Ollivander did not stop at the shelves.
He passed them, deeper and deeper, until his path brought him to a far corner where the shadows gathered thick.
Cassius, straining his magical sight, felt the faint hum of enchantments woven into the walls themselves.
This was not a place customers were ever meant to glimpse.
The old wandmaker crouched before a squat, black chest banded in iron.
Even from where he stood, Cassius could feel it radiating age—an artifact from centuries gone.
Ollivander touched it carefully, almost reverently, and began to undo its protections.
First came the locks of iron, each clicking open with a charm and a whisper of resistance.
Then wards—layer after layer, peeling back like curtains of light.
One seal resisted until Ollivander muttered something in an older tongue, a language Cassius had never heard, making the air prickle as the lock fell silent.
Finally, the chest gave way, not opening outward but sinking, its lid yawning into shadow like the mouth of a tunnel.
Without hesitation, Ollivander stepped down inside and vanished.
Cassius watched, wide-eyed.
His heart thundered.
He knew instinctively that this was no mere storage chest, but a hidden room stitched into the fabric of space itself, where the wandmasters greatest creations and personal workshop probably were kept.
Minutes passed.
Then, with a soft groan of hinges, Ollivander returned.
In his hands he bore five long boxes stacked neatly, their wood darker than the ordinary pale cardboard.
They looked… different.
Older.
The moment they cleared the chest, Cassius nearly staggered.
His magical senses flared violently.
These wands were not like the ones from the shelves.
No, they pulsed, alive in a way the others hadn't.
Each one carried an aura distinct and sharp, tugging at his awareness.
Ollivander set them down on the counter.
His eyes gleamed with the light of an academic who knew he was about to test a rare hypothesis.
"These," he murmured, almost to himself, "were experiments. Creations that defied tradition. They did not sell, for they proved too willful… or too dangerous. But perhaps you, young Cassius, might find resonance among them."
Cassius stepped forward, pulse racing.
The first wand Ollivander offered was dark walnut, inlaid with faint silver runes running its length.
"Walnut and chimera scale, twelve and three-quarters, firm," Ollivander announced softly.
Cassius touched it, and instantly a surge of energy coursed through him.
For a moment, his vision flickered white—violent, volatile.
He snapped his hand back. "It wants blood," he said coolly. "But not mine."
Ollivander's brows rose.
"Correct. It was… over-eager. Unsuitable for most."
The wand slid back into its box.
The second wand gleamed pale as bone.
Birch wood, smooth, with a whispering resonance.
"Birch and thunderbird tail feather, eleven inches, surprisingly whippy."
The moment Cassius raised it, thunder cracked faintly in the rafters.
Sparks of silver danced across the floorboards.
His grip tightened, but then the wand trembled, shivering violently as if trying to break from him.
"No," Cassius muttered. "It accepts me… but barely."
The third wand was unlike any Cassius had seen—twisted blackthorn bound with a braid of silver thread.
Core: basilisk fang.
Its touch sent a cold shudder racing up his arm.
His breath misted in the summer air.
"This one likes me," Cassius admitted. "But only as one enjoys a blade. It would cut me the moment I faltered."
Ollivander nodded solemnly.
"Sharp intuition. Many wizards have mistaken willingness for compatibility. You do not."
The fourth wand: rowan wood bound with glassy streaks, core of veela hair.
Light, airy, almost ethereal.
When Cassius lifted it, for a fleeting instant he felt harmony, his magic flowing into the wand's channels with smooth precision.
But then the connection dimmed, leaving only a faint aftertaste.
"It accepts me," Cassius said, frustrated. "But it is not mine."
The fifth and last was the strangest: carved from driftwood bleached by sea-salt, humming faintly, core Kraken.
The instant Cassius touched it, images flashed in his mind—shores, storms, a drowning ship.
Then silence.
The wand sat still in his grip, not rejecting, not welcoming.
Simply… indifferent.
"This one," Cassius whispered, his lips tight, "is hollow. It feels as though I wield a memory, not a tool."
He returned it to the box.
And with that, silence settled.
Ollivander's face was unreadable.
He touched each box gently, as if tucking away restless spirits, before looking back at the boy.
"You were right," the wandmaker said softly, voice carrying the weight of centuries. "Every one of these has accepted you in part. But none has chosen you."
Cassius narrowed his eyes.
"Then what does that mean?"
Ollivander's pale gaze sharpened, and in it flickered something Cassius could not place—admiration, or perhaps dread.
"It means," Ollivander said, "that you are a wizard who requires something more. Greater even than my experiments. Greater even than my own hands have yet made."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"There was once a time when wands were not standardized. When wandmakers did not cater to schoolchildren, but to survival. My great-great-grandfather lived during the witch hunts. A dangerous age. He forged wands for desperate men and women who needed weapons to protect themselves against both Muggle pyres and the dark wizards. Brutal times call for brutal tools."
Cassius felt the words coil around him like smoke.
His senses sharpened.
"You still have one?"
Ollivander nodded.
"Locked away. Never sold. Its history is dark, its allegiance… unpredictable. I have never dared offer it."
His eyes glimmered.
"But for you, boy, I am curious."
He turned, moving back toward the chest.
"The wand chooses the wizard. And perhaps this wand has waited—longer than either of us imagined."
Cassius stood silent as the chest yawned open once more.
Ollivander descended into the shadows below, leaving the shop in utter stillness.
Cassius exhaled slowly, pulse hammering in his ears.
Every rejection, every failed attempt—it all led here.
Not just a wand.
But a relic.
One forged in fire and blood.
He straightened, a smile ghosting across his lips.
Yes. This was the moment he had waited for.
And when Ollivander returned, Cassius knew he would not be denied.