"I don't feel anything from it," Harry explained, feeling the need to extrapolate on his reasons for not doing as asked.
"Don't feel anything you say?" Old Ollivander seemed very interested in what Harry was saying. His eyes seemed to shine even more, a pair of silver moons gleaming within the shop.
"Yes, I don't feel anything when I'm holding this wand."
Ollivander peered at him very closely, his eyes boring into Harry's with an intensity that almost startled the younger male. "And what is it, Mr. Potter, that you expect to feel?"
"I'm... not sure," Harry admitted. "But I expect that if a wand chooses me to be its partner, I should feel something." He held up the wand given to him by Ollivander. "When I hold this wand, it just feels like dead wood."
"Hmmm... most peculiar, most peculiar," Ollivander took the wand from Harry's hand, even as he continued to study the raven-haired youth. There was a building excitement in his eyes as he continued to speak. "It seems I have underestimated you, Mr. Potter. With the way you had almost attacked me I had suspected you would be a duelist, but it appears you are far more complex than I thought."
Harry had the decency to blush as he remembered getting ready to break the old man's nose before coming to his senses. "I do apologize for that," he said contritely. "I had sensed you behind me and was so shocked I reacted on instinct."
"I noticed," the old man replied as he walked back to the stack of boxes, frowning a bit as he began to rearrange them. Some of the boxes he grabbed and put back in there place, while at the same time pulling other boxes from the shelves. "That is why I first suspected you would be a duelist. The way you reacted was on instinct, quick, and impossible for anyone who does not have experience in fighting to do. I had thought an aspen wand would suit you, since aspen is the most suited wood towards dueling, but it appears as though I was wrong."
Rather than being put out by this, Ollivander appeared excited. It seemed that, rather than taking the fact that he was wrong poorly, the old wand-maker took it as a challenge.
"Here we are. Elm. Nine inches exactly, and with a phoenix feather core. Try it out." Harry held the wand, and almost immediately handed it back. Ollivander frowned. "Nothing?"
"Not nothing," Harry said. "It rejected me."
"Rejected?" Ollivander's eyebrows rose into his hairline, surprise clearly evident on his features.
"That's what it felt like," Harry frowned as he tried to place what he felt into words. "It's hard to describe, but it felt as though the wand was telling me that I was not the correct person to use it."
"Interesting," Ollivander mused. "It seems that you are very in tune with your magical core, Mr. Potter. That is a very rare feat, unheard of in one so young. Many adult witches and wizards go there whole lives without ever touching their core; that you seem to be in tune with it is most remarkable."
"Magical core?" Harry frowned.
"Your magical core is where the magic inside of you comes from," Ollivander answered. "All beings who possess magic have it, this includes witches and wizards. It's your magical core that allows you to use magic in conjunction with your wand. There are also some people who are so in tune with their magical core that they can even cast magic wandlessly, though such instances are very rare." Ollivander gave him a knowing look. He didn't say anything, but Harry could tell from that single glance that the old man knew, or at least suspected, that the young man with the lightning-shaped scar was capable of producing wandless magic.
Did this mean the man could see his core? Or see his magic at least? Was it even possible to see magic? Harry could feel magic when it was in the air (at least he was pretty sure he could), but he had never heard of someone actually being able to physically 'see' magic.
It was just another thing he would have to look into when he got to Hogwarts.
"Your core," Harry started, haltingly. For a second he wondered if he should continue, but reasoned if the man truly knew as much as Harry suspected, then it wouldn't matter if he knew a bit more. And something else told him that his secret would be safe with the old wand-maker. "It's generally shaped as a sphere, yes?"
"So you have seen it," Ollivander breathed, excited. It wasn't a question. "Now this changes everything! I highly suspect, Mr. Potter, that we will need to make a new wand for you, for I doubt your partner has entered this world just yet. Still, why don't we try out a few more wands, just to make sure."
And try out wands they did. Harry held every wand made from every wood with every core and of every length. None of them felt right in his hands. Some gave him a distinct feeling of wrongness, a few gave him feelings of negativity, others reacted almost violently—one even blew up in his hands and gave him several splinters—and still more than most he simply felt nothing from when held. It was nearly two hours later when Ollivander handed Harry the last wand he had in the shop.
"The last one. An unusual combination, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." Before Harry could even touch the wand he felt an immediate rejection from it. His hand stopped, halted right before his fingers could touch the wand, and he quickly withdrew it.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "That one will not work for me."
"I suspected as much," Ollivander admitted. "It seems that I was correct, and your wand still has yet to be born into this world." Rather than seeming discouraged, the old wand-maker looked excited, as if someone had breathed new life into him. Reaching under the counter, he pulled a long, thin piece that held the appearance of metal, but seemed far to organic to be such, whose shape roughly resembled that of a wand. "I will need you to pump your magic into this. As you are already in touch with your core, you should be capable of accomplishing this task rather easily."
Harry grabbed the thin object and closed his eyes. His breathing began to slow down, mind calming as he reached deep into himself, searching for his core.
He could see it within his mind's eye, the large ball of light that crackled and sparked as if containing the power of a thunder storm. Large wisps of energy seemed to exude from it, wafting off the ball like smoke from a roaring bonfire. It was very bright, brighter than the sun. This rolling mass of energy. Were he seeing this sight with his actual eyes, Harry would dare say looking at his core would have blinded him.
And then Harry opened up the floodgates. It was an act he had only done once and never did again, mainly due to the fact that he had nearly destroyed his room when he had done it. Usually when Harry used his magic, he simply opened the door a smidgeon, allowing just enough to leak out that he could direct it into whatever form of magic he planned on using. That was actually a part of the reason he got so tired, the concentration required to keep his own magic at bay was astronomical, and often left him anywhere from mildly winded to utterly exhausted depending on how much he was forced to direct.
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