Harry Potter: Prince of Shadows

[Ollivander's Wand Shop, crafting fine wands since 382 A.D.]

Ian stood at the entrance of the shop, his heart brimming with indescribable excitement. As he looked through the door, he could hardly contain the thrill of what awaited him inside.

"If your mind wanders like this during a potion-making session, you'd better hope Merlin himself is watching over you to prevent an explosive mishap," Snape remarked sharply, his sardonic tone cutting through Ian's reverie.

"Professor, I was just thinking of something interesting," Ian replied with an awkward smile, trying to shake off the momentary distraction.

"Seems, Mr. Prince, you share a troll's intellect with those foolish Hufflepuffs," Snape taunted, his expression revealing a hint of amusement.

With that, Snape reached into his money pouch, extracting seven gleaming Galleons and tossing them to Ian. "Take your money and purchase your wand; I'll wait for you here." He seemed reluctant to enter the shop himself, leaving Ian to navigate the experience alone.

Unlike the expenses of other wizards, Hogwarts freshmen faced a fixed price for their wands—an amount imbued with significance in their magical world.

"Won't you come with me, Professor?" Ian inquired, his gaze earnest.

"Are you a toddler?" Snape questioned, glancing at Ian with his characteristic sarcasm.

"Alright then..."

Ian accepted the Galleons, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door—the portal that, both in the original tales and fanfiction, symbolized the beginning of dreams.

Ding! Ding!

The door hinged on a small bronze bell that jingled brightly as he entered, announcing his arrival. The sound echoed in the modest shop, revealing its quaint interior.

It was a narrow space, cluttered yet charming, filled with the overwhelming presence of countless wands. Thousands of wands were stacked upon cheap shelves, their simplicity betraying the shop's revered stature among witches and wizards.

"Good afternoon, a... new face," said a hoarse voice. A hunched old man stood before him, hair white and disheveled, but his keen eyes sparkled with a subtle wisdom.

"Hello, sir," Ian greeted, his voice laced with both excitement and nervousness as he gazed at the myriad of wands lining the shelves.

"Yes, yes, it's that time of year again—the start of another Hogwarts term. Are you here on your own?" Ollivander assessed the slender figure before him.

"A Hogwarts professor brought me here. Is there a problem with that?" Ian responded earnestly.

"Of course not. Just chalk it up to an old man's musings," Ollivander replied with a chuckle, glancing out the window briefly.

"I should have realized only he would have brought you… Ah, birchwood, phoenix feather tail, I remember as if it were yesterday." Ollivander murmured, seeming to drift into nostalgia.

Ian was taken aback. Was this a prophecy regarding Snape? If memory served him right, Snape's wand was indeed birch. Ollivander's remarkable memory was both impressive and unnerving.

"Do you possess prophetic abilities?" Ian asked, emboldened by his youth.

"It's merely experience, a kind of instinct, child," Ollivander replied with a warm smile, taking out a measuring tape to assess Ian's height and arm span.

"Every wand chooses the wizard most suited for it—that's the wondrous characteristic of a wand…" Ollivander began, further expounding on his philosophy while measuring Ian's dimensions. "Which hand do you favor, Mr. Prince?"

Ian felt a spark of surprise at being addressed so personally. "You know my name?"

"This isn't a question I need to answer, Mr. Prince. My job is to sell my wands," Ollivander said with a smile.

"I'm left-handed," Ian replied hesitantly.

"That's a rare preference," Ollivander noted, putting down the measuring tape and turning towards the array of wands.

"Many believe wizards choose their wands, but in fact, it's the wand that selects the wizard. Maintaining humility is a trait every wizard should cherish," he began his customary speech.

"Do you tell every young wizard this?" Ian observed, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu.

It felt as if he were trapped in a scene from the original series or a well-trodden fanfiction trope.

"Disrespectful child, I'm simply imparting the correct understanding… Can a merchant's practices be labeled as indoctrination?" Ollivander retorted, giving Ian a sharp look.

Then, he picked a wand from the shelf and handed it over. "Rosewood, dragon heartstring…"

However, no sooner had the wand touched Ian's hand than Ollivander pulled it back with surprising speed. "No, no, not this one. Try this: birchwood, seventeen inches, and from a—"

Before Ollivander could finish the sentence, he yanked the wand back again.

"Not right either."

Frustrated yet curious, Ollivander returned to the shelves, scouring for the perfect fit.

"Ebony, ten inches, dragon heartstring."

"Cedar, twelve inches, thunderbird tail feather."

"No, no, perhaps this one: firwood, fifteen inches, phoenix feather."

"This is quite a picky customer, indeed. Let's try this special combination: acacia, fourteen inches, veela hair."

***

The process of selecting a wand became more complicated than Ian had anticipated. He began to wonder if every young wizard faced such an irritating trial. With his arm growing heavy from the effort, Ian finally couldn't help but voice his feelings.

"Perhaps I should try a wand made by your grandfather or his predecessor?" Ian suggested, drawing on his extensive reading experience.

"Are you fond of antiques?" Ollivander asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Yes, indeed, I am that sort of person," Ian asserted sincerely. He truly felt fatigued by the endless trial of wands and suspected there might be only one solution.

After all, many fanfiction protagonists ultimately end up with a wand crafted by Ollivander's ancestors. Perhaps Ian shared the same unique traits as those legendary figures who had come before him?

"Mr. Prince," Ollivander said, shaking his head slowly, "I regret to inform you that each Ollivander only sells wands they've made themselves. This is a matter of pride and respect for our forebears."

Ollivander's words dashed Ian's hopes, and he couldn't help but frown in disappointment.

Yet, he reluctantly continued trying the different wands that Ollivander handed him. The process grew increasingly tedious, as Ian realized none of the wands seemed to resonate with him in Ollivander's eyes.

After testing a seemingly endless string of wands, Ollivander suddenly stopped.

"This is unheard-of!" he exclaimed, looking a mix of puzzled and fascinated.

"I've never encountered such a discerning customer," Ollivander continued, his excitement growing. "Perhaps… you possess some rare qualities."

Ian and Ollivander's expressions were starkly contrasting; the harder it became to find the right wand, the more gleaming and hopeful Ollivander's eyes became.

"For a young wizard who cherishes old relics, perhaps... perhaps this wand might suit you." A flicker of inspiration crossed Ollivander's face as he dashed toward a back room.

Moments later, he emerged holding a dusty box, its surface covered in a film of neglect.

"Is this your grandfather's creation?" Ian couldn't resist asking.

"No, this is my creation—a rather ambitious project from my youth… I was inspired by stories I'd read and filled with a defiant spirit," Ollivander explained, eyes filled with nostalgia.

"You may not be aware of the legend of the Elder Wand. This was my naive attempt to craft something that could rival that legendary object," he confessed, his tone shifting from pride to a more somber reflection.

"I failed many times. By the last attempt, I had become numb to each failure, questioning whether I am able to achieve it."

"My faith wavered. Yet, perhaps aided by Merlin himself, I made my final attempt on a stormy night—a night I thought would turn out just like all the others."

"It was the year 1980, yes, July the seventh… That thunderstorm! I didn't know if I was successful, and since then, I have been unable to find a wizard suitable for this wand."

Ollivander's eyes lit up with a fervent intensity as he looked at Ian. "I have a feeling —you are the wizard it has been waiting for."

His tone became respectful and a bit urgent as he extended the wand to Ian. "Please, try it."

"July the seventh... that date..." Ian murmured, feeling a peculiar sensation as he took the wand from Ollivander's hands, his expression a mix of curiosity and unease.

As soon as the wand touched his palm, a powerful connection surged through him—a sensation so profound that no words could adequately describe it. His magical energy flowed unstoppably into the wand, and he felt utterly aligned with it.

"Whoo~"

Silver threads erupted from the wand's tip, swirling and undulating, filling the shop like swirling mist. Ethereal visions danced within the smoke, rising and falling in a captivating rhythm.

Shapes flickered in the haze.

Creatures seemed to roar within the enchanting spectacle.

"It actually worked! I succeeded!" Ian exclaimed in disbelief.

"This... this is fate!" Ollivander's voice rose with reverence, echoing throughout the old, antique wand shop.