While his grandparents and Mr. Ollivander were catching up, Rock wandered around the counter, studying the neatly stacked wand boxes on the shelves.
There was no dramatic scene of hundreds of wands humming in resonance the moment he walked in. He wasn't some magical creature in human form, after all.
Most wand cores were made from things like feathers and hairs of magical beasts—he wasn't expecting any grand spectacle.
Just as Rock's thoughts were drifting, Ollivander's voice pulled him back.
"Rock, what do you like to do?"
Rock snapped to attention and quickly answered, "Magic. I love everything about magic."
That was nothing but the truth. After living in this world for so many years, his love for magic—creatures, books, spellcraft—was absolutely genuine.
He'd even taken interest in Theseus and Tina's Auror work, learning things that ordinary wizards had never even heard of.
Ollivander chuckled softly and continued asking questions.
The elderly wandmaker and the young wizard fell into easy conversation. But the more questions Ollivander asked, the more Rock realized something:
In the original story, Ollivander always said, "The wand chooses the wizard."
But just now, he'd intentionally asked about Rock's personality, preferences, habits—and his expression changed subtly with each answer.
So that was it.
He was profiling him through conversation.
Wait… so the whole "wand chooses the wizard" thing is basically psychological evaluation?
Rock couldn't help twitching the corner of his mouth.
This was literally a wizarding-world version of a therapist reading your personality.
"All right then, Rock—are you right-handed or left-handed?"
"Right."
With the Q&A finished, Ollivander seemed satisfied and moved into the actual process.
The tape measure floated over to Rock's right hand, automatically taking measurements—not just arm length, but palm width, thumb-to-pinky span, everything.
Rock recognized exactly what this was: determining the most suitable wand length and grip proportions.
Comfort mattered.
Once the tape measure returned the numbers, Ollivander thought for a moment, then walked to the last shelf.
His finger glided along several boxes before stopping on one. He pulled it free, set it on the counter, and opened it.
"Cedar, ten and three-quarter inches. Phoenix feather core."
He wiped it down with a cloth, then passed it to Rock.
Rock took it carefully. Ten and three-quarter inches—pretty average. Some wands were as short as eight or nine inches, usually belonging to wizards with smaller builds…
Like Peter Pettigrew or Dolores Umbridge—and both had… questionable personalities.
Yes—most of them.
"Give it a wave, Rock," Tina encouraged, crouching beside him with a warm hand on his shoulder.
Rock nodded. The moment he held the wand, he felt his magic stir to life—vibrant and eager.
He guided it naturally through his arm and into the wand, giving it a gentle flick.
A burst of brilliant golden light filled the shop, dazzling yet soft.
Ollivander's eyes widened. A child who hadn't even started school yet producing that level of magic?
"Incredible. Very smooth."
Rock stopped channeling magic, satisfied.
He knew his own magic well—it had flowed out of him with almost no resistance at all.
Seeing Rock's joy, Ollivander finally let out a relieved breath. Good—no need to put the kid through endless trial-and-error today.
He launched into his pitch—what Rock privately thought of as the "official wand-sales speech."
"Cedar wands belong to witches and wizards with bright, straightforward personalities—and extraordinary loyalty."
He even winked as he said it.
"And their owners can never be fooled. I can say that with absolute confidence."
"Because those who pair well with cedar wands tend to be exceptionally perceptive. Anyone who tries to cross such a wizard will regret it deeply."
"They'll find themselves facing an opponent perfectly matched to this wood."
Clap clap clap—
Rock applauded genuinely.
Not because he was mocking Ollivander—far from it.
Ollivander had accurately deduced parts of his personality simply through conversation, then framed it in a flattering way.
A man with that level of intuitive skill would excel anywhere.
And considering the Ollivander family had been crafting wands for generations, it was clear this was the result of long, refined training.
Rock respected it—because it was real talent.
Even more amazing, the shelves and boxes had no labels, no markings, nothing to distinguish them. Yet Ollivander knew exactly where everything was and who each wand was suited for.
Rock, even with a system, wasn't sure he could ever memorize things like that.
…Though maybe he could try someday.
Ollivander gave Rock another wink.
He'd noticed from the very beginning that Rock had caught onto his method—especially when he added the phrase extremely perceptive.
Finding such an insightful child was rare, and Ollivander felt genuinely delighted.
Rock simply smiled, then told Tina he was ready to buy it.
After all, his grandmother was already glowing with pride. The wand felt perfect. Time to pay and move on.
"That'll be seven Galleons."
Tina took seven gold coins from Newt's pouch and placed them on the counter.
Ollivander bowed gracefully and collected them.
Rock held his brand-new wand, realizing the price matched Harry Potter's exactly.
"So… is that because mine also uses phoenix feather?"
He thanked Ollivander and followed Newt out of the shop.
Now came the real shopping spree—though Rock cared most about the books.
But the moment they stepped outside, Tina announced she'd take him first to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
Their custom robes took time, so that had to be done early.
Judging from the look on her face, Rock suspected the real reason was that she wanted to choose the best fabrics and styles for him personally.
Well… what could he do?
She was his grandma.
He had no choice but to go along.