Of all the magical wonders they had seen, the wands were the most appealing. After witnessing the raw, terrifying power wielded by the robed wizard in Gringotts, both Harry and Dudley felt a deep, primal yearning to hold such an instrument in their own hands.
For Dudley, the curiosity was more analytical. He saw a wand not just as a weapon, but as a key. With his current abilities, he could impose his will on the world, but it required him to speak in the ancient, spiritual tongues of his past life—languages like Hermes. It was a conspicuous and dangerous tell. A wand, he hypothesized, might be a conduit, a focusing tool that could allow him to channel his Beyonder powers through the common tongue of this world, significantly reducing the risk of his true nature being exposed.
After the baptism of fire in that eerie, god-infested world, caution was his creed. His current abilities gave him an edge against these wizards, but it was just that—an edge. One careless move, one miscalculation, and he could suffer a catastrophic setback. The Killing Curse had been a profound shock. It was a clean, efficient form of death, utterly different from the slow-burn spiritual decay he was used to. It was terrifying, and it made him wary. Hiding his true strength, remaining an overlooked variable, was crucial.
His gaze involuntarily fell on the thin boy beside him. Keeping a low profile was going to be difficult when tethered to Harry Potter. His cousin was a lightning rod for attention, a living legend walking the streets. As time goes on, the fame will fade, right? Dudley mused, though he didn't truly believe it. He had no desire to be at the center of this world's stage.
"Hahahahaha!" Hagrid's booming laugh broke through his thoughts. "Indeed! I knew you'd choose wands! Can't have a wizard without a wand, can you?" He clapped a massive hand on each of their shoulders and steered them toward a narrow, dusty shop. "Ollivanders! Finest wandmakers in the world, and a history as long as my beard. You'll get the wand that's right for you there, I guarantee it."
As they walked, Hagrid suddenly grew quiet, his boisterous energy dimming. He turned to Dudley, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant. "Uh… listen. About before… I wasn't good to you. I hope… well, I hope you don't mind."
Dudley was lost in his own strategic thoughts, almost missing Hagrid's unexpected and awkward apology. "Ah… it's alright," he said, surprised. "I don't mind."
"Right then. Let's get going," Hagrid mumbled, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks from under his thick beard. He was clearly not a man accustomed to apologies.
"Thank you," Harry said quietly to Dudley, his voice filled with a sincerity that was almost painful. "For what you did… down there." He had wanted to say it for hours, but the words had been stuck in his throat. Hagrid's apology had finally given him the courage.
"You're welcome," Dudley replied with a small, genuine smile that surprised even himself. "You're my brother, after all."
He knew they were referring to the Gringotts incident. If he hadn't sensed the danger, would they still be alive? In that chaotic moment, he hadn't hesitated to pull Harry out of harm's way. It was an instinct he hadn't known he still possessed. The incident had clearly changed Hagrid's perception of him as well, shattering the simple narrative of a spoiled bully.
"Alright, we've arrived," Hagrid announced.
The shop was small and dilapidated, nestled between a bookstore and an apothecary. Peeling gold letters above the door spelled out: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
"This shop has some history," Dudley said, genuinely impressed. A business that had survived for over two millennia had to be more than just a shop; it was an institution.
"Aye, that it does. Wizards come from all over the world to buy their wands here," Hagrid said, pushing open the ancient, creaking door. A soft, tinkling bell announced their arrival.
The interior was quiet and narrow, dominated by a single, spindly chair. The air smelled of old wood, dust, and something else—a faint, crackling scent like static before a lightning strike. But the most striking feature was the shelves. From floor to ceiling, the walls were lined with thousands upon thousands of narrow, oblong boxes, each one containing a single, dormant wand.
Dudley walked in last, his Spirit Vision active. The wands in the window were not just wood. They glowed with a soft, internal light. At the core of each, he could see a pulsing heart of power—spiritual materials, harvested and bound, waiting for a master.
Swish.
A ladder on wheels slid out from behind a towering stack of boxes, and a soft, gentle voice broke the silence.
"Good afternoon."
"Hello," Harry responded immediately.
An old man emerged from the shadows. His hair was as white as bone, and his wide, pale eyes seemed to shine like two silver moons in the gloom. His gaze passed over Hagrid and Dudley as if they were furniture, landing squarely on Harry.
"Ah, yes," the old man murmured, his voice like the rustling of dry leaves. "Yes, yes. I knew I would be seeing you soon, Harry Potter. You have finally arrived." He glided closer, his movements unnervingly silent. "Your eyes… they are just like your mother's. I remember when she came here to purchase her wand—ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. A lovely wand for charm work. It feels like only yesterday."
Ollivander's silvery gaze seemed to look through Harry, into his past. "And your father. Mahogany. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—but it's the wand that chooses the wizard, of course." He then glanced at Hagrid. "And Rubeus Hagrid! Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"
"It was, sir, yes," Hagrid replied sheepishly.
"A fine wand," Ollivander said with a hint of sorrow. "A pity it was broken when they expelled you."
Dudley's gaze sharpened, flicking to the tattered pink umbrella Hagrid always carried. He was beginning to understand.
Ollivander's attention returned to Harry, his pale eyes fixing on the lightning-bolt scar. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did that," he said softly, a deep sadness in his voice. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. A powerful wand, very powerful… but it fell into the wrong hands. If I had only known what that wand was destined to do in this world…" He shook his head, a gesture full of ancient regret, before his eyes finally fell upon Dudley.
"Oh," he said, as if noticing him for the first time. "And you are…?"
"Dudley Dursley," he introduced himself simply. "Harry's cousin."
"Ah, yes. Lily's sister," Ollivander mused. "She was not magical, as I recall. It is a wonderful thing that you have awakened the family talent." His eyes twinkled with genuine surprise. "Now then," he said, rubbing his long, white hands together, "let's see what kind of wands you both need."
He looked from one boy to the other, his gaze lingering on Dudley for a moment before settling back on Harry. "You must understand one thing clearly: the wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around. This is of utmost importance."
"My brother first," Dudley said quietly.
Ollivander gave him a curious, appraising look, then nodded. A silver tape measure with a life of its own leaped from the counter and began to zip around Harry, measuring him from every conceivable angle. "Which is your wand arm?" the old wandmaker asked.
***
(End of Chapter)
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