"Good afternoon," Ollivander switched into shopkeeper mode instantly.
Harold noticed that the moment Ollivander got a clear look at who had entered, his eyes lit up like two bright moons in the dim shop.
"H-hello." The boy looked nervous, hunching as he stepped through the door, carefully avoiding contact with anything around him, constantly glancing back at the giant behind him.
"Oh yes, I knew I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter. You have your mother's eyes. When she came here for her first wand…"
Ollivander drifted into memory. It was rare for him to speak so much before even reciting wand specs.
The more he talked, the more anxious Harry seemed.
Meanwhile, as the two interacted, Harold's gaze stayed fixed on Hagrid. He noticed something hidden under the open coat—a pink umbrella, half-exposed.
And when Ollivander mentioned Hagrid's broken wand, the half-giant instinctively clutched at the umbrella.
That kind of disguise was pointless. Especially in front of Harold.
[Willow (Oak), Phoenix Feather, Sixteen Inches]
[Status: ???]
[Trait: Unbreakable – After undergoing some unknown transformation, this wand seems to have changed in strange ways. No one wants to be poked by it.]
The status field was blank—probably due to it having been broken and then repaired.
Maybe Harold's stare was a little too obvious, because Hagrid suddenly grew uneasy, tightening his coat to hide the umbrella and slowly shuffling toward the door.
"It's just… just an ordinary umbrella… nothing to look at…"
"I can fix it for you."
"What?" Hagrid froze, his pillar-like leg even trembling slightly.
"I don't know what you're talking about… it's just… just an old umbrella. Doesn't need fixing… yep, that's all."
"I don't think so," Harold said, shaking his head thoughtfully. "Everyone thinks the wand core is the most important part, but that's not true. It's the seemingly ordinary wood of the wand itself that holds the real secrets."
Hagrid's expression turned increasingly serious. Ollivander, listening nearby, didn't seem to mind—he just assumed Harold was lecturing about wand lore.
"Fixing a core isn't that hard. But wand wood? That's different. Even with powerful magic, you can't restore it to how it was before. Over time, it might crack again. That's when you'd need magical tape or some outer layer to reinforce it—like, say… an umbrella handle."
"Then what should I…" Hagrid blurted out, only to quickly cover his chest again.
"I… I was just curious."
"It's easy to fully repair a wand," Harold continued, pretending not to notice his reaction. "You just need a skilled wandmaker—like Ollivander."
Hagrid was listening intently, but just then, Harold turned away and stepped back behind the counter.
"You must be a professor at Hogwarts too. Nice to meet you," Harold said, leaving the matter there.
Even when Hagrid looked over at him again, all he got was a bright, sunny smile—one only an eleven-year-old could pull off.
But Hagrid wasn't smiling.
Everything Harold said had been dead-on. After decades, Hagrid's repaired wand was full of cracks again, and he'd reinforced it with an extra layer of willow just to keep it together.
Dumbledore's spellwork was strong enough that the cracks didn't affect functionality—but it was still a constant worry.
He'd always wanted to get it properly fixed.
And just when he wasn't expecting it, Harold had offered him a glimmer of hope—only to drop the subject at the most critical moment.
Hagrid stood there frozen, staring at Harold with a painful, awkward expression—and that look didn't fade until they left the shop.
The door opened, then shut again. Harry stepped out, full of wonder and hope for the magical world.
Through the dusty glass, Ollivander watched the two slowly receding figures and sighed.
"So this is fate… In the end, he still took that wand."
Harold shrugged, neither agreeing nor denying.
A few days ago, Ollivander had been digging through boxes and finally found that wand from ten years ago—the one Harold had mentally ranked as Legendary Gold.
So he had been preparing for Harry Potter's visit all along.
Tch. The old fox of a wandmaker.
Luckily for Ollivander, he had no idea what disrespectful thoughts Harold was having. He simply continued:
"I did think about letting him try some other options."
"Other options?"
Ollivander didn't answer. He just pointed to the pile of wands on the table—ones Harry had already tried.
None of them had worked.
Harold scanned them, narrowing his eyes.
Beechwood and dragon heartstring—favored only by those with both wisdom and bravery.
Maple and phoenix feather—ever growing, full of potential.
Ebony and unicorn hair—power and loyalty, never forgetting one another.
In the wandlore passed down through the Ollivander family, these combinations nearly mirrored the personality of a destined hero. Yet none of them matched.
Harry had still ended up with the wand tied to his fate.
Holly: purity, rebirth.
Phoenix feather: hope, rebirth.
After studying wandlore, Harold realized these materials shouldn't normally be paired—they overlapped too much.
You can't be reborn unless you've died first.
And "purity"… did that mean the purity of the soul? That fragment of Voldemort's soul?
Harold suddenly regretted staring at Hagrid so much earlier. He should've been watching Harry more closely.
"What are you thinking about?"
Ollivander's voice snapped Harold out of his thoughts.
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Just wondering which house I'll be sorted into."
"They're all wonderful, as long as you're at Hogwarts," Ollivander said without hesitation. "And I nearly forgot—you haven't even chosen a wand for yourself yet!"
That thought seemed to get him excited again.
"Well? Want me to help you pick one?"
"A new wand?" Harold blinked.
"Do I need one?" he said, pulling a handful of—well, technically wands—from his pocket before Ollivander could respond.
Unlike the traditional straight shape, Harold's wands were all… unconventional.
Curved, semicircular, perfectly round, right-angled, Z-shaped, lightning-shaped… A whole handful, about seven or eight.
And that wasn't all he had—just all he could hold in one small hand.
Ollivander's forehead instantly throbbed with a few twitching veins at the sight of those oddly-shaped wands.
"At least… at least the craft is passed on…"
He took a deep breath, trying to convince himself to embrace innovation.
After all, he'd tested those wands. They worked.
Whether they worked well was another matter. But they were real wands, and that was enough.
Besides, when he was eleven, he was still carving sticks. Harold, at eleven, had already made real, functioning wands—multiple ones.
That kind of talent wasn't just rare—it was unprecedented. You could dig back through the entire Ollivander family tree and still not find someone who matched it.
So what if he liked bending wands into circles? Big deal. Just… swing them around.
Before the next customer arrived, Ollivander had finally—more or less—talked himself into accepting it.
But from that moment on, he never mentioned the subject of Harold getting a "proper" wand again.
It was as if he'd never brought it up at all.
(End of Chapter)