Ding~
While Dumbledore was waiting, the glass shop door was pushed open and the bell rang again. A young witch stepped inside.
Her brown hair was puffed out like a thicket that had just been blown through by the wind.
"Good afternoon, Miss Granger."
Dumbledore set down his teacup, stood up, and looked at the slightly stiff young girl, his voice as gentle as a spring breeze.
The little witch stopped in her tracks.
The books in her arms nearly slipped. Her fingers tightened twice on the spines before she managed to steady them.
"Good heavens. You're Headmaster Dumbledore. The real Headmaster Dumbledore."
One third of the future trio, the highly popular young witch Hermione Granger, spoke first and only afterward realized that what she had said sounded wrong.
"I mean... that is... I mean I can't believe I'm actually seeing you in person. I've only ever read about your great achievements in A Short History of Hogwarts!"
Her little face flushed scarlet as she rushed to explain herself.
"There's no need to be so nervous, Miss Granger."
Dumbledore could see how embarrassed she was, and naturally had no intention of criticizing such an innocent verbal slip.
His reassurance only made Hermione blush harder.
She looked completely at a loss.
"You even know my name! You must know every student at the school. Good heavens, you're incredible!"
Hermione genuinely had not expected her name to be known by a wizard as famous as Dumbledore.
She was so excited that she failed to notice Dumbledore's smiling gaze lingering for a rather long time on her fingers.
There was no ring there. No ring engraved with words of flame, no supreme magical artifact that ruled over endless realms. It seemed the theory of the supreme witch reborn truly was just another one of that boy's outrageous inventions.
How could Dumbledore possibly not care about Iain's "prophecies"? After all, the blood running in the boy's veins came from a seer even more formidable than Grindelwald in matters of foresight.
And just then,
"Once the robes are finished, I'll send them to you. You'll definitely have them before term starts."
Madam Malkin emerged with Iain from the back room.
At the very moment she said this, Hermione happened to turn her head.
The young witch's eyes landed on Iain.
Then she froze.
"How can there be a boy that good-looking?"
Hermione was not the sort of person ruled by appearances, but the spectacle before her still left her genuinely startled.
"Want a photo together? One pound for a picture."
Iain recognized the future Minister for Magic, but unlike many time travelers, he had no particular worldly desire to chase after canon characters.
"A pound?"
Hermione blinked, startled.
"I didn't bring any money. I only came to ask whether my robes were ready."
She guessed he must be Muggle-born too, or he would not have mentioned pounds.
"Then next time, definitely."
Iain's tone remained warm. Having said that, he followed Madam Malkin to the counter and accepted ten Galleons from her hand.
"See you at school."
Iain, who already styled himself a Gryffindor certified by the Headmaster, gave a little wave to his future classmate and prepared to hurry straight on to buy his wand.
Dumbledore stepped out of the shop and followed after him. After the two had walked about half a minute along the cobbled road, the old man, who had been observing Iain's attitude toward Hermione the whole time, finally spoke.
"Is there nothing you wish to say?"
Dumbledore's real meaning had simply been curiosity. He wanted to know why Iain had shown no desire to approach one of the supposed members of the "protagonist trio" he himself had foretold.
Unfortunately, after hearing the question, Iain tilted his head, thought for a second, and very naturally misunderstood the direction entirely.
"The fact that Madam Malkin charged me nothing and even gave me money was because she wanted me as her image spokesman. It absolutely was not me selling out my principles and my body."
"Even if I'm not short on money, that doesn't mean I'm some spoiled wastrel. I'm actually very good at earning it."
The young wizard loudly defended himself.
His voice was sharp and far too loud.
"?????"
Dumbledore glanced around at the passersby already throwing curious looks their way and, for all his composure, quickly seized Iain and pulled him out of the area.
Sadly, he had moved just a little too slowly. Coming here without any disguise had clearly been a miscalculation. The rumor that Dumbledore was coercing underage wizards into selling their bodies and principles might already have been born.
Iain's final stop was Ollivanders.
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The young wizard studied the sign and saw what he privately classified as a professionally ridiculous bit of shop advertising.
"I'm about to meet my wand. My partner."
There was no pretending he was not excited. Getting one's wand was usually the opening note of a legend. In stories, the wand itself often foretold the future of its wielder.
"Go on in."
Dumbledore, perhaps, was also very curious what sort of wand Iain would receive.
When they pushed the door open, the bell overhead rang.
Unlike the cheerful bell in Madam Malkin's shop, this one was heavy, muffled, almost like a sigh drifting up from somewhere very deep underground.
The shop was dark.
Every wall, from floor to ceiling, was covered in drawers. Thousands upon thousands of them, packed tightly together, each marked with a tiny label.
On the labels, in gold lettering, were written different woods and cores.
"Good afternoon... ah, a familiar face indeed."
The old voice came from a stooped elderly man, the wandmaker of this generation, Mr. Ollivander.
Naturally, the first person he noticed was Dumbledore.
"Professor Albus Dumbledore."
Ollivander's eyes dropped immediately to Dumbledore's waist.
"I remember your wand. Yes, I remember it very well. Though ever since that legendary wand came into your possession, you have had no need of the old one. Have you?"
His gaze held the sort of regret a scholar might feel when facing a priceless treasure he would never be allowed to touch.
"I have brought this child to choose his wand."
Dumbledore did not produce the Elder Wand. Nor did he mention the wand of his that had once been snapped.
Only then did Ollivander finally turn his attention to Iain.
"Hm?"
His pupils widened. The wrinkles on his face seemed to be pushed outward by some invisible hand, revealing an expression caught between shock and ecstasy.
"Ah. Ah. Ah. So that family has finally produced another wizard."
A man who could identify bloodlines at a glance clearly had some rather unusual heritage of his own.
"To be the one who selects a wand for you is my great fortune."
Ollivander gave a small, gentlemanly bow. Now that Iain knew his own origins, the behavior made a certain kind of sense.
The respect was not truly for him.
It was for the ancestral glory behind him.
"Hello, hello."
Iain hurriedly returned the courtesy.
"Come now. I am certain I can find the right wand for you."
Ollivander began pulling wands from the drawers.
One after another, as if performing a conjuring trick, he produced them from different drawers and handed them to Iain. Iain would take one, give it a wave, and then Ollivander would take it back and replace it with another.
This repeated many times.
"English oak, phoenix tail feather, ten inches. No, no, not this one."
"Black walnut, unicorn hair, nine and a half inches. Give it a wave. Yes... no, still wrong. Not that sensation."
"Rowan, dragon heartstring, eleven inches. Ah, still as odd as ever. A pity."
Fine beads of sweat had appeared on Ollivander's brow. His silver eyes flicked back and forth between Iain and the drawers, his expression shifting from amazement to bewilderment.
"I have never seen so many wands take such a liking to one person. They all like you. And yet why does your body seem to have some subtle resistance to all of them?"
Ollivander's brows drew together. He was utterly perplexed.
"Perhaps I could simply buy all of them."
Iain brightened immediately and pulled out one handful of Galleons after another, as though making a proud display of his financial strength.
However,
"No, no, no. If I were simply to sell you the wands that happen to like you, instead of finding the one that truly belongs to you, that would be an insult to wandlore. And a disservice to you."
Ollivander's tone was firm. He seemed much less interested in Iain's Galleons than in his craft.
Dumbledore stood to one side, quietly watching it all.
His gaze shifted from Ollivander's busy back to Iain, then to the wands that had already been tried and now lay scattered across the counter.
The old headmaster seemed to realize something. He walked over to Ollivander, drew him a little to the side, and murmured something into his ear.
"Hm?"
Whatever he had heard, Ollivander now looked even more confused. When he returned to Iain, his gaze was full of strangeness.
"I have just remembered. There is a hereditary wand in my family's keeping. For all these years it has never found a suitable master. Perhaps, perhaps it has been waiting for you."
Ollivander sounded almost like an actor reciting lines. Then he glanced at Dumbledore, who gave him a discreet nod, and saw that the young wizard's eyes had indeed lit up at once.
"..."
In that moment,
the hundred-year-old wandmaker found it very difficult to describe exactly how he felt.