"Not… a standard request, Mr. Ashbourne."
Modern witches and wizards, he explained, wanted their wands light, quick, and easily drawn. Damage was rare—provided you didn't jab people with it or pass a wand from brother to brother like certain Weasleys. But what Theodore asked for ran against every current fashion—something you could, frankly, hit with.
"That isn't our family's usual line," Ollivander admitted, sounding glum.
Hagrid sighed, disappointed.
Theodore's gaze brightened. "Not your main line—but you didn't say you had none."
A beat. Then a rueful sigh. "Today's youngsters are far too shrewd. Very well. I do have a piece. 'Wand' is the wrong word, strictly speaking. Staff is better." He lowered his voice. "A family relic—older than Hogwarts; older, even, than Merlin."
He vanished through a side door. Boxes shifted. Dust sneezed. At last he floated out a long case with a gentling charm; it had to be over a metre, and heavy enough that he preferred magic to muscle.
Inside lay a metal staff, its length etched with close, interlaced sigils and ancient knotwork. Even the box clinked when the staff settled.
Ollivander's cheek twitched. "This is what you want. But consider: it weighs several dozen pounds. In its heyday, wizards fought with arms and fists as often as spells—there weren't many charms to hand—so a staff like this mattered. Now magic has moved on. Few duelists brawl, and such slow, weighty implements were… retired by history."
He grimaced. "Yes, its striking power—and even its magical output—outclass many wands. But only someone with Hagrid's build could carry it. And gestures… Hogwarts classes will be a trial."
Theodore looked down at the staff and felt heat spark behind his ribs.
Who could say no to a straight, runed, very persuadable stick?
He closed fingers around the haft.
"Careful—!" Ollivander began—and broke off, blinking as the boy lifted it easily.
A full-metal staff that would wreck most wrists came up in Theodore's hand with pleasant weight. Copper Skin & Iron Bones thrummed under his skin; for him, the balance was right.
Only one problem: at his current height, the thing was too long. He was eleven. The staff was nearly taller than he was. Awkward for forms, worse for corridors.
"If it were a little shorter…"
A band of sigils along the haft glowed—and the staff telescoped, shortening with a soft metal sigh. The weight stayed the same, the feel stayed dense, but the length settled to baton-staff—longer than a wand, not quite a quarterstaff—perfect for a short swing.
Theodore's eyes lit. "It… resizes?"
A staff that could go long or short on command? With his body already edged toward the unyielding? Try saying no to a Ruyi-style magic stick.
"This one," he said at once. "I'll take this."
Ollivander kept staring—then squinted at Hagrid, a wild notion crossing his face: Is the lad Hagrid's kin? Some giant-blooded cousin? What eleven-year-old picked up that like a broom?
He also stared at the shifting length. The Ollivanders had studied this heirloom before and shelved it as an intriguing dead end; for centuries it simply sat in the vault. To watch it answer a bearer… that tugged at his own creed: the wand chooses the wizard. Perhaps this was one of those rare, particular fated matches.
"Very well," he said at last, carefully. "If you insist—this does suit you."
His tone softened. "Consider its cost waived under our research arrangement. In return, I ask you to meet with me from time to time, share how it handles, and help with a few harmless wandlore studies."
"Gladly," Theodore said. Truth be told, he wanted the wandmaker—Forge Sect 'master' in the System's eyes—as a proper connection anyway. Push that bond to Close Friend, and Fire-at-Will would open—obvious uses for alchemy, potions, combat… hard to overstate.
They were halfway to the door when Ollivander snapped his fingers. "One more thing. My forebears did work on it. They suspected it had seen a dreadful battle—there were fractures. Repairs restored most functions, but we lacked certain ancient alloys to finish it. Our notes suggest the staff once had a further special effect we couldn't revive."
He grimaced. "In my grandfather's day, one could still find the odd ruin. These days? No scrap of those metals." He spread his hands. "If you want it fully restored… you may have to find what my family could not."
Theodore nodded, unbothered. First, it worked—that alone was a win. He wasn't married to perfection. Second, his fresh Metallurgy & Refining talent made his fingers itch. Lost alloys? Perhaps not lost to him.
One step at a time.
He tested the staff once more—long, short, balance, draw. It hummed like a kept promise.
"Done," he said simply. "I'll register it as a focus staff and keep my wand for classes. Discretion first; permits second."
Ollivander approved. "Sensible. We'll fit a sheath for the wand and a strap for the staff. And—Mr. Ashbourne? Congratulations. You've chosen a very old friend."
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