It took a good long while for Theodore's pulse to coast back down from cloud-riding euphoria. Hogwarts was still more than a month away—and outside Hogwarts there were errands that mattered just as much.
Fire-at-Will from Ollivander, Beast Rearing from the menagerie—both were priority talents. The first would make fire spells sing on command and turn temperature control in alchemy and potions into a joke. The second might push magical creatures through their ceilings—imagine the Forbidden Forest's Acromantulas getting stronger, or the last basilisk in the Chamber raised like a proper apex beast. Honghuang immortality could wait; wizardry could not.
Morning. Diagon Alley.
Theodore slipped along in his loose, hooded robes. Gringotts bristled as he passed: goblins on the steps with spears and flinty eyes, a new placard offering a bounty for "information on a wizard proficient in overpowered Stunners" near the bank last night.
He almost laughed. Of course they thought it was a spell. In this world, every mystery wore a wand. Let them up-arm. On the day the Boy Who Lived first entered the Alley, a very familiar hitchhiker would try the vaults anyway. Butterflies or not, fate liked its favourite roads.
He shelved the thought and pushed into Ollivanders.
The old wandmaker's eyes brightened. "Mr Ashbourne—perfect timing. I've had… ideas."
Boxes appeared. Theodore humoured the tests, trade theorems, micro-gestures. He chatted, steered, nudged; warmth grew… but not enough. After hours, they were friendly—not yet the kind of friend who hands you fire like a key.
Of course not. Garrick Ollivander had outlived most ambitions and most rivals; applause rolled off him like dust. A boy's cleverness alone wouldn't breach that distance in weeks.
So: aim for the heart, not the hand.
What matters most to you? Theodore thought, watching the old man frown into some hairline grain. Wands. Not just making them—surpassing them. Ollivander's shopfront plaque sang of 382 BCE; the man behind it still wanted to be first. And across Europe, another lineage—Gregorovitch—had once held something that sharpened every craft it touched.
Theodore waited for the next lull. "Mr Ollivander, you always say: wand and wizard choose each other; they make each other better. Are there exceptions—wands so innately mighty that they make any wizard terrifying?"
A slow nod. "There is such a legend. The Elder Wand. Deathstick. A peerless instrument said to render its master undefeated."
Theodore leaned in. "Have you ever seen it?"
Teeth set; a breath. "No. …But I suspect an old rival did—briefly. His craft leapt beyond reason. He did not hold it long." A grim, private comfort crossed his face.
They traded lore. The gleam in the old man's eye said more than his words.
Then Theodore tipped the lever. "It's been a millennium. Craft has advanced. Why not forge something greater?"
Ollivander blinked. "Me? Greater than the Elder Wand?"
"Who else?" Theodore said, as if puzzled by the obvious. "You are Garrick Ollivander—the finest wandwright alive. What could outshine a thousand accolades more than making the wand that surpasses the myth? Your rival—Elder Wand or not—does he even dare intend that? You do. Succeed, and there's no peer left to name."
A tiny, dangerous light caught within the cataracts. "Why not surpass it," he murmured. "It has been a thousand years."
He hesitated, glancing at his hands. "But my age. I am over eighty."
"Eighty is the perfect age to grind, sir. You've shed all the noise and kept the flame. I'll help—materials, trials, wild ideas, whatever it takes."
Silence—then the spark flared into a steady burn. The old man straightened, younger by ten years. "Very well. Let us attempt the impossible. When does the Ollivander line become Europe's—no—the world's first?" He smiled, the words tasting good. "In my generation."
Theodore's mouth tipped into a satisfied curve.
A shared, audacious goal—the fastest road between strangers and allies. Plan: complete.
In the Leaky Cauldron's back parlour, a woman with a square jaw and a tidy monocle set down two cups of tea.
"Missus Bones," she introduced herself, crisp as parchment. "Amelia. Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
Not an arrest, then; a courtesy.
"We logged an anomaly near Gringotts last night," she said. "No spell residue, which is… unusual. You were seen in the Alley today. Purely routine—were you anywhere near the bank after dark?"
"I was at home," Theodore said, polite and steady. "You're welcome to check my wand with Priori Incantatem."
A faint smile. "I already did. Clean." She sipped. "Goblins are excitable when offended. Do take care not to… excite them."
She slid a card across. "If someone is harassing you, tell us. We prefer problems reported before they become headlines."
"Understood, Director."
Bones nodded, rose, and was gone—steel in sensible shoes.
[DMLE Interest: Not Hostile → You were noted, not flagged. Repeated anomalies will raise attention.]
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