Led by Professor McGonagall, Wayne weaved through Diagon Alley until they arrived at their next destination.
If Gringotts was the grandest building in all of Diagon Alley, then Ollivanders Wand Shop was certainly among the top three shabbiest.
The shop's windows were so caked with grime that you could barely see inside, and a crooked wooden sign hung loosely out front:
[Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.]
Seeing the words, Wayne raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
"382 B.C.? That was before the Anglo-Saxons even came to this land—not to mention the Roman legions hadn't invaded yet. Britain wasn't even a thing back then, just scattered Celtic tribes. Who the hell was running a wand shop back then?"
Still, as the only wands dealer in all of Britain...
Ollivander probably didn't need to fake history just to look prestigious.
Seeing Wayne hesitate, McGonagall thought he was intimidated by the war-torn aesthetic of the place. She walked ahead and tried to push open the wooden door, reassuring him as she did:
"Ollivander is just... a bit unconcerned with appearances. But his wand-making skills are absolutely—BANG!"
She hadn't even finished speaking when, perhaps due to being distracted while explaining, she used a bit too much force—the entire door fell flat to the ground.
A cloud of thick dust billowed into the air, and even chunks of dirt fell from the grimy windows, smashing into powder on the floor.
Wayne quickly raised his backpack to shield himself from the explosion of filth.
"Professor, are you okay? Pfft—sorry! I didn't mean to laugh!"
As the dust finally began to settle, Wayne lowered his bag and caught sight of Professor McGonagall—her green robes now a delicate shade of ashen gray. He couldn't help but laugh.
[You have mocked a professor to her face. +10 points.]
Tch, damn system.
Mocking? Seriously?
That was sympathy!
While Wayne complained inwardly, McGonagall's expression turned thunderous—until a raspy old voice broke the awkward silence.
"Didn't I post a sign telling people to open the door gently? Why would you—oh, Minerva, it's you."
An elderly man with a mane of silvery-white hair and beard poked his head out from behind one of the shelves.
He started scolding, but upon seeing McGonagall, his face instantly broke into a wide grin.
His ability to change expressions was truly world-class.
"Garrick, your shop could really use some renovation," McGonagall said darkly.
But Ollivander just chuckled and waved it off, quickly changing the subject.
"Minerva, you know, every summer, seeing you is one of the things I look forward to most. You, Filius, or Pomona showing up always means that a wand is about to meet its new master."
As he finished speaking, his deep blue eyes turned to Wayne.
"And you, young wizard—what's your name?"
"Wayne Lawrence," Wayne answered, subtly shifting away from a nearby shelf.
He'd just noticed one of its legs was broken and wasn't sure when it might collapse.
"Ah, Mr. Lawrence. A rare surname. Are your ancestors Roman? Or perhaps French?"
"French, I suppose. Though we've been in Britain for generations."
The Lawrence family had indeed followed William the Conqueror from Normandy—a noble house from a bygone era. The surname "Lawrence" was far more common in French than in English.
As the two chatted, a measuring tape flew over and began circling Wayne on its own.
"What's your dominant hand?"
"Left."
"Good. Let's try this one, then."
After glancing at the floating tape's measurements, Ollivander disappeared into the back, only to return shortly with an armful of wand boxes.
"Now remember, child—the wand chooses the wizard. Only when a wand resonates with its true master can it unleash their full potential."
"Go ahead and try some. Some young wizards are particularly picky… like Minerva here, for example—"
From behind him, McGonagall sighed and spoke up:
"Spruce wood, nine inches, dragon heartstring core—excellent for Transfiguration."
"Garrick, you bring that up every time you see me."
"Forgive an old man—sometimes memory needs a little ritual," Ollivander replied with a smile, handing a wand to Wayne .
The moment he had it in his hand, Wayne had a strong urge to blast something.
So, he followed his instincts.
Bang!
A burst of white light erupted from the wand's tip and shot toward the ceiling, punching a gaping hole straight through it.
Despite the destruction of his ancestral home, Ollivander didn't look the least bit angry. In fact, his face lit up with delight.
"Remarkable, absolutely remarkable."
"This wand may not be worthy of your future achievements, Mr. Lawrence. Cedar is suited for the clever, yes, but it's ultimately too gentle. Try this one instead."
"Dragon heartstring, paired with yew."
Before Wayne could react, the wand was whisked from his hand and replaced with another. This time, a blazing fireball burst from the tip.
Wayne frowned.
He didn't like the feeling of magic slipping out of his control—but the next second, the fireball vanished into thin air.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
Ollivander's excitement grew. "Mr. Lawrence, your talent is plainly visible. Very few young witches or wizards are able to rein in their magic the first time they touch a wand."
"But I must beg you not to suppress it. Only by letting the wand choose you naturally will you find the one that suits you best."
Wayne nodded reluctantly, signaling that he wouldn't interfere again.
Even Professor McGonagall allowed a small smile to form on her lips.
It seemed Hogwarts had gained yet another young prodigy. And if he ended up in Gryffindor, all the better.
After all, Slytherin had won the House Cup six years in a row now—and she hadn't quite let go of that grudge.
Box after box was opened on the table, and Wayne tried wand after wand.
From spruce to walnut, from dragon heartstring to thestral tail hair.
Ollivander had fully entered his element, muttering constantly as he worked.
He loved customers like this—ones who were picky.
The pickier the witch or wizard, the more extraordinary they were.
In the wizarding world, going with the crowd only led to mediocrity. Only those with striking traits and personality could rise to the top.
When Wayne eventually made a name for himself, people would ask about his wand—and Ollivander's name would bask in that glory.
His grandfather had boasted for decades about selling a wand to Albus Dumbledore, and that feat had helped suppress the other two wandmaking families.
Ollivander wanted that moment for himself too.
A day when the so-called "Big Three Wandmakers" would be forgotten, and when people thought of wands, they'd think of one name—Ollivander.
The trial went on for a full half-hour, with nearly a hundred wands tested.
Wayne, for his part, remained calm.
So what if he was a transmigrator? Trying a few more wands didn't bother him.
"Alright, let's try this one," Ollivander said, opening yet another box.
"Rowan wood, unicorn hair core. Eleven and a half inches."
Wayne took the wand without much thought—
and in the very next instant, he felt it.
A sense of Felix Felicis—as though everything was suddenly just… right.