Quirks in Wizarding World

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- Olivanders, Diagon Alley -

- June 22, 1991 -

Ollivander's eyes gleamed with something beyond mere curiosity—there was excitement, a deep-seated thrill that came only when a true challenge presented itself. It had been years, decades even, since he had encountered a first-year whose match was not immediately found among the wands of his shelves. The meticulous precision in which he selected each wand for Arthav was not out of doubt but anticipation.

"A most demanding customer," he murmured, almost to himself, as he swiftly turned on his heel and disappeared into the back of the shop. His movements, once measured, had taken on an urgency as he reached for the high shelves where the oldest wands rested—the relics of past generations of Ollivanders, crafted by hands long gone.

For a long moment, the shop was filled only with the faint rustling of wood against wood, the occasional whisper of magic as his fingers brushed over the aged boxes. Then, with deliberate care, he extracted one particular wand case. Dust clung to its surface, its edges worn smooth by time. Cradling it in both hands, he returned to the front, his expression unreadable yet brimming with the weight of something significant.

Placing the box before Arthav, he exhaled softly.

"This wand," Ollivander began, his voice quieter now, reverent even, "was not crafted by me, but by my grandfather. He was a man of great patience, and of even greater ambition. During his travels to India, he was granted what no wandmaker before—or since—has ever possessed."

He lifted the lid, revealing the wand inside.

The wood was pale, almost translucent in the dim light of the shop, yet it pulsed faintly with a life of its own. It was unadorned, simple in design, yet something about it commanded attention.

"This," Ollivander continued, his fingers barely grazing the wand, "is a piece of the original Bodhi tree—the very one under which Siddhartha Gautama attained enlightenment."

Arthav's breath hitched.

"My grandfather was a meticulous man," Ollivander went on, his voice tinged with a rare note of admiration. "He did not simply carve a wand from this sacred wood. He treated it with the utmost care. Under the guidance of those who understood prana—the very force that binds magic and life—he submerged the wood in the holy waters of the Ganga. And not just at any moment. He waited for the precise alignment of the cosmos, when Jupiter had completed a full revolution around the Sun, during the sacred Kumbh. Only then did he allow the waters to purify and strengthen it, all under the chants of the most learned prana practitioners of that time."

He paused, running his fingers lightly over the wand before stepping back.

"Yet, despite all his efforts, my grandfather was never able to find a core worthy of the wood's potential. Oh, he tried many—phoenix feathers, dragon heartstrings, even cores that were unheard of in Europe. But nothing resonated with it. And so, this wand remained incomplete, yet powerful beyond measure. Even unfinished, it rivaled the greatest wands ever made in our family's history."

His gaze met Arthav's, sharp and searching. "Perhaps, it was waiting for the right wielder."

A hush settled over the room.

Arthav reached forward, his fingers hovering over the wand before finally wrapping around the smooth wood.

The moment he touched it, something shifted.

It was not a spark, nor a sudden burst of light, but something deeper—more profound. It was as if the wand had always been a part of him, an extension of his very being. His magic did not struggle against it. There was no resistance, no hesitation. Instead, there was acceptance.

A deep hum filled the shop, a resonance that thrummed in his bones. It was neither violent nor overwhelming—it was simply right.

Ollivander let out a slow breath, a smile creeping onto his face. "Ah," he said, nodding to himself, his voice tinged with satisfaction. "Yes. I rather thought so."

Emily, who had watched the entire exchange in quiet fascination, placed a hand over her chest, feeling the residual energy that lingered in the air. She knew, in that moment, that this wand was unlike any other.

Arthav tightened his grip, exhaling slowly. He could see it now, with his unique sight—threads of light connecting him and the wand, weaving together seamlessly. It was no longer just a tool. It was a part of him.

Ollivander watched him intently before speaking again, his voice filled with certainty.

"This wand is strong. It will not be easy to wield, but it will reward a master who understands it." He tilted his head, studying the boy before him. "And you, young sir, are no ordinary wizard."

Arthav met his gaze and, for the first time since entering the shop, smiled.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

Ollivander's sharp eyes twinkled with something akin to amusement as he regarded Arthav. The boy's words, spoken with quiet confidence, reminded him of another customer from long ago—one who had also been destined for greatness.

"Ambitious too, I see," he murmured, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter. "Perhaps Slytherin would suit you in Hogwarts."

For a brief moment, his mind drifted, unbidden, to a memory he rarely allowed himself to dwell on. A young man had once stood in this very spot, sharp-eyed and brimming with an ambition that burned so fiercely it threatened to consume everything in its path. That young man had been no ordinary wizard either. He had sought power, hungered for it, and in the end, had taken a path so dark, so utterly devoid of restraint, that it had left scars on the world itself.

Ollivander's expression darkened as the weight of that recollection pressed upon him. But just as quickly as it came, he was pulled back to the present.

Emily had stiffened beside her son, her lips pressing into a thin line. Arthav himself frowned slightly, not in anger, but in something closer to quiet defiance. He did not take the words as an insult, but he certainly did not agree with them either. There was a difference between ambition and obsession—between seeking greatness and being consumed by it.

Ollivander saw it then. The distinction.

This boy was special, yes. But he was not him.

A slow breath escaped the old wandmaker as he let the memory fade away. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile. "No, not Slytherin, I think. You are something quite different."

The tension In the air lessened, and Emily glanced at her son, a trace of relief passing over her face before she turned back to Ollivander.

"This wand…" she said hesitantly, running her fingers along the edge of the box. "It was made by your grandfather. It is precious. Surely, the price—"

Ollivander raised a hand, cutting her off gently. "Pay only the standard amount for a Hogwarts first-year's wand." His voice was firm yet warm, carrying the weight of a decision long made.

Emily blinked, slightly taken aback. "But—"

"It was never about the price," Ollivander said, looking at the wand in Arthav's hands with something close to reverence. "My grandfather poured his heart and sweat into crafting this. And for decades, it remained incomplete, waiting." He met Arthav's gaze with quiet satisfaction. "Now, it has found its rightful owner. That, Mrs. Carter, is worth more than any amount of gold."

Arthav tightened his grip on the wand, feeling the truth in those words. This was no ordinary exchange of goods—it was something deeper. A connection forged through time, through destiny.

Emily studied Ollivander for a moment before finally nodding. She reached into her pouch, counted out the standard galleons, and placed them on the counter.

Ollivander accepted them with a small nod, his expression betraying a rare sense of contentment.

Arthav, standing tall with his wand in hand, gave the wandmaker one last look of gratitude before turning to leave with his mother.

As they stepped back out into the bright bustle of Diagon Alley, Ollivander watched them go, the faintest trace of a smile lingering on his lips.

"Yes," he murmured to himself, his voice almost lost in the quiet hum of his shop. "This one will do great things."

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