Chapter 4: The Savior, the Wand, and Fate

“Good afternoon.” Ollivander immediately slipped into sales mode.

Silven noticed that when he saw the visitor, his eyes instantly brightened, like two luminous moons in the dim shop.

“Y-you… hello.” The boy looked nervous, hunching his body after entering and carefully avoiding touching anything around him, glancing back at the giant from time to time.

“Oh yes, I knew I would see you soon, Harry Potter. Your eyes are just like your mother’s—when she came here to buy her first wand…”

Ollivander sank into memory; he rarely spoke this much before stating wand specifications.

The more he spoke, the more nervous Harry Potter became.

Meanwhile, Silven’s gaze remained fixed on Hagrid, noticing the faint glimpse of a pink umbrella peeking from beneath his open coat.

And when Ollivander mentioned Harry’s snapped wand, Hagrid clutched that umbrella tightly.

This disguise was meaningless—especially before Silven.

【Willow (Oak), Phoenix Feather, Sixteen Inches】

【Status: ???】

【Trait: Indestructible. After some alteration, this wand has undergone subtle changes—no one would wish to be pierced by it.】

The status line was blank, likely due to the wand having been broken and repaired.

Perhaps Silven’s gaze was too obvious; Hagrid grew uneasy, pulled his coat tighter to hide the umbrella, and slowly shuffled toward the door.

“It’s just… just an ordinary umbrella… nothing special…”

“I can repair it for you.”

“What?” Hagrid froze, his pillar-thick legs instinctively trembling.

“I don’t understand what you mean… it’s just… an old umbrella, no need to fix it… yes, that’s right.”

“I disagree.” Silven shook his head thoughtfully. “Everyone believes the core is the most important part of a wand, but the opposite is true—the seemingly ordinary wand body is the crucial component, hiding the wand’s true secret.”

Hagrid’s expression grew increasingly serious, but Ollivander, beside him, paid no mind, assuming Silven was merely explaining wand lore.

“Repairing the core isn’t difficult, but the body is different. Even with extraordinary magic, it can never be restored exactly as before. Over time, it may crack again. Then you’d need to wrap it again with magical tape, or sheath it in another layer of wood—for instance, an umbrella handle.”

“Then what should I do…” Hagrid blurted out, then immediately clutched his chest again.

“I… I’m just curious.”

“To fully repair a wand is simple.” Silven pretended not to notice his gesture and continued. “Just find a master wandmaker—like Ollivander.”

Hagrid grew more serious, but then Silven suddenly turned and returned behind the counter.

“You’re also a professor at Hogwarts, aren’t you? Pleased to meet you.” Silven stopped there, saying no more.

Even as Hagrid stared at him, Silven merely lifted his head and offered the bright, sunlit smile of an eleven-year-old boy.

But Hagrid was different.

Silven was absolutely right—after decades, the cracks on his repaired wand had multiplied, forcing him to wrap it in another layer of willow to hold it together.

Though Dumbledore’s skill was extraordinary and the cracks didn’t hinder spellcasting, it remained a persistent nuisance.

Hagrid had always wanted to fix it.

He never expected Silven to offer him an unexpected surprise—only to stop right at the most critical point.

He stood frozen, staring at Silven, his expression unmistakably pained—and it stayed that way until they left the shop.

The door opened and closed; Harry departed, filled with wonder for the magical world.

Ollivander watched the two fading silhouettes through the dusty glass and sighed.

“Is this fate? He truly took that wand after all.”

Silven shrugged, noncommittal.

A few days ago, Ollivander had rummaged through his storeroom and unearthed a wand from ten years ago—the very one he had labeled a legendary golden-tier masterpiece.

Did Ollivander know Harry Potter would come to Diagon Alley soon, and had already prepared for it?

Tsk. Crafty old wandmaker.

Fortunately, Ollivander didn’t know what Silven was thinking—so he continued:

“I also considered offering him other options.”

“Other options?”

Ollivander offered no explanation, merely gestured to the pile of wands Harry had tried.

None of them were suitable.

Silven scanned them, narrowing his eyes.

Beechwood, symbolizing wisdom, paired with a dragon heartstring—only a wizard of both wit and courage could earn its favor.

Maple, phoenix feather… constant growth and hope.

Ebony, unicorn tailhair… seek power, but never forget loyalty.

In Ollivander’s ancestral wand lore, these combinations nearly always matched the Savior’s character—yet none suited him.

Harry still chose the wand bound to his fate.

Holly: purity, rebirth.

Phoenix feather: hope, rebirth.

After studying wandlore, Silven learned these two materials should never be combined—they overlap too much.

Only one who has died once can be reborn.

And purity—does it mean soul-purity? That fragment of Voldemort’s soul?

Silven suddenly felt regret—he shouldn’t have stared so intently at Hagrid, his future material supplier.

He should’ve paid more attention to Harry.

“What are you thinking about?”

Ollivander’s voice pulled Silven back.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Just wondering which house I’ll be sorted into.”

“All are fine—as long as it’s Hogwarts.” Ollivander blurted. “I nearly forgot—you haven’t chosen your own wand yet.”

Instantly, his enthusiasm returned.

“How about it? Need me to help you pick one?”

“A new wand?” Silven blinked.

“Do I need one?” Before Ollivander could answer, he pulled from his pocket a handful of… well, something he called wands.

Unlike traditional straight wands, each of Silven’s had a distinctly unconventional shape.

Curved, half-circular, full circular, right-angled, Z-shaped, lightning-bolt-shaped—about seven or eight in total.

But it wasn’t just seven or eight—he could only hold that many because his hands were small.

Watching those bizarre wands, Ollivander’s temples bulged with throbbing veins.

“At least it’s been passed down… passed down…”

Ollivander took a deep breath, forcing himself to accept this novelty.

After all, he’d tested them—all worked.

Whether well or poorly was another matter; at least they functioned as wands—that was enough.

Besides, at eleven, he was still carving wood. Silven, at eleven, had already crafted real wands—multiple of them.

Such talent—no one in Ollivander’s ancestral lineage, even stretching back centuries, could match it.

So he likes bending wands into circles—so what? Just swing them around.

Before the next customer arrived, Ollivander finally convinced himself… well, perhaps.

Yet afterward, he never mentioned a new wand again—as if he’d never spoken of it at all.

…

(End of Chapter)