Julian's patience was starting to wear thin.
After yet another wand fizzled out or sat in his hand like a dead twig, he was beginning to seriously suspect he was simply not getting a wand today. Before he could sink fully into that conclusion, something changed.
Ollivander let out a slow sigh and looked at Julian with a conflicted expression.
"I will not lie to you, lad," he said quietly. "This is the first time none of the standard combinations of wood and core have done anything but reject someone. It pains me to say this, but the only options left are my experimental wands. They were never meant to be sold, because I have absolutely no idea what their personalities are like."
Julian shrugged, resigned. "It is what it is," he said honestly. At this point, he had already given up on hope for the day.
Ollivander nodded and disappeared into the back of the shop.
When he returned, he was guiding a metal trunk large enough to fit a tall adult inside with room to spare. He was not lifting it by hand. It hovered in front of him, clearly held aloft by magic, which said enough about its weight.
The trunk itself was covered in chains and heavy locks, with layers of faintly shimmering wards clinging to the metal. It did not look like it was secured to protect whatever was inside. It looked like it was secured to protect the world from whatever was inside.
Ollivander knelt beside it and began removing the protections one at a time. More than a few of them required a single drop of his blood to release. Not much, just the bare minimum, but the ritualistic seriousness in his movements was impossible to miss.
Julian and Harry found themselves holding their breath as the last lock opened and the chains were set aside.
Ollivander lifted the lid.
Nothing happened.
No blast of magic. No ominous glow. No lingering chill or sudden heat. The air did not even stir.
Julian very briefly wanted to smack an elderly wandmaker for being dramatic for absolutely no visible reason. One glance at Harry's equally let-down face told him he was not alone in that thought.
Ollivander either did not notice or pretended not to. He began lifting wand boxes from the trunk and lining them up along the counter, one after another. Neither boy interrupted. They simply watched in silence.
Five minutes later, the last box was set down. Ollivander removed the lids one by one, revealing the wands inside.
It was immediately clear that these were nothing like the wands they had seen earlier. Their woods were all strange hues, with unique grain patterns and shapes that did not match the usual styles. Some had odd twists, others unusual color banding, as if two different trees had been fused together.
Julian stepped closer and let his magical senses brush over them.
Most of them recoiled from him outright, the same way the previous wands had. All but five.
Of those five, three felt hesitant. Not hostile, just unsure, like they were not convinced he was the right person but were not pushing him away either.
The remaining two were different.
Those two were loud, in their own way. Even without touching them, they seemed to reach for him. Tiny ripples of magic shimmered around them, subtle but real, trying to catch his attention.
Julian examined the first of those two. It was a strange mix of dark tan and pale pink, the colors spiraled together along its length. The handle was simple, unadorned. To anyone else, it might have looked interesting.
To his senses, it felt wrong.
There was a sly, treacherous edge in its magical presence, like a hand offering help while hiding a knife. Julian rejected it immediately and moved on.
The last wand was by far the strangest thing he had seen in the shop.
The shaft was made of a reddish yellow wood, almost ember-like in tone. Running along it were sharp, black, lightning-shaped veins of a completely different wood, like cracks carved into storm clouds. The handle was darker still, almost black, providing a stark contrast to the bright shaft.
Julian reached out and wrapped his fingers around it.
The shop changed.
An oppressive but vibrant pressure swept through the room as the wand met his magic. It was not a suffocating weight, more an overwhelming intensity, thick and alive. The air seemed to hum, as if the wooden floor, the shelves, even the dust motes were holding their breath.
Ollivander's eyes lit up.
"Marvelous," he whispered. "Simply marvelous."
He stepped forward, voice full of awe. "That wand has been in my family for centuries. It is the only one of its kind in existence."
He gestured reverently toward the wood. "You see, both the wood and the core are unique. Each came from the only known example of their kind."
"The wood was recovered from the tomb of an ancient alchemist," he continued. "Alongside it was a runic inscription that read, 'First Man's Mistake.' To this day, what that phrase truly means is a matter of debate."
He shifted his attention to the core. "As for what lies within... that feather was taken from the offspring of a phoenix and a thunderbird. Both species are extraordinarily proud and unimaginably powerful. When a miracle child was born between the two, many tried to claim it, as you might expect."
"Even in its youth, the creature was so powerful that every person who approached it died," Ollivander said softly. "No one could tame it. It lived its entire life unchallenged."
He smiled faintly, his gaze distant, as if seeing an old memory. "It is said that, near the end of its life, the great bird descended to my ancestor. It gifted him a single feather, then burst into a storm of golden flame and lightning, while the sky itself wept. It was never seen again."
The wandmaker looked back at Julian, his pale eyes bright with curiosity and something like respect.
"I do not know what makes you so different from everyone who has ever walked into this shop," he said. "But I look forward to hearing the story one day."
He held out his hand.
Julian shifted the wand carefully to his left hand and extended his right to meet Ollivander's grip, sealing their strange, fateful bargain with a simple handshake.