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Chapter 22 – The Price of Destiny
Ollivander clearly had no intention of paying off his debts in wands.
He only gestured to the shelves and said politely, "Go on, Mr. Potter. Choose one."
Darren stared at the thousands of wand boxes shimmering faintly with suppressed magic and felt… dizzy.
So many choices. So many shiny, expensive choices.
"Mr. Ollivander," Darren began sweetly, his tone pure flattery, "you're the greatest wandmaker in history. My grandfather only invested in your shop because of your genius. You're the expert here — what would you recommend?"
Ollivander's chest puffed up immediately. That kind of compliment always worked. He straightened, visibly pleased.
"Well, my boy," he said, smiling again, "since you insist on my opinion… If you seek raw power, elder wood is unmatched. The Elder Wand itself was made from it."
Darren nodded, understanding instantly. Yeah, no thanks. That wand's résumé includes murder, betrayal, and several Dark Lords. Hard pass.
Ollivander went on, his hands moving gracefully as he listed woods like a conductor naming symphonies.
"Birch, chestnut, hawthorn, mahogany — all fine choices, depending on your calling. Birch is favored by charmworkers and flyers. Hawthorn by healers. Mahogany…" He smiled faintly. "That was your father's."
Darren's interest perked at that, but Ollivander continued, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Now, if you're more interested in fame…"
The old man's gaze lingered on Darren, and his tone cooled by a fraction.
He still hadn't forgiven the boy for not waiving those lost dividends.
And truth be told, the way every wand in the shop had reacted made him uneasy. Too many had come from dark wizards.
"If you value reputation," he said pointedly, "I'd suggest poplar, pear, larch… or cypress. They choose wizards who are upright, brave, and self-sacrificing."
When he said generous, his eyes flicked toward Darren again.
Darren's smile twitched. Oh, I see how it is, old man.
Still, of all those, cypress caught his attention.
A wand for those who are steadfast, brave, and willing to sacrifice themselves.
It sounded like it had been designed specifically for his "Holy Father" persona.
"This one," he said decisively. "Cypress."
Ollivander nodded approvingly. "A wise choice."
He turned and set three boxes before Darren. "I've only made three cypress wands — each with a different core. Unicorn hair. Phoenix feather. And one… very special core — a scale from an Eastern dragon."
Darren's eyes widened.
"The unicorn hair wand," Ollivander said softly, "is loyal to its master.
The phoenix feather… ah yes, that one came from Professor Dumbledore's Fawkes. He sent it three days ago, after hearing of you."
Darren blinked. "Of course he did," he muttered. Dumbledore really has a tracking device on every life event, huh?
"And finally," Ollivander continued reverently, lifting the last box, "the Eastern dragon scale. A friend of mine from the Orient sent it years ago. He said the dragon shed it willingly — a reverse scale, taken from its chest eleven years ago.
He wrote that the destined owner of this wand would have 'a heart for the world, unwavering ideals… but a nature too rigid, in need of protection.'"
Ollivander finished and watched Darren expectantly.
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Darren reached for the dragon-scale wand.
The moment his fingers brushed the smooth cypress wood, a brilliant roar split the air.
A colossal dragon — translucent and luminous — burst from the wand's tip, its body curling through the ceiling beams.
Its golden eyes locked on Darren's for one long, silent heartbeat… then it nodded once and faded into shimmering mist.
Ollivander's jaw went slack. "Merlin's beard… The dragon of the East itself? It's not like the Chinese Fireball at all… Truly extraordinary."
Darren, meanwhile, was in love.
Ten and one-third inches. Cypress. Dragon reverse-scale core.
Elegant. Wild. Heroic.
"Handsome," he whispered reverently, stroking the polished wood like a prized treasure. "So handsome."
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"Ah, yes," Ollivander said suddenly, breaking the moment. "My friend also left a message from the dragon."
Darren looked up, curious. "A message?"
"Yes. He said I should pass on its words to the one who buys this wand."
Ollivander leaned in solemnly.
"Buy. It."
Darren blinked. "What?"
"Buy it," Ollivander repeated, cheerfully now. "Ten thousand galleons."
For a second, Darren swore his soul left his body. His knees went weak, and he barely stopped himself from collapsing onto Paggie.
"Ten… thousand?" he croaked. "Did the dragon forge it from solid gold?"
He remembered clearly — Harry's wand had cost seven galleons.
Seven!
He could buy an entire tailor shop for ten thousand!
Ollivander quickly held up a parchment. "Ah, don't blame me, child. The price was set by the dragon itself. See? My friend's letter."
Darren squinted at the scroll. Elegant Eastern characters coiled across the page, full of poetic talk about karma and destiny…
Until he spotted the tiny line at the bottom:
> "Payment required. No refunds."
Darren sighed, glaring up at the ceiling.
"Of course," he muttered bitterly. "Even reincarnation comes with service fees."
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