The next vault they stopped at was numbered 713, and it was clearly in a different category than Harry's. Extra locks, layered protections, and a far more serious air hung around it, all for a single small pouch lying alone inside.
Harry was curious, eyes drawn to the mysterious bag. Julian, on the other hand, was very busy having an internal argument with himself.
Should I just smash it now and save myself the trouble of dealing with Quirrelmort later? he wondered.
If he destroyed what lay in that sack, he would be ripping apart a huge chunk of Albus Dumbledore's carefully laid plans for the coming school year. It would almost certainly make the old man furious, and might also put him personally on the radar of a very annoyed Voldemort.
Great idea. Upset the chessmaster and the murder ghost at the same time. Nice one, Julian thought, feeling a chill run down his spine as he imagined all the ways that could escalate.
He left the pouch alone.
...
Once their business in Gringotts Wizarding Bank was finished, Hagrid led them back out into the sunlight and over to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions for school robes.
The seamstress measured them efficiently and set about tailoring their uniforms, charging a single Galleon for each boy. She told them to come back in a couple of hours to pick everything up.
From there, they headed to a trunk shop so both Julian and Harry could buy proper trunks to store their books and supplies. Three stores later, they had checked off everything on Harry's list except for one crucial item.
A wand.
"You lads go see Mr Ollivander for your wands. I have a spot of business to take care of myself, but I will meet you afterwards," Hagrid said, pointing toward a narrow, slightly crooked storefront in the middle of Diagon Alley.
A sign above the door proudly proclaimed: Makers of fine wands since 382 B.C.
Hagrid handed Julian seven Galleons, which was apparently the fixed price of any wand in Ollivanders, regardless of wood or core. That did not sit quite right with Julian.
With the kinds of ingredients involved, like phoenix feathers that should cost a fortune by themselves, having a flat rate felt... off. Still, he kept that observation to himself.
...
He and Harry stepped into the shop, and a little bell chimed to announce their arrival.
Most people would never have realized that the shopkeeper was already in the room, concealed under a disillusionment spell so he could quietly study his customers before revealing himself.
Harry glanced around the cramped little space, eyes lingering on the towers of faded boxes. Julian's gaze, however, snapped immediately toward the exact spot where Garrick Ollivander was standing, hidden from sight but radiating magic.
The wandmaker was impressed.
The metallic sheen of the boy's hair was striking enough, but what caught his attention was the way Julian's eyes fixed on him without hesitation. His sense for magic was sharp enough to cut.
"You two are going to be quite the challenge, I can tell," Ollivander said, smiling broadly as he dispelled the concealment charm and stepped into view.
"Ah, Mr Potter. I was expecting to see you one of these days," he continued warmly, turning to Harry. "Did you know I remember every wand I have ever sold? Including your mother's. It feels like just yesterday that she was in here, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches, willow, nice and swishy. Excellent for charms."
His voice softened, full of nostalgia.
Then his pale eyes slid over to Julian. "You, young man, are a mystery to me."
Julian remained calm. "Julian Iron. And you must be Garrick Ollivander," he replied evenly.
For a heartbeat, Ollivander looked genuinely taken aback. Then his composure returned and he waved that aside. "Well, well, never mind that for now. Let us get the pair of you measured so we can begin."
He produced a tape measure that moved with a mind of its own and asked which hand each boy would use as their wand hand. Both of them answered right.
From there, the measuring became odd. Arm length, shoulder width, distance between nostrils, finger length, palm span. The tape darted around them, taking note of every irrelevant-seeming detail while Ollivander hummed thoughtfully.
At one point, he caught sight of Sanar on Julian's right pointer finger.
His expression flickered.
He tried to hide it, but Julian saw the way the old man's eyes tightened and how he went still for just a fraction of a second. Then Ollivander looked away and resumed his work without comment, simply filing away what he had seen.
Once the measuring tape finally stilled, Ollivander vanished into the stacks of boxes, muttering to himself. He returned moments later with two wand boxes and opened them with a small flourish.
Harry eagerly reached for the wand held out to him. Julian frowned at the one placed in front of him.
To his senses, the wand might as well have been a block of dead wood. There was no warmth, no resonance, nothing reaching for him. It was clearly rejecting him.
Julian simply shook his head and looked at Ollivander without touching it.
In Harry's hand, the wand gave a feeble spark that only managed to blow up a nearby candle.
And so began the dance.
Ollivander took that wand away, disappeared into the stacks, and brought back another. Then another. And another.
For Harry, the process eventually wrapped around to the moment Julian had been waiting for, the line he remembered from the books. A holly wand with a phoenix feather core, which shone with a strange, wild bond the moment Harry gripped it, sending a spray of red and gold sparks into the air.
The twin to Voldemort's.
Ollivander grew very quiet and very pleased.
That left only Julian without a wand, much to the wandmaker's thinly veiled delight. He clearly relished a real challenge.
Wand after wand came and went. Some fizzled weakly. Most did nothing at all. In every case, the wood and core rejected Julian completely, as if he did not quite fit anything in Ollivander's usual categories.
The pile of discarded boxes grew steadily higher, and still, not a single wand claimed him.