It was abundantly clear that Mr. Ollivander was far more interested in Harry. While Hagrid settled onto a nearby bench, Dudley stood by, observing the ancient ritual with a detached fascination.
Just as it had in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, a silver measuring tape with a life of its own leaped from the counter and began to zip around Harry. It measured everything from the length of his wand arm to his height, and even, bizarrely, the distance between his nostrils.
"What's the use of all this data?" Dudley muttered to himself. A wand was not like a set of clothes, to be replaced when outgrown. Once chosen, it was a lifelong companion. He was deeply curious about how these physical metrics could possibly relate to the mystical bond between a wizard and their wand. He didn't ask, however, accepting it as part of the arcane process.
Instead, he posed a more pertinent question. "Mr. Ollivander, what are wand cores usually made of?" He had already seen with his Spirit Vision that they were spiritual substances, but their exact nature was a mystery to him.
"Ah, an excellent question," Ollivander said, his pale eyes gleaming. "Every single Ollivander wand is unique, containing an incredibly powerful magical substance at its heart. I primarily use three: unicorn hair, which produces the most consistent magic; phoenix tail feathers, which are capable of the greatest range; and dragon heartstring, which is the most powerful and prone to flamboyant spells." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But you must always remember, child, it is the wand that chooses the wizard, not the other way around. A wand that is not your true match will never yield its best results."
His patient explanation revealed a profound, passionate understanding of his craft.
"Oh, alright, measurements complete," Mr. Ollivander announced, putting away the tape. He disappeared into the towering stacks of boxes, his white head bobbing in and out of view. "Now, let me see… Mr. Potter…"
He returned a moment later with a wand box. "Dragon heartstring, nine inches, quite flexible. Give it a try."
Harry took the wand, his fingers trembling slightly as he held the polished wood. He looked at Ollivander, unsure of what to do.
"Well, give it a wave, child," the old man prompted.
Harry waved it, a bit too enthusiastically. A shower of angry red sparks shot from the tip, setting a nearby pot of ink on fire.
"Oh, no, no, definitely not!" Mr. Ollivander snatched the wand away as if it were a venomous snake, already reaching for another.
"Didn't expect Harry to be such a picky customer!" Hagrid chuckled heartily, his booming laughter filling the small shop. "Mr. Ollivander will be busy now."
"You don't know the half of it," Dudley murmured. He could see Ollivander's face was flushed, his eyes sparkling with a manic energy. The pickier the customer, the more excited the old wandmaker became. I wonder what kind of wand will choose me, Dudley thought, a flicker of genuine anticipation in his heart.
After trying more than a dozen wands, each resulting in some minor magical catastrophe, Mr. Ollivander suddenly paused. A strange, thoughtful expression crossed his face. "I wonder…" he murmured, turning and disappearing into a dusty, forgotten corner of the shop. He returned a moment later, holding a single, unassuming box. His expression was no longer excited, but solemn, as if he were handling a sacred relic.
"How could I have forgotten this one?" he whispered, more to himself than to them. "It seems it is all fated…" The shop seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with anticipation.
"Come on, try this. Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Nice and supple."
The moment Harry's fingers closed around the holly wand, he knew. A sudden, intense warmth shot through his hand, a feeling of rightness, of coming home. A fountain of red and gold sparks erupted from the tip, showering the room in a warm, gentle light.
"Excellent!" Mr. Ollivander cried, his eyes wide with wonder. "Oh, wonderful! Yes, indeed." He looked from the wand to Harry, a strange, knowing smile on his face. "Curious… very curious…"
"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter," Ollivander said softly. "Every single one. And it so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather—just one other. It is curious that you should be destined for this wand when its brother… its brother gave you that scar."
The weight of destiny seemed to settle over the room, binding them all in its silent embrace. Hagrid frowned, a deep unease in his eyes.
So that's it, Dudley thought, his mind churning. An occult connection. It was a concept he was familiar with from his past life—an inexplicable, supernatural bond between two entities. This went deeper than just a simple curse. He needed to learn more about Voldemort, and soon. A quiet determination settled in his heart.
"Alright, Mr. Harry Potter," Ollivander said, his voice filled with a strange mixture of pride and sorrow. "I believe you will achieve great things. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible, yes, but great." He nodded at Harry, then finally shifted his full attention to Dudley.
"Oh, Harry's cousin," he said, having clearly forgotten his name. "It's your turn."
"Okay," Dudley replied, stepping forward with a calm resolve.
The measuring tape zipped around him, and soon Ollivander was pondering his results. He returned with a wand. "Ebony, ten inches long, quite stiff."
Dudley took the wand. He felt his own spiritual power flow into the wood, but the wand seemed to resist, to push back against his authority. Instinctively, he tried to use his Arbitrator's power to subdue it, to force it into submission.
"No, no, definitely not!" Ollivander cried, snatching the wand back, his eyes wide with concern.
Dudley's mouth twitched. He felt he could have forced the wand to obey. From that brief contact, he had already begun to understand their logic. A wand was a conduit, a tool to condense and amplify a wizard's unfocused spiritual power. For him, a wand wasn't strictly necessary, but it could be a useful tool. For these wizards, however, who seemed to have little direct control over their own power, it was essential.
This meant that the most powerful wizards, like Dumbledore, must be capable of some form of wandless magic. And it meant that the phantom he had created, the "Night Emperor," was an anomaly, a power that didn't fit into their understanding of the world. It was a perfect deception.
***
(End of Chapter)
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