full of anticipation.

Allen yawned.

"If you don't have a wand, you could always just hit people with a cauldron."

Hagrid paused, then burst into laughter.

"You're a clever lad, finding ways around it."

Harry laughed along, but stopped after a couple of chuckles.

He couldn't help but feel that Allen wasn't joking.

Ollivander's wand shop was sandwiched between two other stores, its storefront pitifully narrow.

The sign was gray with age, and only a single wand lay in the display window on a faded cushion.

The doorbell rang.

The shop was quiet inside, the air filled with the smell of wood, dust, and old parchment.

As soon as Harry stepped inside, his footsteps grew light.

"This place... is a bit creepy."

Allen leaned against the doorframe.

"If a place that sells wands isn't creepy, what is? A hot dog stand?"

Harry was choked for words.

Footsteps came from behind the counter.

A white-haired old man emerged from between the tall shelves, his silvery-gray pupils resting on the two of them.

He wore old robes and held a measuring tape; he was thin and gaunt, but not slow.

"Mr. Potter."

The old man looked first at Harry's forehead.

"I thought, I would see you eventually."

Harry touched his scar, standing very stiffly.

Ollivander walked closer and studied him for a moment.

"James Potter, eleven inches, mahogany, pliable, excellent for Transfiguration. When he bought his wand, he knocked over a whole row of my boxes."

Hagrid chuckled softly.

"Lily Potter, ten and a quarter inches, willow, nice for Charms. A very fine wand."

Harry listened, mesmerized.

Allen lowered his eyes, sleepiness creeping up on him again.

People like Ollivander were troublesome.

He remembered every wand sold, every customer's measurements, habits, and reactions, and even who had knocked over the shelves decades ago.

An old hand like this wouldn't be fooled by a few words.

"Come now, Mr. Harry Potter."

Ollivander released the measuring tape.

"Which is your wand hand?"

"My right."

The tape measure flew up on its own, measuring Harry all over. Harry stood straight, holding his breath.

Ollivander turned and ducked into the shelves, retrieving a long box.

"Holly, Phoenix feather, eleven inches. Give it a try."

Harry took the wand, but just as he raised his hand, Ollivander snatched it back.

"No, not that one."

A second one.

"Beech, dragon heartstring, nine inches."

Harry gave it a flick, and a vase on the counter shattered.

Hagrid tucked his umbrella behind his back, pretending not to see.

A third one.

A fourth one.

A fifth one.

Harry grew more anxious with every attempt, and more things in the shop were damaged.

A ledger flew up and hit Hagrid on the head; Hagrid rubbed his head and even apologized to the ledger.

Allen looked at the mess on the floor.

"The Chosen One certainly makes a grand entrance when buying a wand."

Harry's ears turned red.

Ollivander, however, did not smile.

He stood before the shelves, his fingers gliding over a row of boxes, before finally pulling out one covered in dust.

"Curious. Very curious."

He opened the box and handed the wand to Harry.

"Holly, Phoenix feather, eleven inches, pliable."

Harry gripped it.

Warmth spread from his palm, and the tip of the wand shot out red and gold sparks, which drifted in the air before slowly fading away.

Hagrid clapped, nearly knocking over the shelf next to him.

"Well done, Harry!"

Harry looked down at the wand, his face finally showing the joy a child should have.

But Ollivander's expression did not relax.

He stared at the wand, then looked at Harry's scar.

"Curious."

Harry asked, "What's curious?"

"The feather in this wand came from a Phoenix. That Phoenix only gave two feathers. The other one made the wand that gave you your scar."

The shop went quiet.

Hagrid stopped smiling.

Harry gripped the wand tighter, the joy on his face fading significantly.

Allen lifted his eyelids.

"Mr. Ollivander, do you always recount accident reports before selling wands?"

Ollivander turned to him.

This time, he looked at him very seriously.

"Mr. Allen Potter."

He slowed his pace when saying the name.

"Another Potter."

Hagrid scratched his beard.

"Professor Dumbledore said he is also a child of the Potter Family."

Allen corrected him, "Distant branch. No need to be so enthusiastic with the introductions."

Harry lowered his head, the sense of closeness from a moment ago retreating.

Ollivander didn't press further, just letting the tape measure fly toward Allen.

"Which is your wand hand?"

"My right."

The tape measure veered to the side just as it neared Allen's wrist, landing on a wooden box.

Ollivander paused.

Harry saw it clearly and widened his eyes.

Allen took his hand out of his pocket.

"It measured wrong."

The tape measure shivered and flew up again.

This time it circled cautiously, always staying half an inch away from his skin.

The Spatial Displacement wasn't aggressive, but it would repel strange objects that got too close to his body.

Allen suppressed that layer of displacement.

The tape measure finally finished measuring and flew back into Ollivander's hand.

The old man didn't ask.

This sense of propriety raised Allen's estimation of him a little.

"Elm, Unicorn hair, ten inches."

The first wand was handed over.

Allen took it.

No reaction.

Not weak.

It was completely silent.

Ollivander took it back and exchanged it for another.

"Alder, dragon heartstring, nine and a half inches."

Still no reaction.

A third, a fourth, a fifth.

The boxes on the counter piled higher and higher.

When Harry was testing wands, the shop was at least lively. When it was Allen's turn, all the wands became dead wood, not even bothering to spark.

Hagrid's legs were aching from standing, and he muttered, "This is rare."

Allen leaned against the counter, sleepiness pressing in.

"How about I just take the cheapest one? Casting spells depends on the person, not the wooden stick anyway."

Ollivander looked up.

"A wand is not a wooden stick, Mr. Potter."

"In the hands of someone who doesn't know how to use it, it's about the same."

"In your hands, things will be more troublesome."

Ollivander turned and walked toward the back of the shop.

The shelves there were even older, the boxes thick with dust, the labels faded.

The old man stood on tiptoe to take down a thin, long box, blowing away the dust.

Hagrid sneezed, and the shelf shook.

"Sorry," Hagrid rubbed his nose, "too much dust."

Ollivander placed the box on the counter, pressing his palm against the lid for two seconds.

"This wand has been here for over a hundred years and has never chosen a Wizard. My grandfather left two sentences about it."

Allen looked up.

"What are they?"

"Do not actively recommend it."

Ollivander opened the box.

"Unless it wakes up first."

Inside the box lay an obsidian-colored wand with fine, dense patterns on the surface, the handle engraved with shallow, circular runes.

It didn't look like a new product, but more like a dangerous object sealed away in an old warehouse for a long time.

Before Allen even reached out, the cracked pocket watch in his Portable Space vibrated.

In the same second, the wand in the box flew up on its own and stopped in front of Allen.

Hagrid's eyes widened.

"Merlin, it moved on its own!"

Harry held his breath.

Allen didn't dodge.

The wand landed in his palm.

Light, cold, fitting.

The next second, all the wand boxes in the shop vibrated in unison.

The edge of the counter became misaligned, and the noise outside the window was cut off, as if separated by another layer of space.

Harry stumbled, nearly hitting the shelf.

Hagrid reached out to steady him, but got hit on the head by a falling box instead.

"Ouch! Do these boxes have a vendetta against me today?"

Allen gripped the wand, and a response came from his palm.

It wasn't submission.

It was confirmation.

The laws of space flowed down his arm, and the boundaries of his Portable Space expanded outward by a bit.

It wasn't much, but it made Allen much more alert.

Good stuff.

Better than a cauldron.

Ollivander stood behind the counter, his gaze fixed on the wand, the curiosity on his face irrepressible.

"Blackthorn, specially treated to achieve this color. The core is Thestral tail hair. Eleven and three-quarters inches, rather rigid."

Harry asked in a low voice, "What is a Thestral?"

Hagrid lowered his voice, "A type of magical creature. You'll see one later."

Ollivander continued:

"Thestrals are associated with death. Blackthorn is often used for defense, curses, and dangerous journeys. As for this wand, spatial Alchemy was used during its creation. Records say it doesn't like ordinary Wizards."

Allen twirled the wand.

"Sounds like it has a bad temper."

"It is picky."

"Picky things are usually hard to keep."

Hagrid couldn't help but laugh.

Ollivander did not smile.

"Mr. Potter, wands choose the Wizard; that is not a sales pitch. It has waited too long."

Allen looked up.

"How much?"

Ollivander was taken aback.

Harry was also stunned.

Hagrid coughed twice.

Ollivander withdrew his gaze.

"Seven Galleons."

Allen counted out the gold coins and placed them on the counter.

"It's unsettlingly cheap."

"I sell wands, not fate."

"That's good, fate is something with terrible after-sales service."

Ollivander pushed the empty box toward him.

"Take good care of it."

Allen took the box, but didn't put the wand back; instead, shielding it with his cuff, he stored it at the edge of his Portable Space.

After the wand entered the space, the cracked pocket watch quieted down.

There was a connection between the two items.

Now was not the time to study it.

Harry walked out of the shop holding his wand, still unable to resist looking back.

For him, this was the first key to the magical world.

For Allen, this was the first weapon that could truly complement the laws of space.

The doorbell rang softly behind them.

Ollivander stood in the dim shop, watching the two Potters leave.

One had taken the Phoenix feather that shared a source with the Dark Lord.

The other had taken away that Thestral tail hair wand that had slept for a hundred years.

The old man opened the old ledger and wrote down the name Allen Potter.

The tip of his pen paused for a long time.

Finally, he added a line next to it.

"Wand left the box on its own. Spatial reaction. Needs attention."