Fruit Tea indeed had Kneazle blood.
Its keen senses, passed down through its magical lineage, made it acutely aware of something off—so for the rest of the trip, it kept circling Ron and sniffing him, its golden eyes intense, its expression solemn, almost like a tiny feline detective. Ron, thoroughly unnerved, couldn't stop trembling. He didn't even dare to shoo the cat away, silently mourning Scabbers in his heart.
Their shopping trip was nearly complete. Molly checked off another item on her parchment list and beamed with satisfaction.
"Alright, only Ollivander's left. Ron, Peter, my dears, you'll have your own wands very soon."
That announcement finally lifted Ron's spirits. A genuine wand—his very own. He clutched his now-empty ice cream cup like it was a good luck charm.
They made their way through the narrowing, winding paths deeper into Diagon Alley. Tucked away at the far end stood a narrow, timeworn building that looked more like an ancient relic than a shop. The paint had long since peeled off its signboard, and the dusty display window barely revealed a single solitary wand resting on a faded purple cushion.
Above the entrance, faded gold letters read:
Ollivander – Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC
The Weasleys stepped inside.
The shop was cramped, but not because of its size—rather, every inch of space was occupied by thousands upon thousands of long, narrow boxes. They towered on shelves from floor to ceiling, arranged with the kind of chaos that only the owner could decipher.
A silence hung over the place, thick and heavy, broken only by the creak of the door and the faint clink of the bell above it. Dust motes swirled through the air like they were frozen in time, caught in a spell.
From the shadows behind the shelves, a thin, pale man with large, silvery eyes emerged—eyes that glowed faintly in the gloom like moons reflected on water.
"Ah," he said, in a soft, almost whispery voice, "good afternoon, customers. Welcome to Ollivander's."
Peter noticed Ron stiffen beside him, the boy audibly swallowing as Ollivander's gaze swept over them.
Ollivander chuckled lightly, the corners of his pale lips twitching upward. The enchanted measuring tape slithered around Peter's waist, darted to his shoulder, then hovered above his temple without any visible guidance.
"Quite right, Mr. Weasley—ah, Peter, was it?" he corrected himself quickly, "My mistake. Your wand will know your hand better than your own mother knows your face. Every detail matters: length of the forearm, width of the palm, spacing between fingers… even the distance from your nostrils to your chin can make the slightest difference."
Peter smirked. "That sounds oddly poetic."
"It is," Ollivander whispered, eyes gleaming. "The crafting of a wand is more art than science. A wand chooses its wizard, but the harmony must still be crafted."
He vanished into the labyrinth of boxes without another word, and only the soft creak of shifting shelves could be heard. Then—
Thump.
A box slid into his hand.
"Try this. Ash wood, eleven inches, unicorn hair. Slightly springy."
Peter took the wand. The moment his fingers wrapped around it, a small, pulsing warmth flowed through his palm… then fizzled. A gust of air ruffled his hair, and a nearby box exploded into confetti-like dust.
"No, no, definitely not," Ollivander muttered, snatching it away.
He handed over another.
"Cedar, twelve inches, dragon heartstring. Excellent for persuasive and clever minds."
Peter flicked it lightly—this time, sparks danced from the tip, golden and spiraling, before quickly fading.
Ollivander narrowed his eyes, murmuring to himself as he reached for a third. "Not quite… but closer."
Finally, he held out a wand with a reverent expression.
"Walnut. Twelve and a quarter inches. Phoenix feather core. Rigid, powerful. A wand for someone destined to master subtlety… and control."
Peter took it.
The moment he did, a soft hum echoed through the shop. Warmth coursed from his fingers to his chest, and for a second, the air seemed clearer—sharper.
Ollivander smiled slowly. "Ah. That one likes you."
Peter gave the wand a gentle swirl. Golden light traced in the air like brushstrokes on invisible canvas.
"I like it too."
Ollivander nodded solemnly. "Be good to it, Peter Weasley. It will take you far… if you learn to listen."
Outside the shop, Ron peeked through the door, wide-eyed.
"Done already? Did anything explode?"
Peter stepped out with a mischievous grin. "Only expectations, Ron."
"Of course," Ollivander replied softly, "because every person is unique—and so is every wand. I need to understand more about you to find the one that truly belongs to you."
Peter glanced up at the towering stacks of narrow boxes that seemed to stretch endlessly toward the ceiling. "I heard you only use unicorn hair, phoenix feather, and dragon heartstring as wand cores. With such limited materials, how do you ensure there are no duplicates?"
Ollivander's eyes twinkled like pale moons. "Ah! A question worthy of a Potions prodigy!" he exclaimed, clearly delighted. "Most young witches and wizards are content when I tell them that every unicorn, phoenix, and dragon is unique. And it's true, of course. But since you asked so cleverly… let me share a deeper truth."
He leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice to a reverent hush.
"The wand's core gives it its magical nature. But the wood? That is what gives it soul. Each wood type has its own temperament, its own preferences. Two wands with identical cores may behave completely differently because of the wood that cradles it."
As he spoke, the enchanted measuring tape coiled itself neatly back into his sleeve, its job done. Ollivander turned and disappeared briefly into the shelves, muttering to himself as he trailed a long, bony finger across the boxes.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he produced a box and presented it with a flourish.
"Twelve inches. Fir wood. Dragon heartstring core. It favors focused, determined wizards—those who forge their own path and let nothing stand in their way."
Peter took the wand.
The moment it touched his skin, a gust of wind swept across the tiny shop, rattling shelves and sending parchment flying. Ollivander quickly snatched the wand back with a small laugh.
"It likes you," he said, eyes narrowing. "But you two don't belong together."
Another wand was drawn.
"Ten and a half inches. Elm wood. Dragon heartstring once again. Pure-bloods often claim this wand chooses only their kind, but I believe it seeks out natural leaders—commanders who shape the world around them."
Peter gave it a gentle flick, and golden sparks burst forth in dazzling arcs. But again, Ollivander pulled it away.
"A strong match. Still... not quite right."
Peter narrowed his eyes. His full-level Potions mastery gave him a faint awareness of magical resonance—and he had felt something during each test.
A faint warmth. A flicker of emotion. The wands hadn't just worked—they'd been happy.
When Ollivander turned with a third wand, Peter didn't reach out immediately. Instead, he asked, "Earlier you said the wood matters more than the core. Can I take that to mean each wand has its own personality, its own taste, and that taste is shaped by the wood itself?"
Ollivander paused, stunned for just a heartbeat. Then a slow smile crept across his weathered face.
"Very perceptive, Mr. Peter Weasley. Very perceptive indeed. That is the heart of wandlore. The core may determine magical affinity—but the wood decides the wand's spirit. It is the wood that chooses the wizard."
Peter fell silent, thoughts racing. He wasn't like other students. He didn't just need a wand that worked—he needed one that fit, one that could keep up with the mind and memories of a transmigrated soul.
He couldn't settle for a common match. Somewhere in this room was a wand that would be his, and his alone.
And he was going to find it.
The bond between a wand and its wizard wasn't merely about choice—it was about resonance, about mutual accomplishment.
That was what Ollivander meant by "not suitable." It wasn't that the wands disliked Peter, but that they couldn't understand him—not truly. Because Ollivander, for all his wisdom, didn't know the truth.
Peter wasn't an ordinary eleven-year-old.
He was a soul from another world, reborn into a second life, carrying a vast ocean of memories and an identity forged through two lifetimes. That alone made him unlike any wizard Ollivander had ever met.
And as he stood in the dimly lit shop, surrounded by boxes that buzzed faintly with sleeping magic, Peter made a choice.
He exhaled softly and released the Occlumency shield he had been subconsciously maintaining. The mental silence that had wrapped around his mind melted away like mist. His emotions—his power—surged to the surface.
The air stirred.
At that moment, Peter felt something. A subtle pull. A whisper among the crowd of silent wands.
He turned without speaking and walked toward a cluttered shelf far in the corner, where the boxes were stacked haphazardly, some half-covered in dust.
Ollivander made no move to stop him. He watched silently, something flickering in his moon-pale eyes.
Peter reached out.
His hand hovered, paused, then grasped a plain, nondescript box. He lifted the lid—and before he could blink, the wand inside almost jumped into his grasp.
Swoosh!
As he raised it, arcs of lightning cracked through the air. They danced along the shelves like gleaming serpents, skipping across the tops of unopened boxes and leaving trails of static in their wake.
The shop trembled for a heartbeat.
And then stillness.
Peter lowered his wand, and the crackling vanished—but in his fingers, the wand hummed with barely contained power, as if it had found exactly what it had been waiting for.
Ollivander stared at him, unmoving.
Then, slowly, he spoke—his voice barely above a whisper.
"Fourteen inches... dragon heartstring... and... elder wood..."
A stunned silence settled between them.
"Impossible..." Ollivander murmured. "Elder... It is proud. Rare. Extreme. And dangerously volatile. Most elder wands I've crafted refused every hand that reached for them. But this..."
His gaze sharpened on Peter. "It didn't just accept you. It recognized you."
He stepped forward slowly, eyes narrowing as he studied the boy. "Elder wood chooses only those with extraordinary destinies. Those marked by fate itself. You, Mr. Peter Weasley, are no ordinary child."
Peter looked down at the wand.
Its wood was pale and gleaming, the grain almost imperceptible. It pulsed faintly in his grasp, warm, alive.
He didn't smile. He didn't speak.
But in his heart, a single thought rang out:
At last.