"Mr. Morin, it's a pleasure to see you again. It feels as though you only left the day before yesterday. I still remember your wand-alder wood, phoenix feather core, thirteen and a quarter inches, slightly springy."
As the shop door opened and the crisp chime of the bell faded, the voice drifted out from within.
"Is there something wrong with the wand?"
Just as I thought, Harry mused. Everywhere they went, shopkeepers treated Morin with the same easy familiarity.
"That's because I really did leave the day before yesterday, Mr. Ollivander," Morin replied. "I'm not here for my wand. I'm here to purchase one for Mr. Potter."
Harry looked toward Ollivander.
The old man's pale, oversized eyes gleamed like twin moons in the dimly lit shop.
"Ah. I knew I'd be seeing you soon, Mr. Harry Potter. You have your mother's eyes. It seems like only yesterday she stood here, buying her first wand-ten and a quarter inches, willow."
He smiled faintly.
"Your father preferred mahogany. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power. Though... preferred is the wrong word. It is the wand that chooses the wizard."
As he spoke, Ollivander drifted closer and closer.
Those eyes made Harry uncomfortable. Goosebumps crept up his arms.
"And this..." Ollivander's long, pale fingers brushed the lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead. "This was caused by a wand I sold."
"I am very sorry. Thirteen inches. Yew. Exceptionally powerful."
"It fell into the wrong hands."
He sighed.
"But let us return to business. Which is your wand hand?"
From there, Ollivander began measuring Harry, muttering continuously.
"Every Ollivander wand contains a core of powerful magical substance. Unicorn hair. Phoenix tail feathers. Dragon heartstrings..."
"If I may interrupt," Morin said from the side, raising a hand. "I have a question."
"Yes?" Ollivander looked over, startled.
"Do you have some kind of prejudice against dragons?"
"What? Prejudice? Of course not," Ollivander replied reflexively.
"Then why is it," Morin continued calmly, "that for phoenixes and unicorns, you use tail feathers and hair-materials that grow back-but for dragons, you insist on taking a nerve from the heart?"
He sighed theatrically.
"Do you hear that?"
"The dragon is crying."
"What you're saying..." Ollivander froze. "It does seem... to make sense..."
Harry stared at him.
He'd never thought about it before. But now that Morin mentioned it, the double standard was hard to ignore.
"Let's-let's just try some wands," Ollivander said hurriedly, retreating to the shelves. "Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Give it a wave."
Harry waved it once.
Ollivander immediately snatched it back and replaced it.
"Try this one."
"This one isn't bad."
"I suspect it might be this one."
...
As the trials continued, wand boxes piled up on the floor.
Harry had no idea what the criteria were. Some wands were taken after a single wave. Others were removed before he could even lift them.
What confused him most was that Ollivander showed no impatience at all.
If anything, he looked happier the longer it went on.
"A discerning customer," Ollivander murmured. "But as I always say, the right wand is always here."
He searched the remaining shelves.
"Try this one."
He pulled out a box, opened it, and handed the wand to Harry.
Morin's gaze shifted slightly.
But he wasn't watching with his eyes alone.
He was using other means.
Morin's understanding of soul-related magic was incomplete. Compared to the physical body-which was easy to manipulate-the soul required extreme caution. No one could claim true mastery over it.
More samples meant better comparisons.
And Harry was a perfect subject.
What kind of connection existed between a Horcrux and its original owner's soul? And what relationship did it have with the fragmented remnant it housed?
These were questions worth observing.
The original stories alone were insufficient.
Harry took the wand.
This time was different.
A sense of relief surged through him. His thoughts cleared. His body felt light.
He flicked the wand gently.
Light burst from the tip-clean, controlled, obedient.
Morin watched quietly.
Then his attention shifted.
Toward Gringotts.
Within his telepathic range, something was off.
Quirrell... here under the pretense of buying books on vampires, but actually stealing the Philosopher's Stone?
Morin considered it briefly.
Then dismissed the thought.
School hadn't even started yet. He had no interest in being responsible for seven full years of curriculum.
Teaching was part of his plan-but not that much teaching.
That was why he had chosen his years carefully.
Second. Third. Fourth. Sixth.
The first-years were new. Letting them run wild for a while wouldn't hurt. Voldemort could have his fun.
The seventh-years were finished. Nothing could change their past results.
The sixth-years still had exams ahead. They could still be salvaged.
Start young. Secure the middle.
As for the fifth-years?
Morin was a teacher, not a martyr to labor.
This "middle-out" approach was enough to influence the entire system. Slightly less effective, perhaps-but close enough.
And academic results?
Morin had full confidence in modern Eastern education systems.
At the very least, test scores wouldn't be a problem.
As for practical application?
That barely existed to begin with.
He would compensate with another teaching method.
Definitely not just to market new wands.
"Without question, this is the one!" Ollivander clapped his hands. "Wondrous. Truly wondrous!"
"A wand does not miss its master because of human will-even after all these years, I must say, this is wondrous indeed."
"I'm sorry," Harry asked hesitantly, "but... what exactly is so wondrous?"
"I remember every wand I've ever sold," Ollivander said softly. "Every one."
"It so happens that two tail feathers from the same phoenix were used."
"One is in this wand."
"The other... is in the wand that gave you that scar."
Harry gasped.
"Yes. Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. And yours-eleven inches. Holly."
"Brother wands."
"Truly wondrous."
Ollivander shook his head.
"Mr. Potter, I believe you are destined for great things. Much like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
"What he did was terrible."
"But it was great."
"I agree," Morin said, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder. "After all, you have a vendetta to settle."
Harry understood immediately.
To settle it, Voldemort had to fall.
That was certainly great.
"I imagine it will be a duel for the history books," Ollivander said. "Seven Galleons. Freshman discount."
Harry paid, clutching the wand as he left with Morin.
Their trip to Diagon Alley was complete.
"Morin," Harry asked in the car, "did the wand choose me because of... some special connection between me and Vol-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"
"No one can say for certain," Morin replied, eyes on the road. "But there is a connection."
"Something happened that night."
"And it's waiting for you to uncover it."
"Oh..."
Harry studied the wand in his hand.
Then he remembered something.
"Morin... aren't you a wandmaker too?"
"The wands I make are different," Morin said. "And they take time. That's why I brought you here first."
"Later, I'll make one for you."
"It won't be ordinary."
"I'm looking forward to it..." Harry hesitated. "I'll pay for it."
"No need," Morin replied. "You'll help me advertise."
"Advertise?"
"You're famous. Use my wand to do something remarkable, and people will come."
"I will!"
"Don't make promises lightly," Morin said calmly. "The more promises you make, the less they're worth."
"Do the work."
"And right now, your job is to study."
The sun dipped low as the car drove on.
The following month passed much like the first day.
Fulfilling.
Extremely fulfilling.
From morning to night-aside from meals, bathing, and time in the recovery tank-Harry trained and studied continuously.
The intensity was high, but the recovery tank prevented injury.
He even grew taller.
The greatest change wasn't just his body.
It was his understanding of magic.
And the muscles forming beneath his clothes-real ones, not the result of being thin.
Harry once asked if this would stunt his growth.
Morin was silent for a long time.
Then he said, "Being too tall isn't good either."
During that month, Morin's lawsuit against Vernon and Petunia advanced.
Harry had been nervous when he saw the lawyers they hired.
In court, Morin produced a thick stack of photographs from nowhere.
The lawyers fell silent.
Evidence spoke louder than words.
And Vernon and Petunia didn't have the influence to twist it.
Harry watched them-once arrogant, abusive, contemptuous-reduced to that state.
It didn't feel satisfying.
Just irritating.
When he asked Morin why, Morin replied, "There's no such thing as a 'correct' reaction. People respond differently. That's normal."
Harry chose not to press charges.
They were fined heavily.
They apologized.
Harry wondered if he'd been too harsh.
Morin answered before he finished thinking.
"Everyone pays for their choices. Kindness won't save them."
"Pain teaches better."
Morin always said things like that.
And he was always right.
I wonder what he's been through...
This time, Morin didn't answer.
Whether he chose not to-
Or simply didn't notice-
Harry couldn't tell.
A month later.
August 31st.
"Here," Morin said, handing him an envelope. "Your ticket."
"King's Cross Station."
"Platform Nine and Three-Quarters."
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