Chapter 4

Failure to find a blacksmith left Harry somewhat disappointed. Hogwarts robes also felt rather unfamiliar to him—he hadn't expected them to be so loose that he constantly felt like he might trip over himself. He was still much more accustomed to wearing armor, or at least fitted leather.

Hagrid returned shortly, taking him to buy the rest of his supplies: a cauldron, herbs, books, and even a trip to the pet shop, where Hagrid bought him an early birthday present—a beautiful, sweetly smiling snowy owl.

Birthday. July thirty-first. He had almost forgotten the date. A Witcher was an outcast; though human in essence, they still observed birthdays. Yet most of the time was spent out in the wilderness, slaying monsters and upholding justice, or fleeing from humans and beasts alike. It had been a very long time since Harry had properly celebrated a birthday.

"Next, we need to get you a wand." Hagrid muttered, looking down at his list. "Ollivander is the finest wandmaker there is. You'll definitely find the most suitable wand for you there."

A wizard's "blacksmith shop." It was somewhat different from the environment Harry had imagined—small, shabby, with a solitary wand sitting abandoned inside a dusty glass case. Pushing the door open, the atmosphere inside felt rather oppressive. No... it wasn't the environment. A Witcher possessed exceptionally keen sensory perception. The moment he stepped inside, Harry sensed it. The auras of thousands of powerful creatures intertwined with chaotic waves of magical energy.

"Ah, a sharp-eyed young man." A soft voice suddenly emerged from behind a counter, startling Hagrid. But Harry had been prepared; he had long since noticed this elder, whose presence was so faint he could almost slip right past his perception.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. You are even sharper than your mother." The silver-eyed old man stepped out from behind the counter and sized Harry up. "It seems you can perceive the auras of these wands?"

Harry nodded. "Yes." "I only wish I had your talent," Ollivander muttered. "For me to perceive things as you do—that only came after thirty years of working with wands." "Such a wonderful feeling, isn't it?" "A tiny wand, yet each has its own aura, its own life, its own thoughts..." "No," Harry said bluntly. "This feeling makes me very uncomfortable." "It's like..." "Suddenly stepping uninvited into a lair surrounded by a thousand hostile monsters." "They all pose a threat."

Ollivander paused, then chuckled. "Oh... a very interesting perspective. In your eyes, is anything that doesn't belong to you considered a threat?" "You are quite different from your parents. Perhaps... that is the small peculiarity of the Savior?" "Usually, when young wizards arrive, I like to recall their parents—children always inherit certain traits from them, so I tend to let them try wands that combine the characteristics of both mother and father." "Let me see..."

Ollivander turned around, rummaging through the shelves behind the counter, and quickly brought over a box. "Try this one. Beechwood, serpent heartstring, nine inches."

Harry took it. This wand also carried a chaotic aura, but after struggling briefly in his hand, it grew exceptionally docile. He gave it a gentle wave. A beam of red light shot out, stirring up a light breeze.

Ollivander looked at Harry in surprise. "Oh... strange." He snatched the wand back, though instead of putting it back, he set it aside and shoved another wand at Harry. "Try this one. Black walnut, phoenix feather, eleven and a quarter inches."

This wand also struggled for a moment before quickly becoming obedient and docile. With a gentle wave, a breeze stirred.

"Oh, how very strange!" Ollivander's eyes lit up, his tone growing excited. "Come, try this one. Fir, unicorn hair, ten and a half inches." "A survivor's wand should suit you better, perhaps?"

Harry took it and gave it a blank-faced wave. "No, no, that doesn't suit you either." Ollivander snatched it back once more and thrust a new one into his hand. "Applewood, dragon heartstring, nine and seven-twelfths inches."

This one didn't fit either. Alder, holly, blackthorn... They tried many, but not a single one satisfied Ollivander.

"Let me think, my dear boy, let me think carefully." Ollivander rubbed his head. Harry spoke up, "So every wand material actually corresponds to a specific personality trait?" Ollivander nodded. "Yes." "Your mother was a gentle person, and your father was a capable leader—I imagined that if you inherited their strengths, beechwood would surely be the best fit for you." "That wand didn't reject you, but... it wasn't a kindred spirit; it simply submitted to you of its own accord." "You are a perceptive young gentleman, so I thought black walnut might suit you. It is also quite perceptive, but like the previous wand, it is a subject, not a partner." "I began drawing from your other traits, but... their performance was all the same, quite mediocre."

At this, Ollivander raised his head, looking at Harry with a complex expression. "Of course, every young wizard destined for greatness in the future is always like this." "Perhaps they possess certain... traits that ordinary people struggle to perceive, but wands are always acutely sensitive to those qualities." Ollivander couldn't help but shiver, his gaze dropping to the scar on Harry's forehead. "Just like that gentleman." "I thought he would be suited for elm, acacia, or perhaps grapevine, but in the end, the one that suited him was yew." "That is a wand extraordinarily adept at Dark Magic, and some of its masters can even be called infamous."

Harry remained expressionless. Hagrid shivered, looking back and forth between Ollivander and Harry with a mixture of apprehension and doubt.

"Yet you are not like that either." Ollivander frowned. "Those wands adept at Dark Magic are even more eager to resist you than the others." "In your hands... they act like prey."

Harry gave a self-deprecating smile—he was a Witcher, after all. Even though humans might curse them as freaks, monsters, and emotionless outcasts, they truly were "ministers of justice" who hunted down darkness and monsters.

"I thought Dumbledore was right, that you were suited for that wand of destiny." Ollivander picked up a wand and showed it to Harry. "This very one. Holly, phoenix feather, eleven inches." "Two wands fashioned from the feathers of the very same phoenix, and this is one of them." "While the other—yew, thirteen and a half inches—was sold to that Dark Lord whose name must not be spoken." "Yet it does not suit you either." "You have not allowed yourself to be bound by destiny, as Dumbledore anticipated."

Harry raised a hand to touch his scar. "Is that so? Well, what a pity."

Ollivander suddenly stood up and appraised Harry. "Ah, I have an idea!" "Indeed, you are clever and mature, but very few young wizards—or even adult wizards, for that matter—ever grasp the true meaning behind the saying 'the wand chooses the wizard'." "You noticed it from the very beginning, even if I'm not particularly fond of your phrasing." "Perhaps you should try this one?"

Ollivander rummaged through the shelves and produced a wand. "Cedar, phoenix feather, eleven inches." "I would never dream of provoking the master of a cedar wand. Wizards who possess this type of wand are exceedingly rare, and all of them possess extraordinarily keen insight and observation skills." "I believe it will suit you very well."

Harry reached out and took it. The aura on the wand did not struggle; instead, it tentatively brushed against his hand before wrapping around it joyfully. He gave it a gentle wave. A breeze stirred, ruffling Ollivander's hair and causing him to bare his teeth in a grimace.

"As expected!" Though his appearance was ruined, Ollivander didn't care in the least as he clapped in delight. "This wand is the absolute best match for you." "You are a fastidious young wizard. Oh, I should write a book about you; this is simply marvelous."

Harry twirled the little stick between his fingers and nodded. "Thank you. How much is this wand?" "Seven Galleons," Ollivander replied, muttering to himself as he pulled a book from beneath the counter. *"The Wand and Its Care*—this book is my gift to you." "Remember, treat it well." "If you had to pick another suitable wand, it wouldn't be nearly this easy."

As Harry fished out the Galleons and accepted the book, he casually asked, "By the way, Mr. Ollivander, I have a favor to ask you." Ollivander raised an eyebrow. "What is it?" "Do you know Diagon Alley, or where I might find a blacksmith?" Harry asked.

Ollivander froze, his eyes widening in shock. Good heavens... What on earth had he just heard... "Why on earth are you asking about that?" he stammered, looking at the wand in Harry's hand, a silent curse forming in his heart—he hadn't sensed a single trace of displeasure from the wand. You absolute fool of a master! You've barely even gotten your hands on it, and you're already thinking about other weapons! Get a grip! Stop fawning over him!

"I want to have a couple of swords forged," Harry replied seriously. "I think I might be rather suited to becoming... a wizard like Gryffindor." He simply reused the excuse he had just overheard at the clothing shop. "Gryffindor only had one sword!" Ollivander's face was blank, his voice icy as he let out a scoff. "And there are no blacksmiths in Diagon Alley!" "A hundred years ago, there were goblins in that trade, specifically forging weapons for Muggle-born young wizards, but... times have changed. No young wizard buys such crude, violent, barbaric things anymore!" "The goblins all work at Gringotts now."

Harry sighed. "What a pity. Then do you happen to know any goblins? I'd like to ask—" "No, I don't!" Ollivander gritted his teeth, cutting Harry off roughly. "Wizards only need to use wands, and you had better treat yours well!" "The age of Gryffindor has passed!" "That's enough. Selecting a wand for a troublesome young wizard like you has quite exhausted me. Let me rest in peace."

The two of them were ushered out the door. Harry wasn't surprised in the least; Witchers always seemed to run into this problem. Even when it felt like they were having a perfectly civil conversation, things would somehow... always end up boiling down to solving the issue with a sword or a fist.

Hagrid looked at Harry with a bizarre expression. "I've never seen Mr. Ollivander get that angry before, Harry... You really are a proper Gryffindor."

Harry nodded, deep in thought. So... Making people angry was the equivalent of being a Gryffindor?