Chapter 10: The Wizard Chooses the Wand!
Russell wasn't entirely convinced by Ollivander's earlier words.
Sure, the wandmaker spoke of "moral resonance" — of how wands would reject masters who fell to darkness — but if that were absolute truth, how had Voldemort's wand remained so terrifyingly effective?
After all, it was a pheonix-core wand that had slain James and Lily Potter… and carved that lightning scar into Harry's forehead.
Maybe it's not the wand's soul that rejects evil, Russell thought, but whether the wizard's will is stronger than the wand's own.
---
"Let's try this one," Ollivander murmured, flicking his wand.
With a faint crack, one of the countless stacked boxes flew from the towering shelves and landed neatly in his hand — leaving a small gap in the precarious pile. Russell instinctively tensed, half-expecting the rest to collapse in a dusty avalanche.
"Acacia wood, with horned serpent core, thirteen inches," Ollivander recited. "A unique wand — brilliant in the right hands, disastrous in the wrong. It requires a wizard of… remarkable talent to wield its full potential."
Russell accepted it carefully.
The moment his fingers brushed the polished surface, sparks leapt from the wand's tip — bright, sharp bursts that sizzled through the air before fading.
Ollivander's expression changed instantly. He snatched the wand away. "No, no, no. Not that one."
He turned, pulling out another box. "Beech wood, dragon heartstring, eleven inches. Favored by those of exceptional intellect."
Russell barely had time to touch it before Ollivander whisked it back again, muttering, "Not quite right."
Box after box piled high upon the counter. The shop filled with dust motes and the scent of old magic.
Far from frustrated, Ollivander looked invigorated, his silvery eyes gleaming with a craftsman's delight.
"A picky customer," he said under his breath, "how wonderful."
---
Just as he reached for another wand, Russell felt something stir — deep within his chest, a subtle vibration, like the whisper of a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
He hesitated, then spoke quietly:
"Mr. Ollivander… would you mind if I… tried choosing one myself?"
The old wandmaker paused mid-motion, clearly taken aback. Few students had ever made such a request.
Then, slowly, he nodded. "Go on, then. Trust your instincts."
---
Following that strange pull, Russell walked to the farthest corner of the shop — a dim, dusty space where the light seemed reluctant to reach.
He stopped before a shelf bowed under the weight of time and pulled out a warped, forgotten box coated in thick dust.
Blowing it clean, he lifted the lid.
Inside lay a wand of deep brown wood, unassuming and elegant.
The moment he picked it up, warmth flowed through his palm — not heat, but a living pulse that resonated with his own heartbeat.
He gave it an instinctive flick.
Instantly, the room dimmed. Shadows melted into moonlight, and a radiant silver glow rose from the wand's tip — a full moon forming above their heads, its light soft and hauntingly pure.
Then, with a soft pop, it vanished, leaving the shop bright once more.
---
"...Extraordinary," Ollivander whispered, eyes wide. "Truly extraordinary. Such resonance — and the manifestation… a moon?"
He stepped forward, gaze flickering between Russell and the wand. "I've seen sparks, flame, even snow — but never that. Remarkable."
Then, as he turned the wand to examine it, his face froze. His enthusiasm dimmed, replaced by hesitation.
"Oh," he murmured, "this one."
He hesitated for a long time before speaking again, voice measured, almost reverent.
"Laurel wood, unicorn tail hair core, twelve and one-third inches."
He looked at Russell with conflicted eyes. "A rare wand. They say a laurel wand cannot perform a dishonorable act — even in pursuit of glory. It will not abide laziness, and if its master grows idle or corrupt, it allows itself to be claimed by another.
But…"
His tone deepened.
"When another attempts to steal it, the wand retaliates with lightning. Quite literally."
Russell couldn't help smiling faintly.
That sounds perfect for me.
Ollivander, however, did not smile. "The wood is noble, yes… but the core is a problem. This wand has lain unsold for fifty years. No wizard or witch has ever matched it. Until now."
He hesitated, as though reluctant to let it go.
"Mr. Fythorne," he said finally, "perhaps you'd prefer to try another?"
Russell looked down at the wand — its polished grain, the faint pulse of light under his fingers — and felt it hum gently in his grasp, like a living heartbeat.
He smiled.
"No need, sir," Russell said calmly, his grip firm around the wand. "You said earlier that the wand chooses the wizard — but I don't completely agree. Wizards can choose their wands, too. And right now… I choose this one."
As if answering his conviction, the wand trembled lightly in his hand — not resisting, but humming with faint, joyful approval.
Ollivander blinked, clearly taken aback. It had been years since anyone dared to speak to him with such confidence.
"But," Russell continued, his curiosity piqued, "could you tell me what's wrong with its core? Unicorn hair isn't exactly rare, is it? The Forbidden Forest is full of them — and I've even heard Hagrid uses unicorn hair to weave his rugs."
Ollivander's expression darkened slightly, the silver in his eyes deepening like moonlight on water.
"When I was young," he began slowly, "I insisted on finding my own materials. One day, I came across a unicorn unlike any I'd ever seen. Its coat was pitch black, and its mane and tail burned crimson — like living flame. Apart from its color, everything about it was unmistakably unicorn."
Russell blinked. "So… a shiny variant?" he blurted without thinking. Like in Pokémon.
"What?" Ollivander looked puzzled. He clearly had no idea what Russell was talking about, but he pressed on. "It had a single horn, therefore it was a unicorn. At least, that's what I believed. I tried to approach it — but before I could, it turned its head toward me, and in the blink of an eye… vanished."
He paused, fingers brushing the wand in Russell's hand. "Later, I found a single strand of its tail hair caught in the brambles nearby. I used it to craft this wand."
Russell frowned slightly. "Mr. Ollivander… is it possible that it wasn't a unicorn at all?"
The wandmaker straightened, his tone firm. "Impossible. Absolutely not. No one has ever set a rule about unicorns being white. If it bore the horn and the purity of magic, it was a unicorn — perhaps… one cursed, or changed by strange magic."
"Right," Russell murmured skeptically. "A cursed unicorn. Sure."
Still, he held the wand tighter. "Either way, I'm keeping it."
Ollivander looked at him for a long moment — and then sighed in quiet surrender. "Very well. Seven Galleons, fair price," he said, before swiftly switching to salesman mode. "Would you like to add a wand maintenance kit? Keeps the polish fresh, the grain resilient, and the magic steady. A must-have for any serious wizard."
Russell chuckled. "Sure. I'll take it all."
Money wasn't an issue for him. He bought the full set — oils, polishing cloths, cleaning runes — and left the shop with his new wand tucked safely under his arm, its faint pulse still resonating with his own.
---
He walked into Flourish and Blotts, scanning the long rows of spellbooks stacked higher than his head. Holding the school list, he began reading aloud under his breath:
"Magical Drafts and Potions, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration…"
Before he could finish, the shop assistant — a man with ink-stained fingers and a kindly grin — waved him off.
"First-year, aren't you? Don't worry, I've got it all memorized by now — same list every year." The man chuckled, stretching his arms. "Why don't you take a look around while I gather your books?"
"Thanks," Russell said, tucking the list back into his pocket.
Flitwick had wanted to wait outside, but Russell had convinced him otherwise — claiming he might take a while. The professor had agreed easily enough, deciding to head back to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. Before leaving, he'd only said, "Don't wander off, Russell. Meet me right here when you're done."
Russell had other plans.
He wasn't just buying textbooks. There were a few titles he wanted that Flitwick definitely didn't need to see — small gifts for Wednesday and Pugsley.
Nothing scandalous, of course. Just… books that were a bit too curious for Hogwarts' faculty.
Unfortunately, Flourish and Blotts didn't carry anything as bold as The Secrets of Advanced Dark Magic. The most he could find was another work by Miranda Goshawk, titled The Book of Spells — a harmless collection of minor hexes and quirky enchantments, including something called the Bat Bogey Hex.
Russell picked it up, smiling faintly.
"Not exactly dark magic," he murmured to himself, dropping it into his basket. "But it'll make Wednesday laugh."