To everyone's surprise, the search for Dudley's wand turned into a long and frustrating ordeal. Ollivander, with his initial excitement renewed, presented Dudley with wand after wand. A dozen of them. Then another. But none of them suited him.
Dudley couldn't discern Ollivander's precise metric for a "match," but he knew what he felt. Each wand he took into his hand seemed to recoil, to resist his very essence. It wasn't just a lack of connection; it was fear. The dormant magical cores seemed to sense the alien, authoritative nature of his Beyonder power and shy away from it.
He knew, with an absolute certainty, that he could force any of them into submission. He could overwhelm their will with his own, intimidate them into becoming his tools. But that was not what Ollivander was looking for. Each time Dudley's spiritual authority began to assert itself, the old man would snatch the wand away as if rescuing a bullied child from a playground tyrant.
"Oh, I didn't expect this," Ollivander murmured, a bead of sweat on his brow. "An even pickier customer. But it's alright, it's alright. There is a wand for every wizard. There must be one." He became a whirlwind of activity, muttering to himself as he zipped around the dusty shop, pulling boxes from every nook and cranny.
"He's even pickier than I was," Harry said, watching with a mixture of surprise and amusement.
"Aye," Hagrid said, glancing at his pocket watch. "Didn't expect this to take so long." He stood up. "How about this, Harry? You stay here with your cousin. I've got something else I need to take care of. I'll be back in a bit." After a quick word with Ollivander, Hagrid squeezed back out into the bustling alley.
"Actually," Dudley said with a sigh of resignation, "if we can't find a suitable one, any of them will do." He didn't have high demands. As long as it could channel his power, it would be fine. His abilities didn't strictly require a wand anyway.
"No! Absolutely not!" Ollivander declared, his pale eyes flashing with conviction. "A wand must match its owner. It is a bond, a partnership! We do not settle for 'fine' here, young man!" He immediately dove back into his search.
"Alright," Dudley shrugged, slumping onto the bench next to Harry.
"I didn't know you were so picky about your toys," Harry teased, a genuine smile on his face. "Now even the wands don't want to play with you."
"It's not me," Dudley said with a helpless sigh. "It's the wands that are being picky. How annoying."
Another half an hour crawled by. Dudley was beginning to doze off. Other customers came and went, all politely but firmly sent away by Ollivander, who was now completely obsessed with solving the puzzle of Dudley Dursley. A look of genuine self-doubt began to creep into the old man's eyes. In over two thousand years, his family's shop had never failed to find a match. The prospect of failure was a deep, personal blow.
"Could it be… that there truly isn't a wand for him?" he whispered, looking defeated.
Then, a flicker of memory. "Ah… wait. There is one. But that one…" He trailed off, a strange, hesitant look on his face. He disappeared into the back room, and the sound of rummaging and coughing echoed out. He returned a few moments later, holding a single, ancient box, its wood dark and worn. He held it with a reverence that bordered on fear.
"Only this one might work," he said, his voice low. "But…" He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "Try this wand."
Dudley took the box. The wand within was slender and dark, made of a wood he didn't recognize. It felt different from all the others. He took it in his hand.
And the world went silent.
There was no resistance. No fear. Instead, a wave of cool, calm power flowed into him, a cheerful, welcoming energy that harmonized perfectly with his own spiritual authority. It felt… right.
"It really is this wand," Ollivander said, his voice a mixture of awe and apprehension.
"Is there a problem?" Dudley asked, a genuine fondness for the object already growing within him. It didn't fight him; it accepted him.
"This wand… it was not made by my family," Ollivander explained, his eyes fixed on the wand. "It was acquired, by chance, a very long time ago. It is an extremely difficult wand to master. In the hands of most wizards, it is no more effective than a simple stick. It demands a wielder of immense power and will." He looked at Dudley with new eyes. "My family was given an ancestral instruction: to preserve this wand until its true owner arrived. It seems, after all these centuries, that owner is you."
"That amazing?" Dudley was genuinely surprised.
"I hope you will use it well."
"I will," Dudley promised. "How much?" Harry's wand had been seven Galleons. This one, being so unique, must be more.
"It is free," Ollivander said with a solemn shake of his head. "It is a gift, as my ancestors instructed." He leaned in closer to examine the wand. "I do not know what its core is made of. It is a mystery to my family. I can only tell you that the wood is Elder, thirteen inches long, and quite… resolute."
"Oh?" Dudley glanced at the dark wood in his hand. "It seems this is my destiny."
"Indeed," Ollivander said. "And if you should ever encounter any problems with this wand, you may always come to me. Though it was not made by an Ollivander, it has left from my shop, and I will be responsible for it."
"Thank you," Dudley said sincerely. This old man was a true master of his craft.
As they left the shop, Hagrid reappeared, carrying a large cage. Inside was a beautiful, snowy owl, which hooted softly at Harry. "Happy Birthday, Harry," Hagrid beamed.
After a quick trip to Flourish and Blotts for their schoolbooks, Hagrid saw them to the exit of the Leaky Cauldron and departed. Dudley and Harry found Vernon and Petunia, who looked as if they had just survived a natural disaster.
"Oh, thank goodness! I thought we'd never leave that dreadful place!" Petunia cried, clinging to Dudley as they stepped back out onto the mundane London street. The air, thick with car exhaust and the smell of hot pavement, had never seemed so sweet to them.
As they walked towards their parked car, Dudley suddenly stopped, his gaze fixed on a nearby building. The sign was different from the others, its characters square and complex, like intricate patterns rather than letters. It was a Chinese restaurant.
"Mom, let's eat in London tonight," he said, already walking toward the restaurant, giving his parents no chance to object. "How about Chinese food?"
He stared at the unfamiliar characters on the sign, a flicker of a long-buried memory stirring within him. "Roselle the Great's diary uses this kind of writing, doesn't it?" he muttered softly to himself.
***
(End of Chapter)
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