"Garrick," Dumbledore said quickly, stepping in as if he'd been waiting for the moment, "did you not sleep well last night? You can barely stand."
It was an excuse, and a good one.
Before Ollivander could embarrass himself further, Dumbledore had already crossed the distance and helped him back to his feet, steadying him with a firm grip that didn't look firm at all.
Ollivander blinked, then caught on just as fast.
"Albus, you're as sharp as an eagle," he said with a light laugh, seizing the offered ladder and climbing it like a professional. "I was thinking about new wand materials all night. Nearly wore my mind down to dust."
He exhaled slowly, as though the story alone had exhausted him, then turned to Tom with a smile that looked gentle on the surface.
"Don't worry, child. Even if I can't walk another step, I can still find the wand that suits you best."
Tom nodded, polite and calm, but he didn't miss the tiny tremor in Ollivander's hands.
On the outside, the wandmaker looked like he'd accepted it. Same name, just a coincidence, nothing more. Convenient. Simple.
In reality, the man was still spooked. Tom could practically see it clinging to him like cold fog.
After measuring Tom's arms and posture and who knew what else, Ollivander opened the first box with the solemnity of a priest unveiling a relic.
The wand inside was yew.
Dumbledore's eyelid twitched.
Tom noticed. Of course he did.
Yew represented death and rebirth. It was favored by powerful dark wizards, and it tended to be compatible with both Dark magic and defensive spells.
And the last Tom Riddle had also held a yew wand.
Ollivander placed it into Tom's hand and watched him like a man expecting lightning.
Tom lifted it carefully.
A flick of the wrist.
A burst of flame shot from the tip, bright enough to make dust glitter. The flame curled, danced once, then died.
Ollivander frowned as if insulted by the wand itself.
"No," he murmured, then reached out and snatched it back with surprising speed for someone who had just pretended to be too tired to stand. "Too gentle. Not suitable for you. Try this."
Second box.
Tom took the new wand, gave it a test movement, and the tip exploded into a flurry of birds. Small, bright, fluttering things, filling the cramped shop with wings and startled air.
Ollivander's lips tightened.
"Still not right. Thestral and you are not as compatible as I imagined. Then… this one."
Third wand.
The moment Tom's fingers closed around it, something changed.
It wasn't a dramatic magical pulse, not a choir of angels. It was subtler than that, and far more convincing. A smoothness spread through his arm and into his chest, like the wand had aligned with him perfectly, as if the two of them had been waiting to meet.
Tom's expression remained blank. He lifted the wand and pointed casually toward a broken flowerpot in the corner.
The pot disintegrated.
Not cracked. Not shattered.
It turned to dust, collapsing into fine powder like it had been erased.
And then, in Tom's mind, a voice sounded.
It wasn't Dumbledore's. It wasn't Ollivander's. It wasn't even human.
It was mechanical, calm, and completely out of place in a dusty wand shop.
[Host has successfully set a targeted future development direction. System anchoring in progress. Anchoring complete. The Strongest Learning System will serve you wholeheartedly.]
Tom lowered his eyes.
His face didn't change. Not even a flicker. He acted as if he hadn't heard anything at all.
Because the first rule of surviving in this world was simple.
Never look surprised in front of people who could read surprise like a book.
Ollivander, meanwhile, beamed as if all his earlier panic had never existed.
"Perfect," he said, clapping once with delight. "A perfect match. Fourteen and a half inches, yew wood, dragon heartstring core. I can already imagine the power of the spells you'll cast in the future."
Tom nodded respectfully.
"I'll use it well, Mr. Ollivander."
"Remember this," Ollivander said, voice soft but firm. "A wand is not your tool. It is your companion, child."
He paused, then added with the casual cruelty of all merchants:
"That will be eight Galleons."
Tom paid without complaint.
As he left the shop, wand in hand, he turned it once, feeling the balance. There was no mystical sensation of blood linking to blood, no dramatic soul-bonding. But the casting had been effortless, smooth like breathing.
Ollivander really did have skill. The idea that a wand chose the wizard wasn't nonsense. Until a wizard reached a certain level, wand compatibility could heavily affect how much of their strength they could actually bring out.
With a simple wand care kit included in his purchase, Tom stepped outside into the lively street of Diagon Alley.
The shop door closed behind them.
The instant it shut, Ollivander's polite smile vanished as if it had never existed.
Cold sweat surfaced on his forehead.
A wand longer than thirteen and a half inches was considered unusually long. An overly long wand often reflected a wielder with absolute confidence and an abnormal need for control.
An overly short wand, on the other hand, often signaled a narrow-minded, sharp-tongued personality.
Ollivander remembered the shortest wand he'd ever sold.
It had gone to a witch named Dolores Umbridge.
And the longest one?
The longest one was the one he had just placed in Tom Riddle's hand.
Combine that with a dragon heartstring core, which only witches and wizards with strong magical power could handle properly, and the implication became… unpleasant.
Ollivander murmured under his breath as he put the scattered boxes back in their places, hands still shaking slightly.
"Dumbledore… you know what it means when you put those traits together. You do, don't you?"
He didn't say it louder than that.
He didn't have to.
Outside, Dumbledore seemed determined to move on before the shop's atmosphere infected the entire street.
"Ah, Mr. Riddle," he said, suddenly brightening as if he'd remembered a small detail. He pointed across the road toward a pet shop. "I've just recalled something I forgot. First-year students are permitted to bring a pet. Would you like to take a look?"
Tom shook his head.
"No, sir. Owls are messengers, and I don't really have anyone to write to. As for toads and rats… no offense, but they don't exactly match my aesthetic."
Dumbledore nodded, not pressing.
"Fair enough. Then we'll conclude here for today. We'll have a drink, and I'll take you back home."
Tom didn't refuse.
They returned to the Leaky Cauldron. By then it was mealtime, and the place was crowded. Only two seats remained, and one of them had clearly been held for Dumbledore. Even in a room full of witches and wizards, reputation could reserve a chair.
Dumbledore's presence lowered the volume of conversation around them. Not silence, exactly, but a respectful quiet, like people were suddenly aware they were speaking near a monument.
Tom and Dumbledore each had one drink, nothing more. They didn't linger long before leaving.
On the walk back, Tom found himself understanding something he'd only vaguely felt in his previous life when reading the books.
Why Dumbledore always carried a trace of loneliness.
The man's status was too high. Everywhere, there were people who feared him, admired him, owed him, followed him. The entire country was full of his students and his students' students.
It gave him the same lonely distance as an emperor.
An emperor at least had an empress.
Dumbledore…
Well. Dumbledore had personally sent his own "empress" to prison.
Tom glanced at the old man and, despite himself, felt a flicker of pity. Dumbledore's smile remained gentle, as if nothing in the world could truly touch him.
An hour and a half later, Dumbledore brought Tom back to the children's home.
"I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said.
"As do I, Professor," Tom replied.
He watched Dumbledore walk away down the street, robe swaying, silver beard catching the light.
Only when the headmaster vanished from view did Tom turn and step back inside.
Ms. Arman had already prepared dinner and left for the evening. Seth and the other three boys were eating. They'd saved Tom a large portion.
"Boss," Seth asked the moment Tom sat down, curiosity barely contained, "are you really going to that school run by the white-bearded old guy?"
The other three boys accelerated their eating as if survival depended on it. When they finished, they quietly washed dishes and retreated to their rooms with the speed of trained prey.
Only Seth stayed. Seth had been with Tom long enough to believe he could ask questions without dying.
At the moment, only Tom and Seth were long-term residents here. The other three were recent arrivals, labeled "problem children." After Tom had taught them a quick lesson, they behaved like mice who'd seen a cat and decided religion was real.
"That's not something you need to worry about," Tom said, biting into his steak.
He spoke around the food, voice muffled but still threatening in a familiar way.
"If I find out your grades drop while I'm gone, don't blame me when I come back during the holidays and fix that problem personally."
Seth's shoulders hunched.
"Yes, boss," he mumbled, not daring to argue.
In his heart, he was furious on Tom's behalf. That school, one he'd never even heard of, must be some ridiculous scam. Tom was the best at everything. Studying, fighting, winning. In Seth's mind, Tom could have gone to Harrow or Eton if he wanted.
But the tuition must have been obscene, and that was why his boss had been forced out.
Tom, meanwhile, had no idea his follower was building a whole tragic narrative in his head.
He didn't explain.
Dumbledore had warned him clearly. He could not tell Muggles about the wizarding world. He could not allow magical objects to spill into the Muggle world. Tom was only a first-year. He didn't have the power to challenge those rules.
After dinner, Tom cleaned up, returned to his bedroom, and closed the door.
Finally.
No Dumbledore watching his face.
No wandmaker trembling behind a smile.
No goblins measuring his worth.
Tom sat down and let his eyes fall half-shut.
The voice from earlier hadn't been imagination. The words were still etched into his mind like a brand.
Strongest Learning System.
So the system had been real after all. It had just taken its sweet time waking up.
Tom breathed out slowly, steadying himself.
Then he spoke aloud, quietly, clearly, as if addressing an invisible interface that might be listening.
"Open the system panel."
The room was silent.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
And then, somewhere in front of his eyes, the air seemed to ripple, as if reality itself was about to display something it had been hiding all along.