Chapter 4: Choosing a Wand

Ollivander's Wand Shop, one of the most important places in the world of Harry Potter, is the starting point for every young wizard.

Every Hogwarts student needs to choose a wand that suits them before they can enroll. Logically, this should be a monopoly business, but the storefront of Ollivander's Wand Shop is far from impressive.

The shop looks terribly shabby. The peeling red sign hangs at the entrance, as if it's been there for centuries.

If the shop wasn't located on the busiest street in Diagon Alley, Alan might have wondered if he had come to the wrong place.

Professor McGonagall stepped back from the rather old wooden door. A small welcome bell jingled as they entered, alerting the owner to the arrival of new guests.

With a long sliding sound, a ladder rolled out from the back of the shop. A white-haired but energetic old man stood atop it, carefully walking down from a towering stack of wand boxes—stacked nearly as high as two grown men.

"Mr. Ollivander, long time no see," Professor McGonagall greeted him politely.

"Oh! Welcome, Ms. McGonagall," Mr. Ollivander replied as he descended. "Are you bringing a new student to choose their wand? Is this a first-year? Where are his parents?"

"This is Alan Cecil, an orphan," Professor McGonagall said softly, leaning close to Mr. Ollivander to whisper the rest of her explanation.

Even though she lowered her voice, Alan could still hear her clearly. His hearing was far more sensitive than that of ordinary people.

Still, her attempt to be discreet touched him.

"Oh, I see. My apologies," Mr. Ollivander said, clearly concerned. But at Professor McGonagall's slight shake of the head, he made no further comment. Instead, he turned to Alan with a kind expression.

"Well then, Mr. Cecil, please come forward. Let's get down to business."

"Child, Mr. Ollivander will help you find a wand that suits you," Professor McGonagall explained gently, concerned Alan might feel shy.

Alan nodded and stepped forward. Mr. Ollivander began a series of measurements that seemed utterly bizarre.

Alan had no idea how any of this had to do with choosing a wand.

He was measured from wrist to elbow, from shoulder to fingertip, and from head to toe. Ollivander even measured the distance between his nostrils and the space between his eyebrows.

Each measurement appeared to be relevant—until Alan thought about it more deeply. Then it all seemed ridiculous.

Could a wand really be influenced by the distance between one's eyebrows? Or nostrils? What was the point of measuring arm length when an eleven-year-old was bound to grow?

Maybe wandlore really was some kind of metaphysics.

Alan spun around a few times under Ollivander's guidance. Eventually, the old wandmaker paused and raised his head, frowning.

"Hmm... this is going to be a challenge," Mr. Ollivander muttered, clearly troubled.

Professor McGonagall said nothing. She simply waited patiently, giving him the time he needed.

After a few moments, Ollivander made a decision. He raised a finger, and a wand box flew down from a nearby shelf, landing neatly on the counter in front of Alan.

Ollivander opened the box and took out a sleek brown wand.

"Perhaps pine wood is suitable for you," he said thoughtfully. "Wands made from pine are drawn to mysterious and independent individuals. They favor those who value creativity."

He held it out. "Here, give it a wave."

Alan reached for the wand but hesitated. Something didn't feel quite right.

He looked up at Mr. Ollivander. "What else is in this wand besides pine wood?"

Mr. Ollivander blinked. "You mean the core?"

Alan nodded. "Yes. Isn't the core just as important?"

What was a wand without a magical core? Just a stick—a souvenir from a movie set.

"The core?" Ollivander chuckled softly. "Well, I didn't think that would matter to you. But of course, if you're curious, I'll explain."

He leaned slightly closer. "This wand is eleven inches long, with a core of thunderbird feather. Very rare. A rather... domineering material."

"Domineering?" Alan repeated, examining the wand in his hand.

He gave it a tentative wave.

Suddenly, a bolt of golden lightning shot from the wand's tip, crackling violently. It surged across the room, smashing into the counter and reducing most of it to smoking ash.

Mr. Ollivander took a calm step back, completely unshaken.

He simply nodded. "As I thought. Pine wood alone doesn't suit you."

Without so much as a glance at the destroyed counter, he summoned another wand box and handed the wand inside to Alan.

"This one is maple," he explained. "A wood favored by travelers and adventurers."

He paused before adding, "Thirteen inches. Dragon heartstring core."

The moment Alan took hold of this wand, his whole body trembled.

Before he even had a chance to wave it, a thick cloud of black smoke erupted from its tip, engulfing the entire shop.

"Ack—" Alan coughed, hurriedly putting the wand down.

He wasn't the only one affected. Professor McGonagall and Mr. Ollivander were also coughing, waving their own wands quickly to summon a breeze that cleared the smoke out the door.

"Nope. Not the one either," Mr. Ollivander said with a shrug. He didn't look remotely surprised. "I did say, it's going to be hard finding the right match for you."

Alan looked at him, still coughing slightly. "Are all wand pairings this complicated?"

Ollivander gave him a look that was somewhere between admiration and curiosity. "No. Yours is... unique. Wands are a reflection of the wizard. The more complex the wizard, the more difficult the match."

Alan thought about that in silence as Mr. Ollivander continued to fetch more wands.

One by one, Alan tried them—cherry wood with unicorn hair (too stiff), yew with phoenix feather (exploded into glittering dust), alder with kelpie scale (buzzed violently in his hand).

Each trial brought its own chaotic spectacle. Alan scorched part of the ceiling, accidentally summoned a hurricane of quills, and even caused a dozen wand boxes to burst open all at once.

Yet through it all, Mr. Ollivander remained calm, intrigued.

"Fascinating," he muttered several times, eyes sparkling as he watched Alan struggle through wand after wand.

Finally, after what felt like the hundredth attempt, Mr. Ollivander paused and looked thoughtful.

He whispered something under his breath, then slowly walked to the very back of the shop.

From a high shelf, nearly hidden from view, he pulled down a long, slender wand box covered in dust.

"I almost forgot about this one," he said, returning with careful steps.

He opened the box and revealed a dark, sleek wand with subtle gold threading along the grain.

"This is black walnut. Fifteen inches. The core is... a rare combination—phoenix feather and thestral hair, braided together."

Even Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "That's unusual."

"Extremely," Mr. Ollivander nodded. "Powerful. Not for the faint of heart. Most who tried it were rejected immediately."

Alan hesitated, then reached out.

The moment his fingers closed around the wand, a surge of warmth ran through his arm.

It felt like the wand had taken a breath—like it had awakened.

A soft golden glow pulsed from its tip, gentle yet commanding.

No sparks, no smoke, no explosions. Just... harmony.

Mr. Ollivander's eyes gleamed. "Ah. At last."

Professor McGonagall gave a small nod of approval. "It seems the wand has chosen its wizard."

Alan stared at it, feeling something strange stir inside him. It wasn't just a tool. It was a companion.

"Take care of it," Mr. Ollivander said softly. "This wand will amplify your power... but it will also challenge your spirit. Dual-core wands are rare—and they don't suffer indecision lightly."

Alan nodded silently.

Outside the shop, the sun was still shining on the bustling streets of Diagon Alley.

But inside Ollivander's, something far older and deeper had just awakened.