The bell above the door of Ollivanders rang softly as Harry and Hagrid stepped inside. The shop felt ancient, as if it had been standing for centuries, untouched by time. The dim light inside made everything appear older—faded, weathered, and mysterious. The air smelled faintly of dust, wood, and something else, something that Harry couldn't quite place. It was as though the place itself was waiting, holding its breath for something to happen.
A soft voice broke the silence.
"Good afternoon," said a tall, thin man who emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop. His pale eyes gleamed in the half-light, and his appearance seemed to blend into the shop itself. His gray hair was neatly combed, and his long, bony fingers curled around a wand as though it was an extension of himself.
"Mr. Ollivander, I presume?" Hagrid's voice was low and respectful.
"Yes," the man replied, his voice smooth and calm, "and you must be the one who's been making all the noise about the boy who lived."
Harry's face flushed at the mention of his name, but Ollivander only smiled faintly, as though the words were of no consequence. He turned his eyes to Harry, sizing him up with an intensity that made Harry feel as though the man could see straight through him.
"Ah, yes," Ollivander murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "You've come for your wand."
Hagrid stepped forward, his large frame filling the narrow shop. "That's right. Harry needs a wand."
Ollivander nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Harry's. The air seemed to thrum with magic as he moved silently to the back of the shop, pulling a thin, wooden ladder from behind a shelf. The ladder creaked under his weight as he climbed it to the highest shelf. For a long moment, Ollivander seemed to study the boxes with a peculiar intensity, as though choosing not just a wand, but a destiny.
Finally, he selected a slender box and descended the ladder with careful steps. When he reached the counter, he placed the box in front of Harry, his pale eyes gleaming.
"Go on, then. Try it."
Harry reached out, the cool, smooth box beneath his fingers feeling strangely heavy, like it was more than just wood and parchment. He hesitated for a moment before opening it. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay a wand of dark, polished wood, its surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. Harry reached for it, his fingers brushing against the wood, and the moment his skin made contact, something strange stirred inside him.
A flash of light. A whisper of power. A pull, like gravity, urging him to hold it tighter.
Hagrid watched intently, sensing the strange energy swirling between Harry and the wand. Harry raised the wand, feeling an odd sense of familiarity, as if the wand had been waiting for him all along.
"Give it a wave, then, lad," Hagrid urged.
Tentatively, Harry gave the wand a small wave. The entire shop seemed to shudder as a violent burst of sparks shot out, cascading across the room. The shelves rattled, and a few boxes flew off the shelves, scattering in all directions. Harry froze, wide-eyed, and the room fell silent. Ollivander, for the first time, looked genuinely intrigued.
"Interesting," he said softly. "Very interesting."
He didn't seem displeased—if anything, he looked pleased with the result, but there was something unsettling in his eyes. "That wand is not just any wand, Mr. Potter," Ollivander said quietly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It is unique, in a way that only a handful of wands are. It is the one that has chosen you."
Harry blinked, a question forming on his lips, but Ollivander had already turned away, retrieving another box from the shelves behind him. He set it down on the counter and opened it, revealing another wand.
"This one," Ollivander said, "was made from the wood of a yew tree. It is a rare wood, known for its connection to death and dark magic. The core inside, however, is what gives it its true power."
Harry watched, captivated and unnerved, as Ollivander's fingers gently brushed over the wand.
"It contains a phoenix feather," Ollivander continued, "but not just any phoenix. The phoenix who provided this feather had a... complicated history with the world of wizards. It was the last of its kind, its flame dying out after a long and turbulent life."
Harry felt a chill run through him. The thought of a dying phoenix—the symbol of immortality and rebirth—felt strange and wrong in his hands.
Hagrid, sensing Harry's discomfort, stepped closer. "What do you mean by a 'complicated history'?"
Ollivander gave Hagrid a knowing look, then turned his gaze back to Harry. "The core of your wand was forged in darkness. The phoenix who provided this feather once served a dark master—a wizard whose name has long been forgotten, but whose power still lingers in the shadows. The connection between this wand and its master is… significant. There is a dark bond between this wand and its bearer."
Harry's stomach twisted as Ollivander's words settled in. "But what does that mean for me?" Harry asked, his voice a little strained.
Ollivander met his eyes with an unsettling intensity. "It means you must understand this wand's nature. It will not be easy to control. The magic it channels is not light or pure—it has been touched by darkness. But do not mistake this for a curse. It is simply a part of your story."
For a long moment, the shop was silent except for the faint hum of magic in the air. Harry's fingers curled tightly around the wand, and he could feel something stirring inside him—a sense of power, but also a weight, a responsibility that he didn't fully understand.
"This wand has a history," Ollivander murmured, "and so do you, Harry Potter. You may not know it yet, but the magic inside you is bound to the magic of this wand. It will shape you, just as it will shape your future."
Hagrid was watching Harry closely, his face serious now. "What should he do?" he asked, his voice low.
Ollivander's lips curled into a faint, almost knowing smile. "What Harry must do, Mr. Hagrid, is embrace the darkness within him, for it is both his gift and his burden. It is his destiny."
With that, Ollivander turned back to Harry, his pale eyes gleaming in the dim light of the shop. "The wand has chosen you, Mr. Potter. You must learn to wield it, but be careful. The path ahead is not without peril."
As Harry stood there, holding the wand, the weight of Ollivander's words hung in the air. For the first time in his life, Harry felt as though he wasn't just a boy from the cupboard under the stairs. He was someone—someone destined for something much larger than himself. But whether that was a gift or a curse, he couldn't yet tell.