"Wands choose the wizard…"
A year ago, Robert, like Hermione, believed this phrase was just a clever marketing line invented by Ollivander to add a sense of mystique. It wasn't until last year that he started to doubt that assumption.
The reason for his change in perspective was a wand—one that was simultaneously a failure and a success.
Robert remembered it vividly:
[Maple, Mooncalf neck hair, eleven inches]
[Status: Perfect]
[Characteristic: Slowness—The slower the incantation speed, the higher the spell success rate.]
It was a success in that there were no defects—the wand was flawless in its construction and functioned just as seamlessly as any crafted by Ollivander. Yet it was also a failure due to that peculiar slowness trait. Unlike a standard wand, which required swift incantations to ensure magical power consolidated correctly, this one refused to work if the casting speed exceeded two syllables per second.
Two syllables per second! That meant a simple Levitation Charm would take over three seconds to cast. Ridiculous, wasn't it?
Robert never thought this wand would find a buyer. Ollivander didn't either. But then, one day, a peculiar customer entered the shop.
He was a Striker—former, really—afflicted with a curse that left him speaking at only one syllable per second. A sad case, most would say.
Strangely enough, that slow wand and the cursed wizard turned out to be a perfect match.
The wizard had already made peace with the idea that he could no longer use magic. But this wand changed everything. No, he couldn't continue being a Striker, but at least he wasn't doomed to become a squib. Thanks to Robert's creation, he regained the ability to practice magic.
That was the first wand Robert ever sold.
It was also the first time he questioned whether wands really did choose the wizard.
After all, a saying passed down for over two thousand years couldn't be entirely baseless.
Once he embraced this belief, things started to fall into place.
"Wands choose the wizard. If I can make it, someone out there can use it. Even if not now, then maybe ten or a hundred years from now."
That sentence became his mantra. It even helped him persuade Ollivander to let him experiment with more unusual core materials. Slowly, reluctantly, Ollivander gave him access to items like Hinkypunk leg bones, Diricawl feathers, Troll brain matter, and even nose hair.
Robert shook his head quickly, brushing aside the swarm of thoughts.
Right now, all he wanted was to hone his skills and perfect this unique wand-making system of his.
Robert understood well that he didn't possess extraordinary magical talent. He wasn't weak by any means, but he could never compare to prodigies like Dumbledore or Voldemort.
To protect himself—and his grandfather Ollivander—after Voldemort's return, he needed another avenue to grow stronger.
That avenue was wand-making.
Or rather, the wand characteristics only he could perceive. If used properly, they might open a new path of power.
One key advantage: wandmakers weren't restricted by wand resistance. They could wield every wand they made. That alone gave him an edge.
Of course, if one day he managed to create a wand even stronger than the Elder Wand—well, that would be ideal.
It wasn't necessary right away. Dumbledore was still alive. There was time.
…
The Gryffindor common room was quite a trek. Following the group of new students and the prefect, Robert made his way through the castle. They stopped and started on winding staircases, passed through hidden doors behind sliding panels and tapestries, and climbed an endless spiral of stairs.
Along the way, they encountered something—or rather, someone—quite peculiar.
A short ghostly figure that appeared to be transparent, yet could interact with physical objects.
The prefect, Percy, introduced him: Peeves. A ghost who loved mischief. He was known for throwing walking sticks and random objects at students' heads.
However, Percy explained, Peeves was terrified of two things—Professors and a ghost named the Bloody Baron. Just invoking that name was enough to send Peeves fleeing.
Robert turned his head to glance at the corner where Peeves had vanished. He looked thoughtful.
Did Peeves have a physical body?
If he did… could his hair be pulled out?
It was too late tonight and too crowded to attempt anything. Robert resolved to investigate another time.
"You should be wary of Peeves," Percy advised, continuing to lead the group forward. "The Bloody Baron is the only one who can control him. He won't even listen to us prefects. Here we are."
They had reached the end of a long corridor. Before them hung a large portrait of a plump woman.
"Password?" the woman asked.
"Dragon dung," Percy replied.
The portrait swung open like a door, revealing a circular entrance in the wall.
It was the entry to the Gryffindor common room.
To Robert, the space felt enormous—easily large enough to house ten wand shops, with room to spare. A spiral staircase led to the second floor.
The boys' dormitory was upstairs.
There were five students per room. Robert grimaced. Honestly, this setup bothered him more than the Great Hall had earlier.
Too many people.
It would be impossible to work on anything privately. Why couldn't Hogwarts provide more dormitories?
As it turned out, they could.
Just to test the waters, Robert approached Professor McGonagall with a bold request: he wanted to live alone.
The Deputy Headmistress didn't reject the idea outright.
"Can you tell me why?" she asked, setting down her quill.
In truth, most Gryffindors preferred the lively camaraderie of shared rooms. They had the densest dorms of all the houses. Ravenclaw, by contrast, often requested single rooms. Perhaps wisdom made one prefer solitude.
Still, Robert was the first Gryffindor to make such a request on his very first day.
"If I must give a reason," Robert said after a pause, "would concern for others count? I tend to make noise when crafting wands. After a long day, I'd hate to disturb anyone's rest."
"Making wands…" McGonagall's lips pressed together as she recalled his background. She hadn't expected him to begin this work so young.
"Very well," she agreed with barely a moment's hesitation.
The reason was valid. And as luck would have it, there was a spare dormitory in Gryffindor Tower. There was no reason to refuse.
"Here is the key to your new room." She handed him an antique brass key. "Don't lose it. The door has an anti-lock charm—it can only be opened with this key."
"One more thing," she added. "If you ever wish to return to your shared dormitory, you must first get your roommates' consent. Otherwise, I won't approve it."
"Understood," Robert replied casually, clearly unconcerned.
After all, if he wanted to live with others, why would he have bothered requesting a single room in the first place?
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