Once Garrick Ollivander resolved to outdo the Elder Wand, he went full-on shot-of-adrenaline mode in the shop.
The wands he'd handed Theodore earlier? He yanked them back and—without a second glance—snapped them one by one.
"Those were for publish-and-perish papers," he snorted. "You don't beat the Elder Wand with coursework. You do it with blood, mystery, and extremity—materials at the edge, cores that bite. Elder wood steeped in ill omen, a thestral tail hair that reeks of death… that's why it was monstrous."
He paced. "And even that's not enough. Peverell must've woven ancient rites into the making. I'll need the oldest sticks our family ever kept—temperamental relics, every one. Luckily, I've a helper who can sync with almost any wand."
He was muttering to himself by then, utterly in the zone. Theodore flicked a glance at his pane: the Forge Sect Master tie had begun to brighten—casual friend thinning, close friend growing denser. He smiled. A shared moonshot did more than a dozen compliments. At this pace, Close Friend (→ Fire-at-Will) before term started looked real.
"Excellent fire in the belly," Theodore grinned. "Mr Ollivander, I'll be on call—whatever you need." He clapped the counter lightly. "You've got this."
He slipped out and headed for stop two—Warwick's Magical Menagerie.
Same cramped aisles, same cocktail of musk and straw and something lightly explosive. Warwick popped up at the counter, remembering the boy who could talk animals down from stupid.
"Theodore—got that right, yeah? Been waiting! Perfect timing. I've got a big job." He leaned in, dropping his voice. "Shipment of Fire Crabs from Fiji. Gem-studded shells, little flamethrowers out the tail—pure catnip for the posh crowd. One or two, I can manage. Twenty? They'll barbecue the shop. But with you here to calm them, I can move the lot. We split a fat stack of Galleons."
If this were a game, Theodore thought, the shopkeep had just opened the Quest window. Grind favour with fetch work? Pass. He didn't have a month to wrangle crustaceans for reputation points.
He tilted his head, voice gone mild. "That's your big play?"
Warwick blinked. "Ah?"
Theodore sighed, theatrically puzzled. "You strike me as the sort who'll leave a footprint on the industry, not just flip a few Fire Crabs. You're holding back because you don't know if you can trust me with the real plan—the vision, the scale, the thing that changes the creature trade. Right?"
Warwick stared. Industry? Footprint? He'd graduated Hufflepuff, nursed a survivable little beast shop, and kept the lights on. "Glory" wasn't in his vocabulary.
Theodore leaned in, eyes bright. "You think you're ordinary. You're not. This century—well, almost—belongs to hybrid talent." He started counting on his fingers. "Hufflepuff's ace discipline? Care of Magical Creatures. You're formally trained. Then years on the husbandry floor—hands-on specialist. And unlike a paper-bound expert, you've actually kept a shop afloat on Diagon Alley—pricing, supply chains, clientele. Those Venn circles barely overlap for anyone else."
He tapped the counter. "People who know beasts don't know business. People who know business don't know beasts. You know both. That's a market map with your name on it."
Warwick's heart thumped. It… did sound plausible. Was he actually rare?
"But I'm forty," he blurted. "Isn't it late to—"
"Forty is prime working age," Theodore shot back. "Between us? Mr Ollivander is over eighty and just decided to aim higher than legend. You're barely halfway to half-time. You really going to spend the second act ring-leading a tank of Fire Crabs?"
Warwick looked around his cramped aisles. The answer, unexpectedly, was no.
"I've… never blown up," he admitted. "What would I even do? Smuggle a dragon? That's—illegal."
"Right, we don't do illegal," Theodore laughed. "We do iconic. Here's a seed. Tell me if it rings a bell—Pokémon."
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