Five minutes after hearing Bagshot's story, Dumbledore leaned back with a faint smile on his face. "What a brilliant young man" he remarked thoughtfully.
Bagshot, still brimming with enthusiasm, asked, "Headmaster Dumbledore, is Vizet truly an Obscurial? I can't sense it at all in his words or actions."
"This child possesses an unusual kind of affinity" Bagshot continued. "To be honest... even without your instructions, I doubt I'd have been wary of him. It's remarkable."
Dumbledore took a measured sip of his black tea before replying. "That depends on what you choose to believe. Vizet is indeed an Obscurial — of that, I am certain. I have witnessed it firsthand."
Bagshot's eyes widened in disbelief. "He's only just about to begin his first year at Hogwarts, isn't he? And yet…"
"The situation was urgent when I first encountered him." Dumbledore explained. "The Ministry's officials arrived before I did, but Vizet didn't rely on anyone to escape from his Obscurus state. Remarkably, he recovered through sheer perseverance."
Bagshot shook his head, still astonished. "This morning, I thought your concern was that he might be unstable, so you asked me to observe him closely and find an opportunity to talk to him..."
"You misunderstood my intentions." Dumbledore interjected gently. "I simply noticed him lingering in your bookstore for quite some time. I worried he might feel too timid to purchase the books he needed, so I asked you to look out for him. If he needed anything, I trusted you would help. You've gone above and beyond, for which I am deeply grateful."
Bagshot raised his hands defensively. "Oh no, Headmaster, you flatter me! On the contrary, I feel as though I've gained far more from this experience. I should be the one thanking you."
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "If we keep exchanging thanks like this, we'll run out of time to think about what to eat tonight." Glancing at the clock, he added, "I have an interview this afternoon and need to return to the Leaky Cauldron shortly."
"I suppose I should return to my shop as well." Bagshot said, rising from his seat. "Thank you again for your trust, Headmaster."
Watching Bagshot's brisk and cheerful steps as he departed, Dumbledore's expression turned wistful. He murmured softly to himself, "Ariana… At least this time, I won't make the same mistake again."
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For modern wizards, a wand is not just a tool—it's a vital extension of their magical essence. Without it, even the most basic tasks become arduous.
As one of the oldest establishments in Diagon Alley, Ollivander's Wand Shop is unassuming, almost easy to overlook. The shop's façade is small and worn, its golden-lettered sign faded by time.
Through the dusty display window, a single wand rests on a faded purple cushion, its presence quiet yet authoritative.
Vizet pushed the creaky door open, stepping into the dimly lit shop. Silence greeted him, save for the faint creak of wood beneath his feet. A narrow aisle stretched before him, flanked by towering shelves filled with wand boxes stacked like bricks, reaching up to the ceiling.
The store felt more like a repository of ancient relics than a modern shop. In the corner sat a weathered bench, its patina hinting at countless years of use.
Ring, ring, ring.
A soft chime echoed as a figure seemed to materialize from thin air.
The man before Vizet had silver hair, no beard, and striking silver-white eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the shop's dim light, like twin moons in a dark sky.
Ollivander's voice was soft, almost musical. "Good afternoon." he said, his tone carrying a hint of wonder. "After the Secrecy Law was enacted, the Silent became a rarity. You, young Vizet, are a special guest. It is my honor to serve you."
There was unmistakable joy in his words. "It is unprecedented," he continued, "to meet an Obscurial who has the chance to bond with a wand. Tell me, which hand do you favor?"
"My right hand" Vizet replied, slightly hesitant.
"Good. Raise your arm and relax." Ollivander instructed gently. "I'll just measure you."
A tape measure leapt from Ollivander's pocket, springing to life. It flitted about Vizet, measuring his shoulder to fingertips, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, even circling close to his forehead.
The shop seemed to awaken, filled with a subtle energy as Ollivander moved with surprising agility for his age. He disappeared momentarily between the shelves, only to return with three wand boxes cradled in his arms.
"Each wand is unique." Ollivander began, opening the first box with reverence. "The wood, the core, the length — every detail matters. Try this one: alloyed acacia wood, dragon heartstring, thirteen inches, with a tough texture."
The wand was stunning, its amber hue glinting in the low light, the wood grain marked by delicate carvings.
Vizet barely had time to grip it before Ollivander snatched it away. "No, no, it's not right. Try this one: blackthorn wood, horned serpent horn, twelve and a half inches, highly elastic."
The cycle repeated. Each time, Vizet would touch the wand briefly before it was swiftly taken back, Ollivander muttering under his breath about the unsuitability of the pairing.
"Holly, phoenix feather, thirteen and three-quarters inches. No."
"Cedar, unicorn tail hair, ten and three-fifths inches. Definitely not!"
Ollivander darted back and forth between the shelves, his movements sharp and precise, defying his age. Wand after wand passed through Vizet's hands, each one discarded almost immediately.
The discarded wands and boxes piled up on the floor like a miniature mountain.
"What about this one? Ebony, dragon heartstring, nine inches…" Ollivander paused, frowning, before rejecting it once more. "No, not right."
As time wore on, even Ollivander's enthusiasm seemed to falter. He stood still for a moment, visibly perplexed. "I've tried almost every type of magic wand I have," he said, half to himself. "How could this happen?"
Vizet, growing uneasy, asked cautiously, "Mr. Ollivander, is something wrong? Why can't I find a wand that suits me?"
Ollivander's expression softened, and he gave a reassuring smile. "It's not uncommon for a wizard to be particular about their wand. Wands choose the wizard, yes, but the wizard also shapes the wand's destiny. To complete this pairing, we might need to delve deeper. Tell me — what are some of your past experiences? Something meaningful, perhaps even joyful."
Vizet hesitated, his brows knitting together. "What kind of experiences?"
Ollivander leaned forward slightly. "Try not to recall anything unpleasant. Instead, tell me something happy or interesting. Something that happened before you met Dumbledore."
Vizet thought for a moment, then shared a memory. "There was an old book in the dark wizard's base. It was ancient, filled with magic, and with a cyclone logo. I found myself drawn to it. I was fascinated."
"A book of ancient magic and a cylcone, you say?" Ollivander's eyes brightened with realization. "I have an idea. Wait here."
With a wave of his wand, the scattered wands and boxes lifted into the air, returning to their places on the shelves in an orderly fashion.
Moments later, Ollivander emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop, holding a silver-blue box adorned with a distinctive cyclone logo.
Vizet's breath caught as he recognized the emblem. He had seen it before on A Wizard's Practical Guide.