HP: Infinite Talent: Ch 3-4

Chapter 3 – Ollivanders

Diagon Alley was the heart of wizarding commerce in Britain, and yet it wasn’t exactly glamorous. The cobblestoned street looked a bit old, a bit run-down, and more than a little crowded.

Strange little shops and eateries lined both sides. Robed figures in pointed hats strolled along, wands in hand. Some vanished into thin air. Others appeared out of nowhere. Owls perched on shoulders, cats curled in arms, toads hopped in cages—and a menagerie of other odd creatures turned the place into a living spectacle.

Ark spotted one wizard yank an old wardrobe out of a handbag that should’ve been ten times too small to hold it, arguing loudly with a shopkeeper over something. Another hurried down the street dragging a whole stack of crates floating above his head as if they were balloons. Ark couldn’t stop staring.

McGonagall, by contrast, barely blinked. She walked alongside him, calmly explaining the basics of Diagon Alley and Hogwarts, and told him to pull out the supply list that had come with his acceptance letter. Time to start shopping.

Hogwarts, she explained, was funded by the Ministry of Magic with help from private benefactors. The school’s purpose was to train young wizards—children who had awakened magic—in how to control their power, master spells, and learn the theory that would help them become part of, and protect, the hidden wizarding world.

There was no tuition. Room and board were free as well. But students were expected to provide their own equipment: wands, cauldrons, textbooks, and so on.

Which was why every future Hogwarts student made a pilgrimage to Diagon Alley before September. It was the one place to find everything on the list. Provided, of course, you had the money.

Wizarding currency was nothing like Muggle money. The economy ran on three coins: gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts. Seventeen Sickles made a Galleon; twenty-nine Knuts made a Sickle. Which meant four hundred ninety-three Knuts made a Galleon. The conversion rate made Ark’s head spin.

For Muggle-borns, Gringotts offered exchange services. Run entirely by goblins, it was the only wizarding bank. Every witch and wizard stashed their wealth in its vaults, which stretched far below the streets. Rumour had it dragons guarded the deepest chambers.

With McGonagall at his side, Ark exchanged what little he had. His entire year’s savings came to sixty-three Galleons and nine Sickles.

“That’ll be plenty,” McGonagall assured him. “A Galleon goes a long way. Even after you’ve bought all your supplies, you’ll have some left for pocket money.”

Ark did a quick conversion in his head. One Galleon was worth maybe forty pounds. Which meant once he’d bought everything, he’d have just over a hundred pounds left in hand. Barely anything.

Still grumbling inwardly, he followed McGonagall as she steered him toward their first and most important stop: a wand.

Ollivanders.

The shop looked tiny, cramped, and on the verge of collapse. But appearances were deceiving. This was the most famous wand shop in Britain, the sole supplier in Diagon Alley, and one of the great wandmakers of Europe.

According to McGonagall, Ollivanders had been in business since 382 B.C. Two millennia of wandcrafting tradition. Ark didn’t know if that was true, but the decrepit storefront certainly made it believable.

“You in, Garrick?” McGonagall called as she stepped inside with Ark.

A reedy, cheerful voice answered almost at once.

“Well, well, look who it is!”

Out shuffled an elderly man with pale silvery eyes. He beamed when he saw McGonagall.

“It’s been too long, Minerva. Once the students start trickling into Diagon Alley, I always know it won’t be long before you arrive with a new one.”

His gaze flicked to the wand in her hand, and he regarded it with the rapt attention of a jeweller appraising a priceless gem.

“Fir wood, dragon heartstring, nine and a half inches. Excellent for Transfiguration. Strong-willed. I remember the very day you claimed it, Minerva.”

He spoke with such warmth that it was obvious he was a talker, an old friend of McGonagall’s.

She, of course, remained as stern as ever.

“Catching up will have to wait, Garrick. For now, I need you to help this young wizard find a wand.”

Instead of being put off, Ollivander’s grin widened.

“But of course! You know this is my favourite time of year, Minerva. Each autumn means more wands finally going to their rightful owners.”

At last, he turned his attention to Ark.

“Good afternoon, young wizard. I am Garrick Ollivander, proprietor of Ollivanders.”

Ark bowed politely. “Hello, Mr. Ollivander. My name’s Ark Byrne.”

“Such manners!” Ollivander said warmly, instantly approving. “Now then, Mr. Byrne—let’s see about your measurements. Which is your wand hand?”

Ark raised his right hand without hesitation.

At once, measuring tapes zipped through the air and began circling him, taking his height, the length of his arm, even the circumference of his head.

“Before we begin,” Ollivander said, “you should know—every single wand in this shop is unique. Different woods, different cores, but more than that—each wand is its own individual. A wizard and his wand must suit one another. If you try to wield another’s wand, neither of you will perform at your best.”

He leaned closer, eyes bright. “Always remember: it is the wand that chooses the wizard, not the other way around.”

With that, he began rifling through the towering stacks of narrow boxes that crowded the shop to the ceiling. He plucked one at random, opened it, and handed Ark the wand inside.

“Walnut. Unicorn hair core. Nine and a half inches. Flexible, adaptable. Give it a try.”

Ark took the wand in both hands, curiosity sparking in his chest.

And instantly, he felt it. This wasn’t just wood. It was alive. Like a creature with a will of its own, waiting in his grip.

He gave it a tentative flick.

A brilliant rainbow arced from the tip with a sharp whoosh.

Ollivander’s cheerful face shifted. His brow furrowed.

Chapter 4 – What a Brilliant Light

“This one isn’t right for you.”

Ark was still staring in awe at the rainbow he’d just conjured when Ollivander plucked the wand from his hand, frowning.

“Walnut suits a clever wizard like yourself, but unicorn hair as a core? Far too sluggish. It can’t keep up with you.”

He pulled another box from the shelf and handed Ark the wand inside.

“Try this—Aspen, dragon heartstring. Excellent for combat magic. Who knows, perhaps you’re destined to be a master duelist?”

Ark ignored the teasing. He raised the wand and flicked it. This time, instead of a rainbow, a fierce gout of flame burst forth, nearly setting the cabinet ablaze. Ark staggered back, startled.

“Not this one either. Far too hot-tempered,” Ollivander said breezily, reclaiming the wand and already selecting another. “Here, try this.”

So it went. Ark tested wand after wand—over a dozen in all. One spouted a stream of water, another whipped up a gale, another made flowers and vines sprout through the floorboards, yet another sent chairs and tables floating into the air. Each time, Ollivander shook his head, silver eyes gleaming, and whisked the wand away.

Even when Ark felt nothing particularly wrong, Ollivander clearly saw things Ark couldn’t. And he never hesitated to declare: “Not a match.”

Half an hour passed like this, and Ark thought wryly that it was worse than being dragged along on a shopping trip with a girl. Still, he couldn’t deny he was fascinated by each strange reaction, so he kept at it without complaint.

If anything, Ollivander only grew more delighted.

“Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! I haven’t had a wizard this particular in ages. Today is going to be a marvellous day.”

The old man darted around with boundless energy, pulling down box after box. Even McGonagall, usually composed to a fault, began watching Ark with a different look in her eye.

Because the truth was simple: every wand was unique. Its power came from the wood it was carved from and the magical creature at its core. Once it found the right wizard, it bonded for life, growing with them. The more unusual the wizard, the more unusual the wand required. Which meant the fussier Ark was, the more extraordinary he was likely to become.

“It seems Hogwarts is about to welcome a rather special student,” McGonagall murmured, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Ark didn’t notice. He was still focused, taking every attempt seriously.

A wand wasn’t just a tool—it was a weapon. A sword to a swordsman, a gun to a marksman. Even grown wizards struggled to cast without one. And Ark was only a young wizard, just setting out on the path of magic.

In the past year, he’d only once experienced Accidental Magic—right after arriving in this world. Since then, he’d felt no different from an ordinary boy. Now, at last, he had a way to wield real power. There was no way he’d treat this lightly.

He lost count of how many wands he’d tried when, at last, he felt something different.

The moment his fingers closed around the next wand, the sensation was unlike anything before. Not a mischievous pet with a will of its own—this felt like an extension of his arm. Natural. Seamless.

Ark straightened, pulse quickening, and finally looked properly at the wand.

It was a rich brown-grey, with a deep, enduring sheen. Warm to the touch, yet steady, balanced between light and dark. The handle was sanded smooth, easy to grip, while the shaft bore delicate carvings, divided by a distinct bead-like ridge. It was beautiful—elegant without being showy, more like a conductor’s baton than a crude stick.

Ark fell for it instantly.

On impulse, he raised the wand high and swept it down.

The world exploded.

The air vibrated, and around him surged wind, fire, water, lightning. Mist coiled through the cramped little shop, strange waves of energy washing over everyone inside. McGonagall and Ollivander both froze, then inexplicably felt lighter, happier, as if all their worries had been blown away.

Flowers burst from the floorboards in every colour. Tables and shelves transformed into animals—cats, dogs, birds, even piglets and calves—darting and bleating through the aisles. Chaos reigned.

Ollivander let out a wild laugh, even as his shop descended into bedlam.

“Merlin’s beard! Incredible!”

“My word!” McGonagall gasped, already whipping out her wand to douse flames, dispel lightning, banish the fog, and restore the transfigured furniture.

Ark’s heart lurched. He lowered the wand quickly, and the effects evaporated.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Ollivander. I didn’t mean—” He looked around at the mess, horrified.

But Ollivander was grinning from ear to ear.

“No need to apologise, my boy. Not at all!” He clapped Ark on the shoulder, voice ringing with excitement. “If anything, I should thank you—for letting me witness such splendour, proof of a perfect match between wizard and wand!”

His silver eyes shone as he examined it.

“Hazel, phoenix feather core, fourteen and a half inches. Remarkable.”

His words tumbled out, faster and faster.

“Hazel wands are extraordinarily sensitive, reflecting their owner’s emotions. They respond best to those who understand and master their feelings, drawing on emotional energy to produce powerful magic. Loyal to the end—they wither when their master dies.

And phoenix feather—ah, the rarest of all cores. Versatile, capable of every form of magic. Slow to reveal their full potential, sometimes acting of their own accord, which many wizards dislike. But above all, they are choosy. A phoenix is fiercely independent, and so are its feathers. Such wands are the hardest to win over, the most reluctant to give their loyalty. But once paired with the right wizard—one who can truly command his heart—they are unmatched.

And at fourteen and a half inches, this is a long wand indeed. Everything about it screams exceptional.”

He squeezed Ark’s shoulder, laughing like a boy.

“I can’t wait to see, Ark Byrne, what brilliant light this wand will shine in your hands.”