Chapter 2: Golden Legend

"Hannah Abbott?"

At the end of July, Diagon Alley was even busier; Silven leaned out to inspect a little girl with two golden braids standing before the counter.

"I'm sorry, have we... met before?" Eleven-year-old Hannah instinctively looked up, trying to recognize the young wizard who seemed about her own age.

He was a very handsome boy, his pale face bearing the slight baby fat typical of his age, his black hair slightly curled and messy, as if he had just finished a tense and thrilling Quidditch match.

Without doubt, among all his peers Hannah had ever seen, this shop assistant was the most attractive.

But she did not know him, and had no memory of him whatsoever.

"We didn't know each other before, but we might become classmates—I'm also a first-year at Hogwarts this year," Silven said.

"As for why I recognize you..." He picked up a leather-bound book from beside him and flipped through several pages quickly.

"Ah, here it is—Mr. Abbott's appointment yesterday, ten o'clock, to pick a new wand for his daughter. Am I right?"

"Yes." A tall wizard stepped forward, facing Silven with a slight frown.

"But I thought the owner here was Ollivander..."

"Ollivander Wand Shop—my grandfather never sold it, that much is certain," Silven said with a half-joking tone.

Hearing Silven's words, the man nodded, exhaling in relief.

They had come to buy a wand for their daughter, who was about to attend Hogwarts, only to walk into the familiar wand shop and find a stranger.

For a moment, the man even suspected the shop had been sold.

It wasn't that he was easily startled; it was simply that, in his memory, Ollivander had never hired a single employee—not for wand-making, not for sales—everything was done personally.

It had been that way since his own school days, unchanged for decades.

But...

He recalled the way the young wizard had just spoken of Ollivander.

"You said grandfather?" The man's face showed a hint of curiosity.

"Silven Ollivander." Silven extended his hand.

"Ah... pleased to meet you."

The man did not find it strange that Silven was young; he extended his hand just as seriously.

"From your age, Garrick must be your grandfather. Strange—I've never seen you before."

"Probably because few people revisit wand shops," Silven shrugged.

"Ah, that's true," the man realized.

Indeed, wand shops were different from other stores—he hadn't been here in over a decade, and today he came only because his daughter was starting at Hogwarts and needed her own wand.

"Bang!"

At that moment, a wild, tousled head suddenly popped up from behind a shelf, nearly colliding with another.

"Mr. Ollivander?" the man asked tentatively.

"Customer..." Ollivander looked up, "My deepest apologies, please wait a moment—I'll be right with you."

He carried a dusty old box toward the counter, muttering under his breath:

"Found it. I knew I wouldn't forget—after all, it's only been ten years..."

"What did you say?" Silven asked, not catching it, then glanced at the open box in his hands. "Is this what you've been searching for these two days?"

[Holly, Phoenix feather, eleven inches]

[Status: Perfect]

[Trait: Courage of Justice: Dark Magic -10%, Light Magic +10%]

[Disarm: Disarming Charm +20%]

[Twin: Identical cores have produced two completely different wands; when they meet, a magical change occurs.]

Silven couldn't help raising an eyebrow.

He had to admit, this wand was incredibly luxurious—even when brand new, it possessed three distinct traits, utterly outclassing ninety-nine percent of the wands in the shop.

If it had color, this holly wand would be at least Legendary Gold—a top-tier artifact.

Silven felt a pang of envy, but he also knew clearly: only one person could use this wand—no one else.

Out of sight, out of mind—he turned away and stopped looking at it.

Ollivander blinked, finding Silven's action oddly inexplicable, but he paid it no mind, immediately slipping into work mode.

"Oh, hawthorn, eleven inches, dragon heartstring—yes, it's as if it were yesterday..."

It was a pleasant transaction for both sides; ten minutes later, the young witch Hannah skipped out of the wand shop with her new wand.

Ollivander carefully recorded her name and wand specifications in a notebook—his long-standing habit.

Silven's gaze settled on the box.

"Is that also a wand?"

"Yes," Ollivander looked up and replied.

"What's special about it?" Silven asked, puzzled. "Why go all the way into storage to retrieve it?"

"Special?... You could say that," Ollivander thought for a moment, then nodded. "I have a feeling its owner is about to arrive."

He looked mysterious, his eyes gleaming with eager anticipation.

Silven was about to ask more when a clear bell rang, cutting him off.

The sound came from the bell hanging behind the door—someone had entered.

"No, Ron, we can't afford a new wand for you. I think Charlie's wand is fine."

"Fine?" A boy's voice rose sharply as he gestured excitedly. "Look—unicorn hair is sticking out..."

A noisy family entered: at the front, a plump witch, followed by a tall, thin red-haired man and six children.

So many children, all with red hair—Silven instantly recognized them.

The Weasleys—only they couldn't afford a brand-new wand.

But with so many people crowding in, the already small shop became instantly packed and cramped.

"We're a bit too many," the man beside them glanced around. "Fred, George, could you two go to the secondhand bookshop and find Ron a set of first-year textbooks?"

"Happy to help, Father," came identical voices from two identical twins.

They exchanged a glance, smirking mischievously, then dashed out.

Whether they'd honestly go to the secondhand shop—Silven suspected they wouldn't.

The famous Weasley twins—how could they possibly do anything properly?

"Dad, I want to go somewhere else too," said another child wearing horn-rimmed glasses.

"Of course, dear," the witch at the front turned. "You can think about what gift you'd like."

"I want a gift too..." the youngest boy muttered.

"If you become a prefect too, Ron, I'll buy you a gift."

As they spoke, they had reached the counter.

"Good morning," Ollivander offered his standard professional smile.

"Delighted to see you again, Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley—how many times have we met now?"

"If I recall correctly, this is the sixth," Arthur stepped forward. "And you've always correctly named the materials of my and Molly's wands—never once mistaken."

Silven noticed his grandfather's open mouth suddenly snapped shut, as if swallowing something unspoken.

(End of Chapter)