A wand and a story.
"Well, then let's begin!" Ollivander said excitedly, standing up.
My grandfather, with a slight smile, also stood up.
"What is your wand arm, young man?" the enthusiastic man asked.
"The left one," I replied, and he immediately pulled out a measuring tape and began measuring my body, from the width of my arms to that of my legs.
"Alright, alright, let's see," he murmured, finishing the measurements and walking toward his old leather bag.
"Here, try this one. It is made of aged oak, 27 centimeters, unicorn hair, rigid."
"This wand conveys strength and reliability, making it perfect for determined and protective wizards. The unicorn hair ensures a stable and loyal connection to its owner, making it less prone to Dark Arts spells."
I watched as he took the wand out of a golden box, and I can say with certainty that it looked like a sculpture, with its surface having a slightly golden hue, with fine veins resembling the roots of an ancient tree.
Extending my hand, I held the wand, but instantly, I could feel its rejection. It was nothing like the times I had used my mother's wand—this rejection was much stronger.
"Come on, give it a wave !" Ollivander said with an excited smile, and not wanting to ruin the moment, I gave the wand a slight wave.
ZAP!
"Ouch !" I shouted, dropping the wand to the floor. With just one wave, it shot a golden bolt at my forehead—it felt like my eyes were on fire.
"No, no, I don't think so," Ollivander said, picking up the wand from the floor and putting it back in its box.
"Yeah, I could tell," I said, rubbing my still aching forehead.
Fiddling a bit more in his bag, he pulled out another box.
"Let's try this one!" he said, unfazed by the previous attempt, removing a simple yet elegant wooden wand.
"Holly, 28 centimeters, phoenix feather, moderately flexible."
"A powerful and adaptable wand, ideal for those with great potential. Its core, a phoenix feather, grants it regenerative properties and an affinity for both offensive and defensive spells. The holly wood contrasts perfectly with the core, making this wand exceptional for brave and determined wizards."
He handed me the wand again, still smiling.
At my touch, the wand did not seem to reject me, which excited me a little, and I could see on Ollivander's face that he was excited as well. But with one wave, it jumped from my hand with such force that it hit the ceiling, sparking and leaving a mark that looked like a cigarette burn on the wood.
"It's alright, we have time," he said, slightly less enthusiastic.
He spent three minutes searching through the boxes in his bag, always seeming unable to find the right one until he finally stopped and pulled out an old, reddish box. The style of this box was different from the others—it was just a smooth wooden case.
"Who knows, we have nothing to lose," he said to himself, setting the bag on the table and turning to me.
"Well, come on, young Aurelius, we won't end the day without finding your wand, don't worry," he said with a slightly desperate smile—which, honestly, did nothing to make me feel calmer.
When the box was opened, it felt as if a warm breeze had entered the room, but the sensation passed as quickly as it came.
Inside the box was a reddish wooden wand. It didn't have complicated details or look like it was made of a precious metal, but it gave me a warm feeling just by looking at it—like the cold nights when my grandfather and I would read in front of the fireplace.
"Jacaranda wood, 28 and a half centimeters, dragon heartstring. Try it," he said hopefully.
And as if drawn to it, I reached for the handle. When my skin made contact with the wood, it felt as if I had just taken a sip of hot chocolate—my body began to warm, and I could feel sweat forming at the back of my neck.
With a firm gesture, small flames emerged from the tip of the wand. Sparks danced in the air, seemingly playing with one another, then began to move, taking the shape of tiny wyverns flying through my grandfather's study. They danced through the air, leaving both me and the wandmaker mesmerized by the sight.
Soon, the fire show ended, and the natural lighting of the study returned. I had found my wand—it was a certainty, just like the first time I flew on Saphira. Just as the skies belong to us, this wand belongs to me.
"Marvelous, splendid ! A strong connection indeed !" Ollivander said, practically jumping with excitement.
"I thought this wand would never find its owner—it is a joy to witness this moment," he said, calming down.
"What do you mean ?" I asked the wandmaker, confused.
With a nostalgic smile, he sat down on one of the nearby chairs.
With my wand in hand, I sat beside him, and my grandfather, who had been watching from a distance, stepped closer.
"Normally, every Ollivander sells only the wands they themselves have crafted. However, I was not the one who made the wand in your hands," he said, pointing at it.
"Then who made it ?" I asked, not understanding.
He let out a light chuckle and continued.
"This wand was one of my father's first works. In his ambition, he created it. He traveled to Brazil and collected this wood for an experiment—I don't think I've ever made one like it. But what truly stands out is its core," he explained.
"Dragon heartstring," I said, recalling his earlier description.
"Correct, but not just from any dragon. This core comes from a fierce and powerful Chinese Fireball my father had the privilege of encountering. At the time, this dragon had ruled its territory for over a hundred years—no other male could match its power and ferocity, and its flames were said to be the hottest in the entire world," he recounted excitedly.
"But how did it die ? As far as I know, most territory leaders lose fights to younger males when they reach a certain age," I asked, looking at the wand in my hands, still feeling its warmth. It was true—according to books, wyvern leaders die when they lose their territories to younger challengers.
"Heh heh heh, my boy, no other dragon was able to defeat him—only death itself took him. One day, he entered his lair and simply fell into an eternal slumber," he said, leaving me amazed by the story behind my wand.
"Jacaranda wood is dense and durable, perfect for channeling powerful spells. Traditionally associated with talented and ambitious wizards, this wood is ideal for those who seek power and mastery over magic."
"Since both materials are intense and temperamental, their combination creates a demanding but incredibly powerful wand for the right owner."
"A Jacaranda wand with a dragon heartstring core is a formidable weapon for determined wizards with strong spirits and great ambition. It will demand a worthy master but will reward them with extraordinarily powerful spells!" he finished, breathing as if he had just won a million Galleons.
"Wow, I never thought a wand could have so much history," I said, still looking at my wand.
"They are much more than tools, boy—they are our companions. A wizard can lose everything, but as long as they have their wand, there is still hope," my grandfather said wisely, patting his left pocket, where he kept his own wand.
"I couldn't have said it better, Reginald !" Ollivander said, standing up from his chair.
"I am sure we can expect great things from you, young Aurelius. Honor this wand and its story," he said seriously.
"I will. And if I fail, I'll at least go down trying," I replied with the same seriousness.
"You never stop surprising me, do you, boy ?" my grandfather said with a slight laugh.
"If I ever do, I'll lose my charm," I replied with a grin.
"Sure, sure," my grandfather said, ruffling my hair with one hand before inviting Ollivander back to the table.
As the two conversed, I looked at my new wand, running my hand along its length. I couldn't help but feel excited—this wand was mine and mine alone, and it would help me achieve everything I desired.