The phrase "the wand chooses the wizard"… A year ago, Harold, like Hermione, thought it was just a clever bit of branding Ollivander came up with to add some mystique.
It wasn't until last year that he started to think maybe… it wasn't just a slogan.
And it all started with a wand—one that was both a failure and a success.
Harold remembered it clearly.
[Maple wood, Mooncalf neck hair, eleven inches]
[Trait: Sluggish — the slower the incantation, the higher the success rate.]
It was a success because the wand had no flaws. Its condition matched that of any wand crafted by Ollivander himself.
But it was also a failure, due to that bizarre trait—sluggishness, which was the exact opposite of what normal wands did.
A typical wand, if your incantation was too slow, would lose its magical focus before the spell even formed.
But the one he made… Harold had tested it himself. If you spoke faster than two syllables per second, the wand just froze up and fizzled out.
Two syllables per second? That meant a simple Levitation Charm would take three and a half seconds to cast?
Harold thought for sure no one would ever buy that wand. Ollivander agreed.
Until one day, a very special customer walked into the shop.
A jaded, washed-up Beater, cursed so that he could only speak one syllable per second.
It was, as they say, a match made in heaven—like the wand had been waiting just for him.
The man had been resigned to never using magic again. But this wand gave him hope—he couldn't go back to professional Quidditch, sure, but he could still cast spells. He wouldn't be a Squib in a wizard's world.
And just like that, Harold sold his first wand.
It was the first time he hesitated, wondering: Is it really true? That wands choose their wizards?
A saying that had lasted over two thousand years… maybe it wasn't just for show.
And once he accepted that, everything seemed to get a little easier.
"The wand chooses the wizard. If I can make it, someone out there is meant to use it. Maybe not today, but ten years, a hundred years from now—they'll come."
It was this mindset that gradually persuaded old Ollivander to accept Harold's unorthodox wand core materials—if reluctantly. He even helped procure things like hinkypunk leg bones, Snidget feathers, troll brains, and nose hairs…
Well—Harold might've been getting ahead of himself there. Orıginal content can be found at 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡•𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚•𝙣𝙚𝙩
He quickly shook his head.
For now, he just wanted to keep improving his skills—to refine a wand-making system that was truly his own.
Harold knew his magical talent was limited. Not bad, but nowhere near the likes of Dumbledore or Voldemort.
So to protect himself—and his grandfather—when Voldemort inevitably returned, he had to find another way to grow stronger.
Wands… or more precisely, the traits he alone could see in wands—if used right, might just open up a whole new path.
And wandmakers didn't have to worry about rejection; they could use any wand they made. That alone was a huge advantage.
Of course, if somewhere along the way he managed to craft a wand stronger than the Elder Wand—well, that'd be a nice bonus.
Difficult, yes. But not something he needed to do right away.
Dumbledore was still alive. No rush.
The Gryffindor common room was a bit of a walk. Harold followed the other first-years and the prefect up the stairs, stopping and starting along the way. They passed through sliding panels and velvet curtains, then climbed a long spiral staircase.
Along the way, they ran into a peculiar ghost.
A ghostly figure that could actually touch physical objects—a floating troublemaker.
From Percy the prefect, they learned his name: Peeves.
A prank-loving spirit who liked to throw things—especially walking sticks—at students' heads.
He was afraid of professors though, and especially of another ghost named the Bloody Baron. Percy merely mentioned the Baron's name and Peeves vanished immediately.
Harold turned, frowning thoughtfully at the corner where Peeves had disappeared.
Did Peeves have a physical form?
And if so… could he pluck out one of his hairs?
Too many people around, and it was too late at night. He'd find a better time to ask.
"You should always keep an eye out for Peeves," Percy warned, leading them onward.
"The Bloody Baron's the only one who can keep him in check—he doesn't even listen to us prefects. Here we are."
They stopped in front of a portrait at the end of the corridor. A plump woman in the painting looked down at them.
"Dragon dung," Percy said.
The portrait swung open, revealing a round opening in the wall.
This was the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.
All things considered, Harold thought the space was pretty spacious. It could easily fit ten wand shops, and there was even a spiral staircase leading up to the second floor.
The boys' dormitory was up there.
Five kids per room—not ideal.
Honestly, the moment he saw it, Harold's resistance flared up even more than it had in the Great Hall.
Too many people. Hard to do anything in secret. Couldn't Hogwarts spare a few more rooms?
Turns out—they could.
When Harold, on a whim, asked Professor McGonagall if he could have a room to himself, she didn't immediately turn him down.
"Can you tell me why?" she asked, setting aside her quill.
In fact, most Gryffindors liked shared dorms—that was why they had the most crowded rooms.
In contrast, Ravenclaws had the fewest per room and also filed the most single-room requests.
Maybe wisdom really did love solitude.
Still, Harold had only just been sorted, and here he was asking for his own room.
"If I had to give a reason… I'm worried about disturbing the others," Harold said. "My wand-making process gets a little noisy, and after a long day, I don't want to keep anyone up."
"Wand-making…" McGonagall pursed her lips, remembering Harold's unusual background. She hadn't expected someone so young to already be pursuing the craft seriously.
"Alright." She didn't hesitate long.
The reason was solid, and Gryffindor just happened to have an empty room. No need to overthink it.
"This is your new dorm key." She handed him a brass key with an old-fashioned look. "Don't lose it. The door's been charmed against lockpicking—you can only open it with the key."
"One more thing: if you ever want to move back into the regular dorm, you'll need your roommates' permission. Without it, I won't approve the change."
"Got it," Harold replied casually. He wasn't bothered.
Seriously—if he wanted to share a room, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble of asking for a solo one in the first place.