Chapter 9: The Wand Chooses the Wizard
"How much are you looking to exchange?" drawled the goblin, lazily flipping open a ledger and twirling a quill between his long fingers. "And just so we're clear — Muggle-born wizards are limited to one hundred Galleons per year. The exchange rate is five pounds to one Galleon."
Russell blinked. "That's all? …Fine. It'll have to do."
He handed over five hundred pounds in crisp notes.
When the goblin — Pendant — finally placed the heavy golden coins into his hand, Russell suddenly had another thought.
"What if I exchanged gold instead of paper money?"
Pendant froze, then immediately brightened, eyes gleaming with sudden interest. "Ah, you have gold? That's different! The more, the better!"
Russell chuckled faintly. "Just curious," he said, pocketing his Galleons and turning to leave. "Didn't bring any with me today."
As soon as the door closed behind them, Pendant spat on the marble floor and muttered a stream of guttural curses in Gobbledegook, glaring after their retreating figures.
---
"Professor," Russell said after a moment of silence, "isn't it… risky, letting goblins handle all wizarding currency?"
Flitwick sighed softly. "Perhaps. But no one else can forge Galleons, Sickles, or Knuts quite like they can. The craft of minting enchanted currency is an art lost to wizards centuries ago. That's why, despite their repeated rebellions, we tolerate them."
Russell frowned, digesting that. He wasn't prejudiced, but he understood the danger of dependency. Never let another species control your economy, he thought grimly. Even among humans, power bred mistrust — how much worse must it be between entirely different races?
"And from the sound of it," he added, "those rebellions weren't rare."
Flitwick gave a weary nod. "You're not wrong. And you saw how Pendant looked at me. Goblins despise half-breeds like myself. My fairy blood makes me a traitor in their eyes."
Russell's expression hardened. "Ignore them, Professor. That's just the bitterness of losers who lost their own rebellion."
Flitwick chuckled. "Thank you, Russell. I learned long ago not to take it to heart."
---
With a full coin pouch and renewed excitement, Russell dove into his shopping spree.
He purchased the required three plain work robes, then splurged at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, buying two high-end enchanted robes woven with temperature-adjusting runes — cool in summer, warm in winter.
It cost him thirty Galleons, and he winced watching the gold vanish from his pouch.
Sure, by Muggle standards, it was barely £150, but somehow seeing actual gold coins drain away hurt far more than spending paper bills ever could.
Still, he reminded himself, he now owned a full five sets of clothing — one for every season and mood. Not bad.
---
Next stop: Ollivanders Wand Shop.
It stood tucked into the far end of Diagon Alley — narrow, crooked, and ancient. The once-golden lettering on the sign had long since faded, now reading faintly:
Ollivanders — Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
A kinder person might call the shop "quaint."
A realist would say it looked one tremor away from collapsing.
Inside the display window, a single wand rested on a faded purple cushion — the only piece on show.
The shop itself was cramped and dusty. Thousands of slim, narrow boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling, forming precarious towers that looked ready to topple with a sneeze. The air smelled faintly of cedar, varnish, and age.
Behind the counter sat a frail old man, his white hair haloed in the lamplight. He was writing something in a narrow notebook with meticulous care.
When the bell above the door chimed softly, he lifted his head.
"Welcome," he said quietly.
His eyes — a pale, silvery gray that almost seemed to glow — fixed on Russell with unnerving precision.
For a brief moment, Russell had the strange impression that the old man wasn't looking at him, but through him — as if reading his past, present, and future all at once.
A shiver crept up his spine.
This, he thought, must be Mr. Garrick Ollivander — the man who made wands for half the wizarding world.
And somewhere in this little shop…
was the wand that would choose him.
From behind the counter, the old wandmaker slowly emerged, brushing a faint layer of dust from his robes. When his gaze lifted and landed on the small figure beside Russell, his face brightened immediately.
"Filius!" he exclaimed, voice full of genuine warmth. "My goodness, it's been ages. Aspen wood, fairy wing core — seven inches, flexible and refined. A most unusual combination, if I recall correctly."
He spoke as though reciting from a catalog he'd memorized centuries ago.
"Still serving you well, I hope?"
Flitwick's eyes gleamed. "Like an old friend! This wand's been with me through three consecutive Wizarding Duel Championships — undefeated!"
At that, even the normally reserved Ollivander allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile. "Excellent. I knew she'd find her perfect match."
Then his pale silver eyes turned toward Russell. It felt as though the temperature in the tiny shop had dropped by several degrees.
"And you, young man," he said softly, stepping closer, "what is your name?"
"My name is Russell Fythorne, sir."
"Fythorne…" Ollivander repeated thoughtfully, rolling the name across his tongue. "A rare family name indeed. Tell me—was your father's name Mels Fythorne?"
Russell froze.
That was his father's name.
But how could this man know it? His father had never mentioned the wizarding world — not once.
Ollivander's expression softened with nostalgia. "Ah, yes… I remember his wand well. Blackthorn wood, core of unicorn hair, nine inches — a sturdy, loyal wand. Is he faring well these days?"
Russell's throat tightened. "My parents… they both passed away, sir. And my father—he was a wizard? Are you sure you're not mistaken?"
Ollivander met his eyes. "Quite sure," he said gently. "Mels Fythorne was a fine wizard. Quiet, principled… the kind who never sought glory."
Russell's mind spun.
His father — the man he remembered fixing clocks and reading newspapers — a wizard?
Impossible.
"But… he never told me," Russell murmured. "He never mentioned magic. He died in a car accident, both of them did. Wouldn't a wizard have survived something like that?"
Ollivander sighed softly, fingers tracing the grain of the counter. "Rare, yes… but not unheard of. Some wizards choose to live among Muggles, to hide who they are — especially when they fall in love with one. It is… a dangerous sort of devotion."
"I see…" Russell nodded slowly, still trying to piece it together. The answer didn't satisfy him, but it was something.
"Now then, Mr. Fythorne," Ollivander said, businesslike again, "are you right-handed or left-handed?"
"Right-handed."
"Good. Hold out your arm, please — and don't move."
From his coat pocket, Ollivander drew a thin, shimmering silver measuring tape. With a flick of his wrist, it sprang to life, slithering through the air like a curious serpent before wrapping gently around Russell's arm.
The sensation tickled, but he forced himself not to laugh or flinch.
The tape moved on its own, measuring his arm length, shoulder width, and even his height.
Russell finally blurted, "Sir, does my height really matter for a wand?"
"Of course it does," Ollivander replied absently, eyes following the tape as it darted up and down. "A wand must balance with its owner's proportions. Arm length, height, even reach — all determine the ideal length and flexibility. Naturally, young wizards grow, so there's… a bit of built-in allowance."
"And when I'm older?" Russell asked curiously. "Won't it stop fitting me?"
"Not unless you change inside," Ollivander said quietly. "The wand grows with the wizard — but the heart is another matter. When your nature changes, when the core of who you are shifts… the wand may turn against you."
He fell silent for a moment, gaze distant, as though remembering someone long gone.
"For instance," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper, "a wand made with unicorn hair will never serve a master who embraces the Dark Arts. Once corrupted, it refuses to answer its owner ever again."
Then his eyes found Russell's once more — sharp, luminous, ancient.
"Remember this, child," he said solemnly.
"It is not the wizard who chooses the wand."
"It is the wand that chooses the wizard."