Pushing through the still-noisy crowd, Stephen kept close to McGonagall, trying to ignore the commotion. Every second in this place felt like a waste of time unless he was gaining new data for analysis. McGonagall seemed to read his thoughts. She led him directly to a narrow, unassuming building with a faded sign that read: "OLLIVANDERS: MAKERS OF FINE WAFFLE-STICKS SINCE 382 B.C."
Stephen stared at the sign, his eyebrows rising.
"382 BC? That's incredible. That implies millennia of accumulated knowledge. Or is that just a marketing ploy? What kind of place is this? And why does it look so... ordinary?"
McGonagall, without slowing her pace, replied, "Ollivanders is a very old family, Mr. Strange. They make the best wands in the world. Come in."
The shop door opened with a soft chime of a bell. Inside, it was quiet and dusty, the air smelling of wood and something elusive, like old magic. From floor to ceiling, thousands of narrow boxes were stacked neatly along the walls. There was order here, though not the kind Stephen was accustomed to.
From behind one of the stacks emerged a tall, thin old man with large, pale eyes that seemed to see right through Stephen. This was Mr. Ollivander.
"Good day, Professor McGonagall," he whispered, his voice like the rustle of old pages. "And this must be young Mr. Strange? I've been expecting you. Every person has their own wand. Finding it isn't so simple."
Stephen disliked being scrutinized.
"Expecting me? How did you know? Is this some kind of predictive system? And what does 'their own wand' mean? It's just a conduit for magical energy, isn't it? It should be efficient, nothing more."
Ollivander smiled a thin, mysterious smile, as if Stephen had said something very amusing.
"Oh no, Mr. Strange. The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around. I merely assist it in its choice."
He produced a long tape measure with silver markings.
"Your wand arm, Mr. Strange?"
Stephen extended his right hand. Ollivander began to measure him from shoulder to fingers, then wrist to elbow, and even the distance between his nostrils, which Stephen found utterly pointless.
"Why all these measurements? Does hand size affect the wand's properties? What is the mathematical algorithm for wand selection?"
Ollivander said nothing, only smiled and continued his measurements. Then he took the first wand from one of the thousands of boxes.
"Try this one. Oak and unicorn hair, ten inches, quite springy."
Stephen took the wand. It felt like an ordinary twig. He waved it as if conducting. Nothing happened.
"No, no," Ollivander whispered, immediately taking the wand back. "Try this one: beech and phoenix feather, twelve inches, flexible."
Stephen tried again. With the second flick, a sheaf of red sparks shot from the wand, instantly scorching a stack of boxes on a nearby shelf. Stephen barely managed to pull his hand back.
"Careful!" he exclaimed. "That's an uncontrolled energy discharge! Are your wands so unstable?"
Ollivander, however, looked pleased.
"Oh, no, that's just an unsuitable wand. But you have power, Mr. Strange. A great deal of power."
He quickly brought the next wand, then another. Stephen waved them, and each reaction was different: one wand made a chilling whistle, another caused all the lights in the shop to flicker, a third made the floor beneath their feet vibrate. Stephen began to get annoyed.
"This is unproductive! We're just wasting time! Can't we just find a wand that works?"
Professor McGonagall stood in the corner, arms crossed, observing the spectacle with a stern expression, but a rare, particular amusement flickered in her eyes.
Finally, Ollivander took a wand from the dustiest, oldest box, one that seemed untouched for years.
"This is... an unusual wand. Yew and Thestral tail-hair, fifteen inches. Its core is complex and dark. I thought it would never find an owner."
When Stephen took this wand, he felt... warmth. Not just physical warmth, but something that resonated deep within him. It seemed to pulsate in his hand. All the dust motes in the shop swirled in a gentle vortex, and a flowing blue light erupted from the wand's tip, illuminating the entire room with a soft, mysterious glow. The light was pure and powerful, and it caused no harm. It was astonishing.
Stephen stared at the wand, then at Ollivander, then at the glow. His face, usually so tense, was now devoid of any irritation. His eyes held pure, unadulterated curiosity.
"This is..." he paused, searching for words. "This is different. It... responds. How is this possible? What is the resonance mechanism?"
Ollivander took the wand back, his pale eyes gleaming.
"Ah, Mr. Strange. That is magic. And this wand... it is very powerful. And unusual. It chose you. Five Galleons."
Stephen pulled several gold coins from his pouch, still somewhat dazed by the feeling of the wand. He felt it wasn't just an object. It was a tool. A powerful tool.
McGonagall nodded to Ollivander, and they left the shop.
"Well, Mr. Strange, now you have your wand. All that's left is to buy your textbooks and robes."
Stephen clutched his pouch of gold. He was still thinking about the wand. Yew wood. Thestral hair. What did it mean? Why this particular wand? He felt he had just touched something much deeper than mere "energy."
"Professor," he began, and a new, more serious curiosity was in his voice. "You said the wand chose me. Why? And what is a Thestral? Why does its hair make a wand... complex and dark?"
McGonagall looked at him. His questions were still persistent, but now they lacked the former arrogance, only a thirst for knowledge.
"Those questions, Mr. Strange, are best left for your lessons. And now, we must hurry. The school year begins soon."
Stephen nodded. Lessons. He looked forward to them. He looked forward to unraveling this world.