Chapter 13: The Wand Chooses the Wizard

The wand chooses the wizard… A year ago, Silven, like Hermione, had thought this phrase was just an advertising gimmick invented by Ollivander to add mystery.

It wasn't until last year that he realized things might not be so simple.

And it all began because of one wand—a wand that was both a failure and a success.

Silven remembered it clearly.

【Alder, Mooncalf mane, eleven inches】

【Status: Perfect】

【Trait: Sluggish—the slower the incantation, the higher the spell success rate.】

It was a success because the entire wand had no flaws whatsoever—its condition was identical to those crafted by Ollivander.

But it was a failure due to that absurdly sluggish trait, the exact opposite of a normal wand.

A normal wand—if you cast too slowly, the magic simply dissipates before it can coalesce.

But his… Silven had tested it once himself; if his incantation speed exceeded two syllables per second, it wouldn't respond at all—it just crashed and died.

Two syllables per second? A Levitation Charm taking three and a half seconds?

That's nonsense!

Silven had always believed this wand could never be sold; Ollivander thought the same—until that day, when a special customer came into the shop.

A depressed Beater, cursed to utter only one syllable per second.

To put it simply, he and that sluggish wand were made for each other—perfectly matched.

He had already prepared himself to abandon being a wizard entirely, yet this one wand completely reversed that fate.

Of course, he could no longer be a Beater—but he could still use magic, avoiding the fate of a true Squib.

Thus, Silven sold his first wand—and for the first time, he hesitated: Was it truly true that the wand chooses the wizard?

A saying passed down for over two thousand years wasn't without reason.

And once he accepted this, certain things suddenly became easier.

"The wand chooses the wizard. If I can make it successfully, someone must be able to use it—even if not now, then in ten years, or a hundred years, there will surely be a wizard who can."

It was this very phrase that allowed Ollivander to gradually accept Silven's heretical wand cores, and reluctantly help him procure hinkypunk leg bones, the feathers of a demiguise, a troll's brain and nasal hairs…

Too much thinking.

Silven quickly shook his head.

He only wanted to improve his own abilities and perfect this unique wand system of his own.

Silven knew his magical talent was limited—though not terrible—certainly no match for geniuses like Dumbledore or Voldemort.

To protect himself and his grandfather Ollivander after Voldemort's return, he had to find another way to increase his strength.

Wands—or rather, those wand traits only he could see—might, if properly utilized, open an entirely new path.

Moreover, wandmakers need not worry about resistance—they can freely use every wand they create. This too was his advantage.

Of course, if during this process he could craft a wand stronger than the Elder Wand, that would be even better.

Though difficult, he didn't need to make it right now.

Dumbledore was still alive—no rush.

…

Gryffindor's common room was far away; following the first-years and the prefect, Silven walked slowly up stairs, pausing twice to pass through doors hidden behind sliding panels and curtains, then climbing a long stretch of stairs.

Along the way, they encountered a peculiar ghost.

A tiny figure with the form of a ghost, yet able to touch physical objects.

From Prefect Percy, they learned his name.

Peeves, a ghost who loved pranks, fond of throwing canes or other objects at students' heads.

But he feared professors—and another ghost named the Bloody Baron; Percy merely mentioned the name, and he fled.

Silven turned his head, staring thoughtfully at the corner where Peeves had vanished.

Does Peeves have a physical body?

If he does, could his hair be plucked?

It was too late now, and too many people around—Silven decided to find another opportunity to ask properly.

"You should be cautious around Peeves," Percy warned, leading them onward.

"The Bloody Baron is the only one who can control him. He doesn't even listen to us prefects. We're here."

He stopped before a portrait at the end of the corridor, depicting a plump woman.

"Password."

"Dragon dung," said Percy.

The portrait swayed forward, revealing a circular opening in the wall.

This was the entrance to Gryffindor's common room.

To be fair, in Silven's view, it was truly enormous—large enough to hold ten wand shops and more, even featuring a spiral staircase leading to the second floor.

The boys' dormitory was on the second floor.

Five-person rooms—this was truly not ideal. Honestly, the moment he saw the dorm, his resistance was greater than it had been in the Great Hall.

Too many people—doing anything here would be inconvenient. Couldn't Hogwarts just assign more dormitories?

The answer was: yes!

When Silven, half-heartedly, approached Professor McGonagall and requested to live alone in a dorm, the deputy headmistress did not immediately refuse.

"Can you tell me why?" Professor McGonagall set down her quill.

In truth, most Gryffindors preferred communal living, which was why their dorms were the largest in the school.

In contrast, Ravenclaw dorms had the fewest residents and were the most frequent applicants for single rooms,

Perhaps it's because the wise prefer to walk alone.

Unexpectedly, on the first day of term, Silven, who had been sorted into Gryffindor, came to apply for a single dormitory room.

"If I must give a reason, does worrying about disturbing others count?" Silven thought for a moment and said, "I make wands with quite a bit of noise at night. Everyone is tired after a long day, and I fear I might disturb their rest."

"Making wands…" Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, recalling Silven's other identity—mainly because she hadn't expected him to begin this work so young.

"Granted." Without much hesitation, Professor McGonagall agreed.

The reason was solid, and Gryffindor happened to have an empty dormitory room—there was no reason to hesitate.

"Here is the key to your new dormitory," she said, handing Silven an ancient brass key. "Don't lose it—the door has an anti-lockpick charm; only this key can open it."

"Also, let me remind you: if one day you wish to return to your original dorm, you must obtain your roommate's consent in advance—otherwise, I will not approve it."

"Ah, I see," Silven said offhandedly, not caring.

Why would he have come to apply for a single room in the first place if he wanted to live with others?

…

(End of Chapter)