CHAPTER THREE
As night had already fallen by the time I made it back to Gilderoy's parents, I ended up going to Diagon Alley the following morning at an unusually early hour for the both of us. As it turned out, the thought of gaining magical knowledge is enough to keep one up throughout the night. Tossing a wave to a shocked looking John and Madeline in the midst of their breakfast after swiping a piece of toast, I hurried through their Floo before they could question me and ended up fresh and eager in the Leaky Cauldron in the wee hours of the morning.
"Mornin' Tom." I said with a genial smile towards the tall barman, who was dutifully rubbing down a glass with a rag (and, seemingly, not really making much progress in actually making it cleaner).
"Huh? Oh, there ya are lad! Been wonderin' about ye. Got home safe alright then?" the aged man asked, and despite my excitement, I slowed my strides as I responded, the genuine kindness a surprisingly soothing balm to the harsh lives now sitting in the back of my memory.
For the three criminals I absorbed, their concept of kindness usually just revolved around busting one knee cap instead of two so you could at least get home on your own power (and with a lot of hopping on one leg). Not the most gracious of people, them hooligans.
"Yes, everything turned out alright Tom, thank you." I replied with a small smile, touched that the barkeep had apparently kept worrying all week about the dripping wet youth he had allowed inside his café in the dead of night.
"Ah, good. Good. Oh, ye need me to, err…" Tom said with a couple of nods, before glancing at the bricked up back wall and back towards me with a raised eyebrow.
"That's quite alright, thank you. Got a replacement wand for now." I responded as I moved past his bar, pulling great-uncle Frederic's vinewood wand from my pocket as I approached the hidden entryway to Diagon Alley.
Tom gave me a satisfied nod before refocusing on… whatever he fills his days with, I suppose. Between enchanted, self-cleaning and automatically-serving objects and the assistance of several House Elves, I honestly don't really know what the old man is actually supposed to be doing other than conversing with his equally ancient (and often grumpy) clientele.
Though that's probably a job in and of itself, I suppose as I tapped out the pattern (drilled into my head by Madeline when I revealed Gilderoy had never bothered to memorize it) on the brick wall. Despite having seen it in memories and movies, the smooth flowing way the stone shifted and parted for me still amazed me and I couldn't help a big smile from forming on my face as I set foot in Diagon Alley.
The street looked vastly different now, with the sun out and with me not on the verge of a panic attack. There's a buzz in the air, a certain electrifying tingle spreading across my skin as I stalk down the street and I can understand why a mere shopping district is seen as the beating hart of magical Britain society. This place is alive in a way, not unlike Hogwarts itself was. I forced myself to keep moving though, or otherwise I'd be stuck in front of every shop marveling at their fantastical wares through their windows like some googly-eyed tourist.
Magical items, clothing, paraphernalia of any possible kind, pets and owls and brooms and-
Oh. Now that one is interesting indeed. Something I definitely need to return to once I finish my immediate business. Which was of course to go to my apartment on Margin Alley and empty the place out. I didn't have Gilderoy's pride (or at the very least, it didn't affect me as much as it did him) so I saw no reason to stay in a dingy little one-bedroom apartment that charged criminal rates when I had a perfectly sufficient room up in Edinburgh.
Besides, between several of the money-making schemes I was already plotting and my inevitable need to go abroad eventually made having a permanent residence here completely superfluous. I'd just have any mail rerouted to a post office here on Diagon Alley and that were all the expenses I needed to have the necessary contact with Magical Britain that I required for my plans.
Soon enough, I'd have a manor for myself, instead of some creaky little apartment with (far too) thin walls.
The old landlady was sad to see me go and not just because of the Galleons that I brought in. Gilderoy was a very handsome lad after all and the witch certainly didn't seem to be bothered by making hilariously awful advances towards someone that wasn't even a third her age. Luckily, thanks to a wizarding trunk Madeline had loaned me, I was out of there in under ten minutes.
A simple "Accio all of my stuff!" directed towards the awaiting entrance of my new trunk and that was my packing done. The most important thing though hadn't been the myriad of clothes and hair- or skincare products (though I suppose Gilderoy would've vehemently disagreed) haphazardly thrown into the coffer, but the stash of galleons that the ambitious youth had hidden under a loose floorboard.
It wasn't much, not even a hundred Galleons all told, but it should be enough to get me started. If it fell short, I could always borrow from Lockhart's parents. John wouldn't be happy about it (not that I cared) but Gilderoy had always been Madeline's (blatant) favorite and she wouldn't hesitate to get me the funds I needed if it was within her budget.
For now though, with my (little amount of) money secured, there were two stops that I needed to make first, that were crucial to the way my plans for the future would develop given recent… hiccups.
First up: Ollivander's.
Great-Uncle Frederic's wand worked decently enough for me: it didn't fight me and I didn't feel like any of the spells that I had tried with it had attempted to challenge me or felt particularly reluctant to come out, a problem that could happen when the wand didn't match the wizard (as Neville would so unfortunately find out for himself in the future). But the tool still wasn't mine. Gilderoy's old cherry wand had felt like an extension of his body resting warmly in his hand. It had felt alive and there had been barely any thought required to call upon the wand in order to cast a spell.
I wanted that. In fact, I needed that. Speed wasn't much of a factor when it came to my Memory Devouring Charm, but it did require quite a bit of finesse. The improved control from having a wand that was better attuned to me would only benefit the procedure and allow me greater freedom to tweak it in the future.
Besides, I was probably going to piss of some quite dangerous people sooner or later. At that point, speed would become much of a factor.
As I mused over the benefits of a properly attuned wand (and the questions it raised regarding how wands are made in the first place, why they seem to be so crucial to spellcasting despite the existence of wandless magic, how sentient they truly were considering they could make their own 'choices', and so on) I suddenly found myself in front of the ancient wand making shop.
I hesitated just for the briefest of moments as I laid a hand on the door handle (which was only partly because young Gilderoy had absolutely been creeped out by the weird wand maker) as the most important question of all rose to the front of my mind.
Could a wand even pick me?
I had four sets of memories in my brain, all of which had apparently influenced my subconscious (and therefore my personality) at least on some level, however minor it may be. Out of those four sets, only one was actually magical.
Would the conflicting memories confuse the wands? Would they consider me ¾ muggle and thus a squib and just disregard me completely?
'No, that's just bollocks. If that was the case the wand of Gilderoy's uncle wouldn't have worked for me either.' I firmly told myself.
Still, despite the rationalization, I couldn't keep a dreadful doubt from gnawing at my conscious.
Realizing I looked like an idiot standing in the doorway like that and that I wouldn't get the answers I needed out here in the open, I took a deep breath and pushed through. The shop was exactly as I remembered it from the movies and Gilderoy's memories. Old, creaking and dusty and therefore, overall, surprisingly creepy. Hundreds of thin boxes reached up all the way to the ancient ceiling, covering every inch of available, crooked wall.
I bet if Hagrid sneezed in here, Ollivander's entire collection would come tumbling down in a tsunami of musty boxes and hard wands.
The shop was empty, which wasn't that unusual given that school had already started, meaning that kids had already gotten their wands a few months prior. That's were the vast bulk of Ollivander's profits came from, to the point that he could just shut down his shop throughout the year and his ledger would barely even feel it. The only reason he stayed open was because, despite how careful wizards usually were with their wands, some of them inevitably ended up broken or, as in the case of yours truly, stolen.
Besides, I don't think the man has much of a life outside of making and selling wands anyways.
"Cherry wood with a dragon heartstring, nine inches. Slightly bendy. A good fit. Ambitious. It should still serve you well, young Mr. Lockhart." A whispery voice suddenly sounds out behind me.
I did not make an 'eep!' sound nor did I jump a foot in the air. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a dirty liar who lies and I'll eat their brains.
Ahem.
Glancing behind me, I see the old wandmaker himself sitting in the rickety chair in the corner of his little foyer, the only piece of furniture in the room. It looks like the elderly man had been taking a nap by the grimy window, but now his blue eyes were trained intently on my own and I quickly looked towards his chin instead.
I couldn't remember from the books or movies whether or not Ollivander had been a Legilimens and Gilderoy had never even heard of the term before so his memories were utterly useless as well. Still, better not to risk it. It might just be an oddity of his profession, but being able to remember every wand he ever sold… that spoke of a mind that I didn't want to brush too close to.
For now.
"It did, Mr. Ollivander. It got stolen from me about a week ago though." I reply, and it's only thanks to the memories of having been placed under far more scrutinizing (and threatening) gazes from higher ranking gangmembers that allow me to remain steadfast under Ollivander's piercing gaze.
"A pity." Is all he says eventually, and his whispery voice makes it nigh-impossible to actually get a feel for his emotions on the matter.
"Your wand was truly a special creation of mine, young Mr. Lockhart, as are all wands made of that special wood so prized by the students of Mahoutokoro in far-off Japan. Wands of cherry wood oft make for a tool of truly lethal power, and as such great care must be taken with them. Especially of those that posses a dragon heartstring for a core. It is a long-held belief among those of my possession that such wands ought never to be paired to a wizard without exceptional self-control and strength of mind." The man continues after a long, pregnant pause, words falling swiftly even as he doesn't break his gaze.
'For the love of God man, would it hurt you to blinkevery once in a while?!' I rant inside the confines of my mind, but outwardly my expression barely even shifts as I absorb the impromptu lecture.
Neither my original self nor Lockhart had ever thought too deeply on the nature of wands, nor had either one of us ever even heard of the wizarding school Ollivander so casually name-dropped. Despite the creepiness of the withered man, I couldn't help but be glued to his every word. Even more so because apparently that little shit Gilderoy never even bothered to learn just how special and powerful his wand had been, which made its loss hurt even more.
Seeing that he had my undivided attention, surprisingly, the old wandmaker's lip twitch in a half-smile as he gives me a considering look.
"I daresay that you are more suited to that wand now than when you first set foot in my shop, young Mr. Lockhart. All the more's the pity." He trails off, before his eyes snap towards the towering stacks of slim boxes lining the walls of his shop.
"A wizard without his wand… now that is something that cannot stand." He continues, rising up from the rickety chair with equally spindly limbs, though he's surprisingly spry for a man his age.
"I've been using my Great-Uncle Frederic's wand in the meantime-" I say in a somewhat defensive tone, though I'm interrupted as Ollivander gives a dismissive wave with a thin hand as he moves behind the counter.
"Yes, yes, vinewood and unicorn horn, fifteen inches and quite firm. Serviceable, but only due to its rather mundane nature. Quite a contrast to your first wand I should say. May it bring you some small comfort that only very few wizards will get any real use out of it, given its… temperamental nature." The ancient looking wizard said, his tone just ever so slightly accusing as he glanced at me from underneath bushy brows.
I bristle at the words (it had hardly been my choice to be reborn in this world under those circumstances after all) but control myself. Despite all his eccentricities, Garrick Ollivander was still widely recognized as the authority when it came to wandmaking (even Voldemort himself had turned to him for information for crying out loud!), to the point of even having some name outside of Magical Britain itself.
No mean feat, considering Magical communities could be surprisingly isolationist for a people who could quite literally teleport.
So, I could wither some condescending glances and thinly veiled admonishments if it meant I would walk out that front door with a piece of wood in my pocket that would turn reality into a pretzel at my command.
Ollivander was apparently somewhat surprised I didn't lose my cool immediately, instead managing to stare him right back in his watery eyes (or, well, his wrinkly chin as the case may be) which intrigued him as he leaned a little over his weathered counter. His gaze tracked up from my head down to my leather boots before returning to my face, searching the handsome features of Gilderoy for… something, I suppose.
"Ah. How very interesting."
"What's very interesting?" I shoot back immediately, a cold chill shivering down my spine as I suddenly begin to wonder whether or not the old wandmaker knows more than he lets on.
I get no answer however, as Ollivander has already moved back in front of his counter again, now holding out a tape measure towards me. Nothing really unusual about that, if you're willing to discard the fact that said tape measure was already wriggling in the air towards me like a snake impatient to constrict its next prey.
"Hold out your arms for me please." Ollivander says in a demure tone, though I can tell his attention already has moved beyond the measure itself, the man clearly already mentally combing through his immense catalogue of different sticks of wood.
I definitely need to figure out how he did that. I had some speculations and even some thoughts on how I could track down information regarding similar mental feats, but ultimately the best way would be for me to eat his mind.
The immediate problem with that was that I still didn't know what kind of effect his mind could have on mine after I absorbed it. His apparently ridiculously powerful memory made me wary to attempt it, not without fail safes and security measures in place.
The more long-term problem was that, rather obviously, Wizarding Britain would undoubtedly notice when their primary source of the most commonly used tool in all of magical society suddenly ended up (brain)dead. That would attract quite a vast amount of attention I would rather do without and I wasn't confident enough in my skills (yet) to leave the scene of the crime without any trace whatsoever.
So Garrick Ollivander was off limits to me, at least for now. Perhaps the situation would change after I had finished my second stop for today, but considering you can't exactly find a self-help book on "how to run rings around the Aurors and Twelve other useful tricks" in Flourish & Blotts, someone as high profile as the wandmaker would probably remain out of my reach for some time yet.
Actually, given how utterly nonsensical the average wizard seemed to be, I wouldn't even be surprised if such a book did in fact exist, though you'd probably only find it off on Knockturn Alley and I wasn't exactly eager to return there until I had grown substantially more powerful.
As I contemplated this, the flying tape measure had been twirling circles around me, taking the standard measurements you'd expect, such as the length of my limbs and their ratio compared to my torso. Got to make sure I don't overbalance and faceplant into the floor whenever I attempt a Wingardium Leviooosaaa after all.
Then came the more… unconventional measurements. For the life of me, I simply could not fathom what the relevance was of measuring the length of my nose, comparing it to the size of my left ear and then add those together only to subtract the height of both my ankles.
When the tape measure began wandering a tad too close to my, uhm, shall we say, my little Lockharts, my hand swiftly shot out with the unerring speed and precision of a well-seasoned pick pocketer, grabbing the rather inappropriate equipment and firmly slamming it down on the aged wood of the countertop.
As I glanced suspiciously at the piece of tape, I privately questioned whether or not Ollivander actually even needed the thing or if it was merely meant to get a rise out of his customers instead, given that he had left the room as soon as the tape measure had sprung forwards. His earlier questions and prodding certainly seemed to have had that purpose in hindsight, as the wandmaker had been specifically on the look out to see my reactions to his veiled words, apparently comparing them to the baseline he remembered in order to figure out which wand now best suited me.
It could be that was the simple secret to being a good wand maker (or rather, wand seller). Just poke and prod your customers in maddeningly weird and obscuring ways, watch them blow their top and then sagely present them with a wand whose temperament matches theirs and then bask in their awed looks as they praise your perfect insight into their very being.
Much as Ollivander was planning to do right now no doubt, as he returned from the back of his shop, nimbly stepping around haphazardly stacked piles of boxes without even glancing up once from the slim one he currently held in his hands.
Despite myself, I couldn't help but be curious about what kind of wand he would settle on. I had read quite a few Harry Potter fanfictions in my original life and had on many occasions rolled my eyes when the story introduced some ridiculous wand wood (or even metal) paired with some outrageous core. Bonus points if it turned out that the MC had such big dick energy that they required a staff instead (which only made it seem like they were compensating for something instead).
Still, now that I stood here, I couldn't quite let go of that fantasy of getting some highly obscure and specialized wand that none had ever heard of and all would be amazed by (much like Lockhart himself before he had gotten his cherry wand, which he, like with all his other exceptional gifts, hadn't been able to properly appreciate).
Would it be a wand made of pure gold with a basilisk fang core? A staff made of Atlantean metallurgy with a Nundu tongue?
A wand of obsidian with a Dementor's left nut sack?
"It's not often I have to provide young wizards with a wand after they have finished their time at Hogwarts. Rather, it'll be young children who did not take the proper care required of such a magnificent tool and ended up breaking it in their first year. Or it will be aged people who have worn it out or find that over the years their connection might have waned. More often than not they had been paired with wands of Sycamore woods in their youth: those tend to spontaneously combust when allowed to become bored, you see. Your case, young Mr. Lockhart…"
Ollivander trailed off as he carefully placed the slim box on the rough wooden surface of his countertop, before once again glancing up at me with an unreadable expression on his face.
"… as I said. Interesting indeed."
"Indeed." I simply mutter back, somewhat taken off guard by the whole encounter.
"Try this one. A rather similar wand to your previous one I think you'll find, though more robust with a slightly longer length." Ollivander immediately resumes, more animated than I've seen him so far, which matches the experience of little eleven-year-old Gilderoy (who had been rather miffed at having to wait his turn as the sixth in line of other equally tiny Hogwarts-aspirants).
The ancient wandmaker had seemed very odd and vague then (and more than a little bit creepy) to the child, but even he had noticed the switch in the man when it actually came time to match wands to wizards and witches. He began speaking animatedly about the make of the wand while naming every detail without ever having to check a catalogue or a description or note somewhere on the box, apparently recalling every single one of them as soon as he handled them.
Young Gilderoy had been too amazed at seeing the connection form whenever a wand found their new owner (it hadn't been as spectacular or profound as Harry finding the twin to Voldemort's wand, it mostly just seemed to involve a lot of bright sparks or billowing smoke in various pastel colors) to really pay attention to the wandmaker himself. Looking back through the child's memories though I noticed Ollivander's face light up whenever a connection was formed, evidently proud each and every time his skill and craft were so visibly acknowledged.
To each their own I supposed, as I reached up and lifted the eleven-inch wand off its cushion underneath the hawk-like gaze of Ollivander. I haven't even managed to fully lift my arm into a proper wand-wielding position before Garrick's spindly fingers flew forwards in an attempt to snatch the thing out of my hand. As a seasoned pick pocket with a lifetime of experience (as of yesterday) though, I had already moved my hand out of his reach and instinctively palmed the wand against the inside of my forearm though.
For a moment, both he and I stand utterly motionless, before his eyes slowly track from my withdrawn hand to my terse face, his smile slightly increasing as he did.
"Curiouser and curiouser." He whispered to himself, before continuing in a slightly louder tone.
"I do ask that you return that particular wand however, young Mr. Lockhart. It is not the right fit for you." He said simply, turning his thin hand so it was now facing palm up as he looked at me with a patient (and maddeningly neutral) expression on his face.
After a moment's hesitation, I complied, placing the thin wood in his hand. The moment the wand exchanged hands the old man was off again, almost running to the side of the shop and scurrying up the nearest ladder, picking a box out of a stack of over fifty seemingly completely at random, before hurrying back to the counter again.
"Here, try this one then. Beech with unicorn hair, twelve inches, surprisingly firm." He says, handing the thing to me.
This time, instead of trying to snatch the wand back again, Ollivander simply slides the open box towards me, shaking his head so that his springy white hair wobbles on his scalp, muttering "no, no, no, that won't do, that won't do at all" over and over again under his breath.
Thoroughly creeped out and put off guard now, I comply with the mad man and so it continues. Wand after wand passes through my awaiting grip, names of woods and lengths and cores flying around my ears so fast I barely catch them before the wand is returned to its box and the next one gets a try. It's a whirlwind of chaos that last a good fifteen minutes, though I begin to notice that Ollivander begins to narrow down his criteria.
The woods begin to vary less and less and I can't even remember the last time I was presented with a phoenix feather core, it's just dragon heartstring with the occasional unicorn hair now. The lengths still tend to fluctuate from anything from nine to fifteen inches, but mostly seem to have settled around ten inches in length.
The real surprise comes when Ollivander begins setting a wand aside instead of returning it to the immense wall of unpaired wands behind him. This continues for an additional ten minutes or so, before the energy seems to subside in the room and the wandmaker himself slows down as well, moving at a pace more appropriate to someone who was apparently old enough to have even fashioned my Great-Uncles' wand.
Sitting in an immaculate row on his countertop, neatly equidistant from each other, lie four slim boxes, Ollivander gazing at them with an intently focused look as his long, thin fingers softly trace each container in turn, apparently feeling out the wand inside (or something like that, I guess). The significance of having four possible wands presented to me after learning of the Japanese connections of my previous wand is not lost on me.
In Japanese culture, four is often associated with death. Rather applicable, considering I am now mostly made up of people who are (technically) dead.
"Hmm. Yes. I can see it now. The common denominator, so to speak." At that, Ollivander looks up at said denominator, once again pinning me in place with a piercing look.
"Every single one of these wands would be well suited to a wizard of significant power and even greater ambition. A wizard who seeks to grow, to improve, to change. And, perhaps, to improve and change his surroundings, and those that surround him, as well."
Pointing towards the one the furthers right of him, he began explaining, seamlessly slipping into lecture-mode (not that I particularly minded).
"Hawthorn with a dragon heartstring core, twelve inches, springy. Wands like this are complex and intriguing in their natures, just like the owners who best suit them. Hawthorn wands may be particularly suited to healing magic, but they are also adept at curses, and I have generally observed that the Hawthorn wand seems most at home with those who possess a conflicted nature, or with a wizard passing through a period of turmoil. Be warned, young Mr. Lockhart: Hawthorn is not easy to master, and I would only ever consider placing a hawthorn wand in the hands of a wizard of proven talent, or the consequences might be dangerous. Hawthorn wands have a notable peculiarity you see: their spells can, when badly handled, backfire." He said and I barely managed to suppress a gulp a that last titbit.
Well, that's at least one wand out of the running. I've had quite my fill of wands backfiring on me, thankyouverymuch.
Ollivander moved on to the next wand.
"Maple with a dragon heartstring core and a somewhat unusual one at that. I mostly work with those dragons native to British soil. Most of the wands currently in use can trace their core to the collection of Hebridean Blacks in the care of the MacFusty clan, who have been caring and harvesting the magnificent beasts for centuries now. My family has long made use of their services. This particular wand however possesses the heartstring of a Romanian Longhorn, a quite unusual hunter compared to the rest of its kind. Thirteen and a half inches, exceptionally rigid and well suited for travellers and explorers; maple wands are not stay-at-home wands, and prefer ambition in their wizard, otherwise their magic grows heavy and lacklustre. Fresh challenges and regular changes of scene is what they yearn for. This is a beautiful and desirable wood. Possession of a maple wand has long been a mark of status, because of its reputation as the wand of high achievers." Ollivander says almost reverently, before immediately moving on to the third wand.
"Silver Lime, with a unicorn hair core, fourteen inches, supple but firm. The particular unicorn that donated this hair had nearly gored me after sneaking up on me from behind and I have no doubt she would have succeeded had that truly been her goal instead of merely humbling me with the poignant threat of disembowelment. A highly desirable wood that make prized wands, not only because of their reputation for performing best for Seers and those skilled in Legilimency, mysterious arts both, which consequently has given possessors of a silver lime wand considerable status."
The narrow tips of his spindly fingers lightly rested upon the final box.
"And finally, Walnut with a dragon heartstring core, eleven inches, relatively firm. Walnut wands are often found in the hands of magical innovators and inventors; a handsome wood possessed of unusual versatility and adaptability. A note of caution, however, young Mr. Lockhart: while some woods are difficult to dominate, and may resist the performance of spells that are foreign to their natures, this wand will, once subjugated, perform any task its owner desires, provided that the user is of sufficient brilliance. This makes for any walnut wand a truly lethal weapon in the hands of a wizard of no conscience, for the wand and the wizard may feed from each other in a particularly unhealthy manner." Ollivander finished, looking back up at me again for the first time since he began his little lecture, his expression sterns and his gaze unwavering as his lips thinned into a firm line.
"Right. So… which one is mine then?" I respond, trying not to let Ollivander's accurate assesement get to me.
"At this point, that is no longer my purview. To form the connection that you seek, that is now between you and the wands themselves, Mr. Lockhart. I am convinced that any one of these would suit you perfectly fine, as all of them showed some affinity to you, though there is… something about you that had confused them. That has confused near all of my wands, as it turns out. Which one of these remaining four is to truly become your companion though, that is something only you – and they – can now discern." The ages wizard responds, gently lifting all of the lids of their respective boxes.
He gestures broadly at the remaining wands with a wide sweeping motion of his hand.
"Choose."
His command is worded strongly, but not unkindly, and before I even know it my own hand has come up and has begun hovering closely above the wands. I can feel something from the wands lying before me that hadn't been there with any of the other wands that Ollivander had deemed unfit. Comparing it to my memory of young Gilderoy first laying hands upon his cherry wand though makes it clear just how… muddled, these feelings are.
They will work, just as Ollivander said, likely far better than Frederic's wand that I was currently using.
But, until they had fully adjusted to me, they wouldn't work as well as my original wand.
I keep wavering between the wands, each one seeming like it could be a potential fit whenever I focused on it, but then I'd look at another one and consider that one equally valid and I would be right back where I started.
Christ, is this how women feel about shopping for shoes? No wonder it takes them so bloody long, this is agony!
As I keep doubting myself and second-guessing the wands, my frustration begins to rise further and further. However, right as it's about to boil over and I'm about to throw something at the nearest wall (whether that something be one of these wands, Ollivander, or my forehead I hadn't decided on yet) it sort of crystalizes into clarity and resolve instead.
The reason?
The weight of the gold in my pocket. The galleons I had dug up from underneath the floor of Gilderoy's shabby old room. It was that memory that snapped me out of the dilemma I had been stuck in.
"No." I calmly responded as I withdrew my hand, once again focusing on Ollivander's chin as he looks up in surprise.
"No?"
"I won't choose." I state firmly and the wand maker somewhat deflates at that.
"Mr. Lockhart, while I understand that losing your first wand isn't easy, and that you may therefore be biased against these alternatives, please do be sure that these are the finest quality you could ask for, and that in time they will work as well, if not better, than-"
"You misunderstand." I cut in, interrupting the old man, who gives me a startled blink as I smoothly withdraw a thick leather pouch from my pocket, tossing it onto the counter.
The clanging of metals rings out heavy throughout the dusty shop.
"I'll take them all."
Fun Fact: The plants in Harry Potter come from a real book. Namely, the Culpeper's Complete Herbal. The book was penned in the 17th century by English botanist and herbalist Nicholas Culpeper.
AN: Yeah, at under 30 Galleons, getting four wands is a no brainer, those things are stupidly cheap, especially since these are the best possible on the market.
So, the obligatory Diagon Alley shopping trip has started. As mentioned in the chapter, ridiculous wands is something of a pet peeve of mine, especially as I began to look up wandmaking lore and realized that what's already there is incredibly expansive and fun to play around with. Also, to everyone who ever made (or was thinking of making) a fic in which their MC picks up the coveted obisidian wand with a Dementor's nutsack core from Ollivander's: other core types are possible (Ollivander's father apparently used to work with Kelpie hair) but Ollivander's himself specifically only works with Unicorn Hair, Dragon Heartstring or Phoenix Feathers as these give the absolute best results. You, quite simply, will not find any of those moronic made-up cores in his shop because he doesn't want to work with them.
Aight, mini-rant over, back to the chapter. I already revealed Gilderoy's next stop, Flourish and Blotts, which is not that surprising to most of you, I think. You want magical knowledge, you gotta read some magical books, simple as that. However, I also mention that Gilderoy sees a shop he deems very interesting that he wants to visit after his stop at the bookshop. I am very interested as to what you think he saw: please let me know what you think it is!