Chapter 4 — Wands and Nicolas Flamel
On the southern side of Diagon Alley stood a cramped little shop.
Its display window showcased lone wands resting on faded purple cushions, and the weathered sign above read:
"Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
The brass bell chimed brightly as Dumbledore pushed open the door to Ollivanders and stepped inside with Horatio.
The shop smelled of old wood and magic.
Rows upon rows of slim wand boxes filled towering oak shelves.
Behind a workbench covered in wood shavings, a silver-haired man straightened up. His long hair floated around him like it had forgotten gravity existed.
"Ah… Professor Dumbledore," Ollivander said with a soft, airy voice.
"We haven't seen each other in years."
"Yes, it has been a while," Dumbledore replied. "We'll catch up later. Right now, this young wizard needs a wand."
"Ohhh? Hello there, young wizard."
Ollivander finally turned to Horatio.
Horatio bowed politely.
"Good day, Mr. Ollivander. I'm Horatio Quibble, first-year."
"I see… may I have your Hogwarts letter?
Even if the headmaster brought you, I must follow procedure. The Ministry is terribly fond of nitpicking."
Horatio handed over the acceptance letter.
"Very good. Now then—right or left hand?"
"Right."
Ollivander measured his arm with a tape measure that darted around like a mischievous serpent.
When he finished, he pondered a moment, then pulled a box from the shelves.
"Try this—eleven inches, black walnut, dragon heartstring."
Horatio gave it a wave.
Flash—a bright glow burst from the tip.
Ollivander frowned.
"No… no, not quite right. Try this one—cherry wood, unicorn hair."
Another flash.
Ollivander shook his head again.
And again.
And again.
After dozens of wands, Horatio's arm felt like it wanted to file a worker's comp complaint.
"All of them accept me," he muttered, "but none of them feel perfect…"
"A truly picky customer," Ollivander said, sounding both exhausted and delighted.
"In that case, only one remains… yew, phoenix feather."
Ollivander and Dumbledore both watched anxiously as Horatio raised the wand.
Magic flowed effortlessly.
Too effortlessly.
Ollivander closed his eyes in pain.
"Yes… this one… The last wizard who owned a wand made of—"
CRACK!
A locked chest at the back of the shop exploded open.
A pitch-black wand shot out like an enraged mistress catching her husband cheating.
It slapped the wand from Horatio's hand and planted itself firmly in his palm.
"…By Merlin's beard—no, no, this can't be happening," Ollivander whispered, clutching his head.
Horatio blinked.
He swung the new wand experimentally.
If the first wand felt like a childhood sweetheart…
This one felt like a fated, irresistible, destiny-level heroine descending from the heavens.
It's angry. jealous for looking at another one.
Dumbledore and Horatio stared at Ollivander.
Ollivander sighed deeply and began explaining.
"In my family's long wandmaking history, we have had… a few eccentric members.
This wand was crafted by one such disgrace of an ancestor."
He gestured at the black wand.
"A wand should only ever contain one core.
Multiple cores conflict.
Impossible to stabilize.
But my ancestor refused to accept that.
Through years of experimentation and an unusual alchemical solution, he fused Thestral tail hair and phoenix feather—two cores that should repel each other."
Horatio raised an eyebrow.
"Isn't that basically the magical version of mixing oil and fire?"
"Precisely.
And the wood… he used elder. The hardest wand wood to control."
Ollivander sighed.
"For centuries, this wand acted like plain wood.
No wizard could channel magic through it.
We considered it a failure… a warning to future generations.
But today… I witnessed a miracle."
He looked at Horatio with awe and dread.
"This wand represents something new. Something unknown.
I cannot guarantee it won't cause problems in the future.
Child, decide carefully—do you choose this unpredictable wand, or the stable one?"
Horatio held up both wands.
"An adult chooses one.
Children chooses both.
They're both mine."
Ollivander and Dumbledore: "…"
After a heroic combination of tantrums, rolling on the floor, dramatic threats, and self-declared hunger strikes, Horatio walked out proudly clutching two wands.
"Professor," Horatio asked as he pushed his little trolley into a quieter corner of the Alley, "where are we going now?"
"France," Dumbledore replied calmly. "I need to retrieve something. And you will remain there for one month."
Horatio gasped dramatically.
"Professor! Are you selling me to Beauxbatons Academy as a house-elf?!"
Dumbledore ignored him, grabbed his shoulder—
POP.
"Urgh—!"
Horatio, Hathor the cat, and the two birds all staggered and vomited in unison.
"Whoever invented Apparition…" Horatio groaned, "I swear I'll dig up his grave one day."
"Compose yourself," Dumbledore said.
"We are here to visit the greatest alchemist."
They approached a Victorian-style house.
Before Dumbledore could knock, a frail voice called out from within:
"Is that you, Dumbledore?"
"It is, Nicolas."
"Come in, my friend. Forgive me—I can no longer stand to greet you."
Inside, an old man in white robes sat on a sofa.
He resembled a dried mandrake root: long bony fingers, grey-white nails, joints knotted like ancient tree bark.
When he lifted his teacup, blue veins curled along his pale skin; the trembling liquid cast shadows on his sunken eyes.
"You've come for that, haven't you?" Nicolas Flamel murmured.
"Perenelle and I have discussed it.
Time may not take our lives, but it takes our years.
We are old. We've lived enough.
I agree with your plan."
His eyes softened.
"Such a pity you're always dragged into the affairs of others.
Otherwise, you would surpass me and become the greatest alchemist alive."
He turned to Horatio.
"Child, let me see what you've created."
Horatio stepped forward and placed the small, red Philosopher's Stone on Flamel's palm.
Nicolas' hands trembled harder.
"This…this is not just Philosopher's Stone.
No—it is something higher than that . Did you make this, child?"
"Yes," Horatio answered.
"I used the life and soul energy of cockroaches, spiders, and mice.
Technically, this is a true Philosopher's Stone, not the magical imitation.
They differ in one fundamental way, but…"
He glanced at Dumbledore and stayed silent.
Flamel immediately understood.
He pulled out a cloth pouch and tossed it to Dumbledore.
"My friend, you've obtained what you needed.
Go.
I will take care of Mr. Quibble.
Come fetch him before term begins."
Dumbledore hesitated, then nodded and left.
Flamel turned to Horatio.
"Now, child, tell me—what is the difference between the magic stone of mine and your Philosopher's Stone?"
Horatio didn't answer.
He simply took the stone back, held it in his palm, and said softly:
"I want a piece of chocolate."
"What does chocolate have to do—"
Flamel froze.
Because in Horatio's open palm…
The Philosopher's Stone was gone.
And in its place lay a single piece of chocolate.
**