The moment Julien pushed open the door of Ollivanders, the air wrapped around him—old wood, parchment, and that unmistakable "magical mildew" smell, like a hundred-year-old broom forgotten in an attic mixed with a snoring spellbook.
Thousands of wand boxes towered along the walls, stretching up into a ceiling you couldn't see, stacked so densely they looked like a magical beehive.
He had barely stepped inside when a crisp, slightly haughty voice floated out from behind the shelves.
"…and I told you, not this one! It can't even spell my name right!"
Julien rounded a tall stack of boxes and saw a petite girl standing with her hands on her hips in front of Mr. Ollivander. She had long, sleek black hair, skin so pale it was almost translucent, and rare pale-gray eyes like winter mist at dawn.
She wore a perfectly tailored dark-green jacket pinned with a silver snake brooch—clearly not in uniform yet, but already radiating pure Slytherin energy.
"I'm sorry, miss," Ollivander said wearily, "wands don't spell names. They respond to magic."
"Then it's mocking me!" The girl spun around in a huff and nearly collided with Julien. She looked up and glared. "You're in my way."
"Sorry," Julien answered calmly. "I'm here to buy a wand too. Same as you."
"Hmph." She gave him a slow once-over, eyes lingering on his Muggle suit for a second. The fabric and cut were obviously high quality, but her lip still curled slightly. "Let's hope your magic is stronger than your fashion sense. You go first."
Julien didn't get angry. He smiled instead. "Thanks. And let's hope your patience is better than your temper."
The girl blinked, clearly not used to being talked back to. She gave a cold sniff and folded her arms, but her eyes kept flicking toward him.
Ollivander cleared his throat, his silver eyes darting between them with obvious amusement. "Ah… interesting."
He turned to Julien. "Right then, young sir. Let's begin. Your name?"
"Caelum Julien Black."
"Black?" Both Ollivander and the girl with her arms crossed raised their eyebrows sharply.
"I was under the impression there were no young witches or wizards left in the Black line this generation."
Julien thought privately, No wonder Grandpa refused to come. This guy really never forgets a face.
"I come from a Muggle family," he said with a small shrug, offering no further explanation.
"Oh, no problem at all." Ollivander stared into Julien's eyes and muttered, "Though those eyes remind me of the Potter boy I saw just the other day."
Seeing Julien stay quiet, Ollivander shrugged. "Very well. Which hand do you usually use?"
"Right hand, sir."
"Excellent." The measuring tape flew out again, just like at Madam Malkin's—only this time it was even more thorough, taking measurements that clothes would never need, including pupil distance.
What followed could only be described as a disaster.
"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Black, not the other way around," Ollivander muttered as he handed over the first one. "Hawthorn and unicorn hair, nine inches. Give it a wave."
Julien took it and barely moved his wrist before the wand let out a loud puff and belched a thick cloud of black smoke that smelled like burnt socks and rotten eggs. He dropped it instantly, coughing hard.
"Hmm… clearly it finds you insufficiently pure," Ollivander said dryly, tucking the wand away. "Or perhaps it had a bad night."
"Ha! The wand's instincts are spot on," the girl sneered from the side, arms still folded.
Julien ignored her.
The second wand was oak and dragon heartstring, eleven inches.
This one was worse. The tip cracked and shot out a jet of flame that nearly singed off Julien's eyebrows. He slapped at his face, eyes streaming.
"Ah, dragon heartstring has a fiery temper," Ollivander observed. "Perhaps it thinks you're too calm and wants to add a little… passion?"
The third was vine wood and phoenix feather, twelve inches.
"Try this one. It tends to choose calm, quick-witted witches and wizards and gives excellent results in Transfiguration."
This wand turned out to be a total drama queen.
The moment Julien gripped it, the whole thing started vibrating violently, buzzing in protest. Then it ripped free of his hand, zipped around the shop like a drunk hummingbird, and knocked half a dozen boxes flying.
Every time Julien failed (or, in Ollivander's words, was rejected), the girl let out a long, theatrical "Tsk tsk," clearly enjoying the show.
"Looks like some people," she drawled, "are simply not meant to be chosen by a wand. Tragic, really. Hahaha."
Ollivander, however, grew more excited with every failure. "Contradiction… fusion… child of the border…" he kept muttering, as if he didn't even know what he was saying.
Suddenly his eyes lit up like twin searchlights.
"Bloodline—ancient, heavy, carrying aristocratic pride. Yet there's also a fresh, natural power running through you, like the first spring breeze mixed with the scent of rain-soaked earth… Contradictory, yet harmonious. This isn't mixed blood. This is… fusion."
The girl beside them stared at Julien with genuine surprise now, all mockery gone.
Ollivander's eyes widened as if struck by lightning. "Aha! I remember!"
He darted to the back of the shop and pulled down a dusty box from the very top shelf.
With a casual wave of his hand he cast a silent, wandless Scouring Charm (or maybe just used his sleeve—Julien couldn't tell). The dust vanished.
"Silver lime, exactly thirteen inches. Core—thunderbird tail feather wrapped around powdered moonstone crystal. Well? Open it!"
Julien lifted the lid. Inside lay a wand of smooth, flowing lines, the wood warm and lustrous with a faint silvery-gray glow, as if moonlight had been frozen into solid form.
The instant his fingers closed around it, warmth flooded through him—like holding his own pulsing bloodstream. He could feel two distinct heartbeats beneath the wood.
One was thunderous and wild, craving to tear through clouds and shake the sky. The other was cool and flowing like moonlight, whispering of hidden secrets, midnight plans, and silent pride. The two forces swirled and danced together in his palm.
Instead of black smoke or flames, the tip released a vivid illusion—crackling blue-white lightning intertwined with liquid silver moonlight, forming a living, breathtaking scene of tension and beauty.
Every wand box in the shop began to tremble, humming in low resonance.
The girl—Isabella—stood frozen, mouth open, aristocratic sneer completely forgotten.
"Yes… yes, exactly like that," Ollivander whispered, voice trembling with excitement. "Silver lime is rare, from the Far East. Smooth, strong, warm to the touch. Once it chooses its master, it wraps that will in the most luxurious silk—elegant on the surface, yet utterly unyielding beneath."
"This was one of my experimental pieces from when I was young," he sighed. "I haven't had imagination like that in years. Thunderbird—the embodiment of storm and freedom, its tail feather carries immense power to change destiny. But moonstone… that is the guardian of dreams, intuition, and the hidden self."