Grindelwald, the Ubiquitous Influence
"Next is you."
Hagrid's tone toward Owen had none of its earlier warmth.
With a heavy thud, he shut Fang inside the hut, locked the door, and motioned for Owen to follow him down the mountain toward Hogsmeade.
As the only all-wizarding village in Britain, Hogsmeade naturally connected to Diagon Alley through the Floo Network.
Hagrid didn't speak a single word the entire way.
Even when green Floo flames swallowed them and they stumbled out into the brick-paved street of Diagon Alley, he remained grimly silent.
Well…
considering he had spent a week in Azkaban for something he didn't do, Hagrid's distrust of anything that sounded remotely Dark was understandable.
---
Diagon Alley
"Ding-dong!"
"Welcome!" a voice called from inside as the bell chimed.
"I want to buy a wand," Hagrid said shortly.
"Of course—what else would bring you here?"
From between rows of towering wand boxes emerged a thin, pale, silver-haired old man.
Garrick Ollivander.
Britain's most respected wandmaker, and one known across Europe.
"Oh? Your first time here, I take it," Ollivander said, squinting at Owen. He remembered every witch and wizard who ever bought a wand from him—and he clearly didn't recognize this boy in a Hogwarts uniform.
"Owen Sanchez," Hagrid explained. "Professor Dumbledore wants him properly equipped."
"Dumbledore… concerned about wand-fitting?" Ollivander murmured. "That's rare."
Without further comment, he slipped deeper into the shelves.
"Which is your wand arm?"
"Right hand, sir."
"Hm."
He disappeared again, boxes shifting around him.
Moments later he returned, holding a dusty case.
"Every wand is unique—alive in its own way. Remember, child: the wand chooses the wizard."
He opened the box.
"Willow, unicorn hair core. Eleven inches. Give it a try."
Owen reached out—
and the wand almost shoved him back with a wave of rejection.
"No, no, not right at all," Ollivander said, unfazed. "Perfectly normal."
"No one finds their match on the first try."
(If they did, how would the author fill the chapter?)
"Most try two or three. The more particular ones try four or five."
He handed over another box.
"Sycamore, unicorn hair, twelve inches. A temperamental combination."
Owen lifted it. Light. Airy.
He made a small test-swish—
and a burst of flame roared from the tip, narrowly missing Hagrid's beard.
"Oh, definitely not you," Ollivander said sharply, snatching it back as if it had personally offended him.
"I know every young witch and wizard who comes through this shop. Most inherit traits from their parents, so matching them is easy."
His voice echoed as he climbed a rolling ladder to the upper shelves.
"But today's customer is different, isn't he?"
He peered down at Owen. "Tell me—your parents' names?"
"I don't know, sir. The headmaster of the Muggle orphanage in Paris might have met my father… assuming his mind wasn't blessed into oblivion by the Old Gods."
Ollivander paused.
"Sanchez isn't a typical wizarding surname."
He asked quietly, "Have you heard anything else? Any other… family name?"
Owen hesitated.
Then, cautiously:
"Grindelwald?"
The shop fell dead silent.
Ollivander froze.
Slowly, he turned back toward Owen, disbelief etched in every line on his face.
"I must have misheard you," he said very stiffly. "You said… Grindelwald?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you his descendant? His grandson? Great-grandson?" Ollivander asked, voice low and taut.
"Uh… grandson?"
Ollivander's eyes widened—
and then ignited with fury.
"Get out."
His voice cracked like a whip.
"I am not serving you. Leave my shop at once."
"Huh?" Owen was stunned.
Hagrid quickly stepped forward. "It's Dumbledore—"
"Don't throw Dumbledore's name at me!" Ollivander exploded.
"Everyone knows Grindelwald stole the Elder Wand from Gregorovitch—he thought it secret, but Dumbledore knew. I knew."
"But what no one cares about is what he did before he stole it."
Ollivander's voice trembled with old rage.
"He sought out my father—Cyril Ollivander—first."
Owen blinked.
The books never mentioned this…
"He wanted to know everything my father knew about the Deathstick. And when my father refused…"
The wandmaker's hands shook.
"…that monster tortured him."
He pointed a trembling finger at Owen.
"And you dare step into my shop and ask me for a wand?!"
"I—"
Before Ollivander could continue, Owen cut in internally:
Wow. Grandpa really was everywhere.
Even in England, where he never conquered anything.
Compared to Voldemort, this really was a different league entirely.
And thinking about it now…
Of course Grindelwald would have interrogated a legendary wand-making family.
If he suspected they knew anything about the Elder Wand, not asking would have been unrealistic.
Still—
Ugh, what a mess.
So much juicy gossip—how could he not dig deeper?
"Ahem. Mr. Ollivander," Owen said softly.
He slowly drew a wand from his waistband—
his grandfather's wand.
Owen lifted it lightly—just enough for Ollivander to see the handle.
Ollivander froze.
Sweat beaded instantly along his temples.
If this boy truly carried that wand…
If he was truly Grindelwald's descendant…
Then the implications were terrifying:
—Grindelwald might not be locked in Nurmengard.
—He could easily be in Britain.
—He could even be in Diagon Alley right now.
—And Dumbledore… Dumbledore was at Hogwarts.
The perfect battleground.
Owen smiled politely.
"I suppose… this wand might be the one that tormented your father back then."
He held it out just a little closer.
"Would you like to try it yourself?"