"Good afternoon," Ollivander immediately switched into business mode.
Robert noticed that upon seeing who had entered, Ollivander's eyes lit up instantly, gleaming like two bright moons in the dim shop.
"You, hello," the boy said, his voice a bit reserved. He shrank back a little after stepping inside, making an effort not to touch anything. Every now and then, he would glance back at the Giant standing behind him.
"Oh, yes, I knew I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter. Your eyes are just like your mother's—when she came here to buy her first wand…" Ollivander went into a trance for a moment, his voice laced with nostalgia. It was rare for him to talk so much before he started reciting the standard wand details.
But the more he spoke, the more nervous Harry Potter became.
Meanwhile, Robert's gaze remained fixed on Hagrid, noticing a pink umbrella faintly poking out from beneath his open coat. Moreover, when Ollivander mentioned Harry's snapped wand, Hagrid gripped that umbrella tightly.
This disguise, however, was meaningless—especially in front of Robert.
[Willow (Oak), Phoenix Feather, Sixteen Inches]
[Status: ???]
[Characteristics: Indestructible, though it has undergone some sort of alteration. This wand has changed slightly since its repair—though, one would rather not be jabbed by it.]
The status line was blank, likely due to it having been snapped and then repaired.
Perhaps Robert's stare was too obvious; Hagrid felt a bit guilty. He tightened his coat to cover the umbrella and slowly shuffled toward the door.
"This is just… just a normal umbrella," he mumbled, trying to deflect attention.
"I can help you fix it."
"What?" Hagrid stopped in his tracks, his thick legs trembling involuntarily.
"I don't understand what you're talking about… This is just… an old umbrella, it doesn't need fixing… Yes, that's right."
"I don't think so," Robert shook his head thoughtfully. "Everyone assumes the most important part of a wand is the core. But in reality, it's the shaft that matters most. It's the part that holds the wand's true secrets."
Hagrid's expression became more serious. Ollivander, who was nearby, didn't pay much attention, assuming Robert was just explaining the usual wand lore.
"Repairing the core isn't difficult, but the shaft is a different matter. Even if fixed with extremely powerful magic, it won't be the same as before. Over time, it could crack again. When that happens, you'll need to wrap it in magical tape or even cover it with another layer of wood, like… an umbrella handle."
"Then what should I do…" Hagrid blurted out, before quickly clutching his chest again, realizing what he had said.
"I… I was just curious."
"Completely fixing a wand is very simple," Robert continued, pretending not to notice Hagrid's actions. "You just need to find a highly skilled wandmaker, like Ollivander."
Hagrid became more attentive. But just then, Robert suddenly turned around and returned behind the counter.
"You must be a Professor at Hogwarts too," Robert remarked casually, "It's nice to meet you," he said, stopping there and not continuing the conversation.
Even as Hagrid glanced over at him, Robert just lifted his head, flashing the bright, sunny smile typical of an eleven-year-old child.
But Hagrid was different.
Robert was absolutely right—after decades, his repaired wand was covered in cracks, secured with another layer of willow wood to keep it intact. Although Dumbledore was highly skilled, and the wand still worked despite the cracks, it was a constant inconvenience.
Hagrid had always wanted to fix it.
He hadn't expected Robert to give him such an unexpected answer, only to stop at the most crucial moment and leave it hanging.
Frozen, Hagrid stared at Robert, his expression filled with deep pain, a look that lasted until they both exited the shop.
The door opened and closed as Harry left, yearning for the magical world.
Ollivander gazed through the dusty glass at the two increasingly blurry figures in the distance and sighed.
"Is this destiny? After all, he did take that wand."
Robert shrugged, noncommittal.
A few days ago, Ollivander had rummaged through his cabinets and found a wand that had been kept for over ten years—a legendary, high-quality one he had specifically set aside.
It seemed Ollivander had known Harry Potter would be coming to Diagon Alley soon and had begun preparing for it long before.
Tsk, that clever old wandmaker.
Fortunately, Ollivander didn't know what kind of filial thoughts Robert had in mind. He continued:
"I also thought about letting him try other wands."
"Other wands?"
Ollivander didn't elaborate, just gestured toward the large pile of wands on the counter that Harry had tested.
None of them were suitable.
Robert scanned the pile, narrowing his eyes.
Beech wood, representing wisdom, with the heartstring of a powerful Dragon; only a wizard with both wisdom and courage could gain its favor.
Maple wood, Phoenix feather… symbolizing continuous growth and hope.
Ebony, Unicorn tail hair… seeking power without forgetting loyalty.
In the wand language passed down through generations in the Ollivander family, these combinations were all designed with the Savior's personality in mind—but none were quite right.
Harry had chosen the wand that was tied to his destiny.
Holly: purity, rebirth.
Phoenix feather: hope, rebirth.
It was only after studying wandlore that Robert realized these two materials should never be combined. There was too much overlap.
Only through death could one truly be reborn.
And purity—was it the purity of the soul? The very fragment of Voldemort's soul that resided within Harry's wand?
Robert suddenly felt a twinge of regret. He shouldn't have been focusing so much on Hagrid, the future material supplier. He should have paid more attention to Harry.
"What are you thinking about?"
Ollivander's voice jolted Robert back to the present.
"Nothing," Robert shook his head. "Just wondering which house I'll be sorted into at the Sorting Ceremony."
"They're all good, as long as it's at Hogwarts," Ollivander replied, almost absentmindedly. "Oh, I almost forgot, you haven't chosen a wand for yourself yet."
As he spoke, his excitement became evident.
"How about it? Do you need me to help you pick one?"
"A new wand?" Robert blinked.
"Do I need one?" Without waiting for Ollivander to respond, he pulled out a large handful of… things that could be considered wands from his pocket.
Unlike traditional straight wands, the ones Robert took out were all rather unconventional.
Curved, semi-circular, perfectly round, right-angled, Z-shaped, lightning-shaped… about seven or eight of them, all carefully held together by Robert's small hands.
Seeing the strange assortment of wands, several veins popped up on Ollivander's forehead, throbbing visibly.
"At least they're passed down... they're passed down…"
Ollivander took a deep breath, convincing himself to accept the new ideas.
After all, he had tested these wands, and though unconventional, they did work. Whether they were easy to use was another matter, but they were real wands—and that was enough.
Moreover, when Ollivander was eleven, he was still carving wood. Robert, at only eleven, had already crafted real wands—and several of them.
Such talent—there was no one in the Ollivander family tree from centuries ago who could compare.
So what if he liked to bend wands into circles? It wasn't a big deal; as long as they worked, that was what mattered.
Before the next customer arrived, Ollivander had finally convinced himself… well, probably.
However, in the time that followed, Ollivander never again brought up the subject of a new wand for Robert, as if he had never said it at all.