Mr. Ollivander handed Tyler another wand, but before Tyler could properly test it, the old wandmaker snatched it back again. His pale eyes narrowed, not in displeasure, but in the sharp, fascinated concentration of a craftsman facing a difficult problem. "Oh, no," he murmured. "No, no, this one is not suitable either."
He turned back to the shelves at once, fingers moving along the stacked boxes with surprising speed for someone his age. "Then come, let us try this one. Acacia and phoenix feather, eleven inches."
The wand was placed in Tyler's hand, but the moment his fingers closed around it, Ollivander's expression changed. Before Tyler could even raise his arm, the old man took it away and returned it to the counter. "No, not that one either. Acacia is terribly particular, and it does not seem interested today."
Another box opened with a whisper of old cardboard. Ollivander drew out a pale wand and offered it with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. "What about this one? Applewood and unicorn hair, twelve and a quarter inches."
Tyler took the wand and gave it the slightest wave. A bright flash burst from the tip and shot across the counter, striking a vase with enough force to blow it apart in a spray of ceramic shards and scattered flowers. The sound cracked through the small shop, and dust drifted down from the shelves.
"Sorry, sir," Tyler said, lowering the wand. A trace of embarrassment crossed his face, though it was more irritation at the loss of control than guilt over a broken vase. Wizards had spells to repair damaged things, but his magic was too strong and too active, and when a wand rejected him, the result often became everyone else's problem.
He had been born with magical power far beyond what a normal young wizard should possess. Most children did not begin to develop real reserves of magic until around the age of eleven, and even then, their growth came slowly, year by year. Tyler had been different from the beginning.
Even as a very small child, he had carried a frightening amount of magic in his body. Accidental magic had happened around him constantly, breaking objects, warping rooms, and turning ordinary frustration into bursts of force that left furniture cracked or glass shattered. If not for the protections in the manor and Timo's constant care, his childhood might have drawn far too much attention.
Because his magic had been too powerful to leave alone, Tyler had been forced to compress it. The pressure had twisted inward and formed a dark force inside him, the same terrible power known in the wizarding world as an Obscurus.
Usually, an Obscurus was born when a magical child suppressed their own power out of fear, pain, or desperation. Without guidance, without control, and without any safe way to release their magic, that power curdled into something unstable and dangerous. It became a separate dark force within the child, one that could eventually break free.
In wizarding records, the host was called an Obscurial. The Obscurus inside them moved with terrifying speed and could erupt from the body as a black, formless storm. Once unleashed, it could tear through walls, throw people aside, and leave ruin in its wake before the host even understood what was happening.
Obscurials rarely lived long. In documented history, almost none survived beyond the age of ten, because the power inside them eventually consumed their bodies or took control during moments of extreme emotion. The more they suppressed their magic, the more the Obscurus turned back on them.
Tyler, however, was not an ordinary Obscurial. The dark power inside him existed, but it did not command him. It was controllable, usable, and dangerous in a way that belonged to him rather than the other way around.
Because of that, he had been able to learn many powerful spells on his own before ever entering Hogwarts. Some magic required more than correct pronunciation and wand movement; it demanded raw magical strength. Young wizards could not cast those spells not because they were stupid, but because their bodies simply did not contain enough power yet.
"Oh, no trouble at all," Ollivander said, glancing at the shattered vase as though it were an interesting side effect rather than damage to his property. With a flick of his own wand, the fragments swept aside, though he did not bother fully restoring it. "But clearly, that wand is not for you either."
He pulled out a new box and opened it with renewed enthusiasm. "Come now, try this one. Ebony and dragon heartstring, ten inches, very springy."
Tyler accepted it and tested it. The wand vibrated violently in his grip, sending a low hum through the shop before Ollivander quickly plucked it away. The old man shook his head and placed it with the growing pile of failures.
One wand after another followed. Beech and unicorn hair. Cherry and phoenix feather. Yew and dragon heartstring. Rowan, cypress, ash, pear, hornbeam, maple, and laurel, each with a different core, length, and flexibility.
None of them chose him. Some reacted too violently, some lay cold in his hand, and others seemed to resist him the way a living creature might recoil from a touch it disliked. By the time an hour had passed, the wands Tyler had tried were stacked on the bench beside him in a small mountain of rejected possibilities.
"Could there really be no wand suited to me?" Tyler wondered silently. His patience was thinning, and even his face had begun to lose its usual calm. Hundreds of wands seemed to have passed through his hand, yet not one had settled properly.
If there truly was no perfect match, he could simply choose one at random. A wand was only an aid for spellcasting, after all, and he could already perform magic without one. Still, attending Hogwarts without a proper wand would be troublesome, and drawing attention to his wandless casting was not something he wanted.
"Oh!" Ollivander said, sounding almost delighted rather than discouraged. "A difficult customer. A very picky customer indeed."
Tyler looked at him, unsure whether the old man was speaking to him or to the wands themselves. Ollivander's smile had grown wider, and his pale eyes shone with the joy of a man who had found a challenge worthy of his obsession. "But no matter," the wandmaker continued. "There is always an ideal and perfect match. There must be."
He tapped his fingers lightly against the counter, thinking. "Let me see. Let me think. Ah—yes. How could I have forgotten? Ollivanders does not send a customer away unsatisfied."
With that, he turned and walked into the back room. The shop fell quiet behind him, leaving Tyler among the towering shelves and the faint smell of disturbed dust. After several moments, Ollivander returned carrying a long box covered in a thick grey layer of age.
"I must say," Ollivander said as he set the dusty box carefully on the counter, "this wand is very old. It was the final wand my grandfather ever made."
He opened the box. Inside, nestled against faded lining, lay a black wand. It was longer than most, sleek and severe, with a presence that made the cramped shop feel suddenly colder.
"Come now, child," Ollivander said softly. "Try this. Elder wood and Thestral tail hair, fifteen inches. This is a wand of considerable power, and only an extraordinary wizard could win its approval."
Tyler did not reach for it at once. He stared at the wand, and for the first time since entering the shop, true surprise flickered through him. Elder wood and Thestral tail hair—those were the materials of the Elder Wand, one of the Deathly Hallows.
But the Elder Wand should have been in Dumbledore's possession by now. Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald decades ago, and with that victory, the wand's allegiance had passed to him. The wand resting in Ollivander's box could not be the real one.
"Mr. Ollivander," Tyler said slowly, "unless I am mistaken, in The Tales of Beedle the Bard, the wand held by the eldest brother was an elder wand made by Death himself."
"Oh, you are not mistaken," Ollivander replied. His eyes gleamed with approval, as if he appreciated a child who knew the old stories. "But this is not the legendary Elder Wand. This is my grandfather's attempt to imitate it, crafted according to the materials described in the tale."
The legend of the Deathly Hallows had circulated through the wizarding world for centuries. The so-called unbeatable Elder Wand was an object almost every ambitious wizard had dreamed of at one point or another. To a wandmaker, the idea of recreating it would have been nearly impossible to resist.
Ollivander's grandfather had been no exception. He had wanted to create a wand that could rival the old legend, a wand worthy of being compared to Death's own gift. Unfortunately, there was only one true Elder Wand, and copying its materials did not mean copying its nature.
Wands made of elder were notoriously difficult. Combine that with Thestral tail hair, a rare and unsettling core tied to death and perception, and the result became almost impossible for an ordinary wizard to claim. A wand like this would rather gather dust than accept an unsuitable master.
Because of that, this imitation Elder Wand had never found an owner. It had been placed aside, forgotten in the corner of the shop, waiting through the years while other wands came and went. After its failure to sell, the Ollivander family had never made another like it.
"Come, try it," Ollivander said with a smile. His voice was soft, but his attention was fixed completely on Tyler now. "Let us see whether this wand will recognize you."
Tyler reached into the box and took the elder wand. The moment his fingers closed around it, a strange sensation passed through him, smooth and cold and immediate, as if the wand had always been part of his arm and had merely returned to its proper place. He raised it toward the broken remains of the vase and spoke clearly. "Reparo!"