Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World

Not finding a blacksmith left Harry a bit disappointed.

The Hogwarts robe was also something he wasn't quite used to—it was far looser than he'd expected, leaving him feeling as though he'd trip over it at any moment.

He preferred armor—tight-fitting clothing was far more practical.

Hagrid soon returned and took him to buy the remaining items on the list: a cauldron, herbs, books, and a stop at the pet shop, where Hagrid gifted him an early birthday present—a beautiful snowy owl with a sweet expression.

His birthday.

July 31.

He'd nearly forgotten. Witchers, though still human, weren't exactly ordinary. Birthdays were celebrated, but most of his had been spent in the wilds, fighting monsters, or fleeing from humans and beasts alike. It had been years since he'd had a proper birthday.

"Lastly, we need to get you a wand." Hagrid checked the list and mumbled, "Ollivanders is the finest wandmaker there is; you're sure to find the perfect wand there."

The wizard's version of a "blacksmith."

It wasn't what Harry had imagined—small, dusty, with only a single wand on display in a case.

Upon entering, the atmosphere felt a bit oppressive. No...it wasn't the environment.

Witchers have incredibly keen senses.

Harry sensed it the moment he walked in.

The traces of thousands of powerful beings mingled here, along with various magical signatures.

"Oh, a perceptive young man," a soft voice suddenly spoke from behind a counter, startling Hagrid. But Harry had been aware of him all along, this elderly man with an almost invisible presence that even Harry's senses had nearly missed.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. You're more perceptive than your mother," said the old man with silver eyes, stepping out and scrutinizing Harry. "It seems you can feel the auras of these wands?"

Harry nodded. "Yes."

"I'd have given anything for such a gift," Ollivander murmured. "It took me thirty years working with wands to sense as you do."

"It's quite a marvelous feeling, isn't it?"

"A small wand, yet each one has its own aura, its own life, its own thoughts..."

"No," Harry replied bluntly. "It's rather uncomfortable."

"Like..."

"Like walking into a den of thousands of monsters, all watching you intently."

"They're quite menacing."

Ollivander was taken aback, then chuckled. "Oh...a fascinating perspective. To you, anything not your own is a threat?"

"You're quite different from your parents, aren't you? Perhaps...a unique trait of the Boy Who Lived?"

"When young witches and wizards come in, I typically recall their parents—children often inherit certain qualities from them. I usually have them try wands that might match both parents' characteristics."

"Let me think..."

Ollivander turned to the shelves, selecting a box and handing it to Harry. "Try this one: beechwood, basilisk nerve, nine inches."

Harry took it. This wand also had a mixed aura, but it settled down almost immediately in his hand as he gave it a gentle wave.

A red spark flickered, creating a slight breeze.

Ollivander looked at Harry in astonishment. "Oh...how strange."

He took the wand back, but instead of returning it, set it aside and handed Harry another. "Try this one: black walnut, phoenix feather, eleven and one-third inches."

This wand, too, resisted for a moment, but soon became compliant.

A slight wave, and again a gentle breeze.

"Oh, this is so strange!" Ollivander's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Try this one—fir wood, unicorn hair, ten and a half inches."

"A survivor's wand, better suited to you, perhaps?"

Harry took it, waved it expressionlessly.

"No, no, not this one either." Ollivander reclaimed it and handed him another. "Applewood, dragon heartstring, nine and seven-eighths inches."

But this one didn't fit, either.

Alder, holly, blackthorn...

They tried many, but none satisfied Ollivander.

"Let me think, my dear, let me think," Ollivander muttered, rubbing his head.

Harry asked, "So, each wand material corresponds to a personality trait?"

Ollivander nodded. "Indeed."

"Your mother was a gentle soul, and your father a capable leader. If you inherited their strengths, then beechwood would be ideal for you."

"That wand didn't reject you, but...it wasn't quite your partner; it merely chose to submit."

"You're a perceptive young man, so I thought black walnut would be fitting—it's also perceptive. But, like the previous one, it chose to serve, not to bond."

"I began considering your other qualities, but... none of them responded exceptionally."

At this, Ollivander looked up, his expression complicated as he gazed at Harry. "Of course, every wizard destined for greatness is like this."

"There may be... qualities others cannot sense, but wands are very sensitive to such traits."

"Just like that man." Ollivander shivered, glancing at Harry's forehead. "The man who left you with that scar."

"I thought he'd be suited to elm, acacia, or vinewood, but he was best matched with yew."

"That's a wand well-suited to dark magic, infamous for some of its masters."

Harry remained expressionless.

Hagrid shivered, glancing nervously between Ollivander and Harry.

"But you're not like him." Ollivander frowned. "In fact, wands suited to dark magic seem to resist you even more than the others."

"In your hand...they feel like prey."

Harry gave a wry smile—he was a witcher, after all. Though humans cursed them as freaks, monsters, and emotionless creatures, they were still hunters of darkness and monsters.

"I thought Dumbledore was right, that you'd fit the wand tied to your fate." Ollivander picked one up and showed it to Harry. "This one—holly, phoenix feather, eleven inches."

"The feather came from the same phoenix that provided the core for another wand."

"And that other wand was yew, thirteen and a half inches, which went to the Dark Lord who must not be named."

"But it doesn't suit you either."

"You're not bound by fate, as Dumbledore thought."

Harry raised a hand to his scar. "Is that so? What a pity."

Ollivander suddenly stood up, studying Harry. "Oh, I have an idea!"

"Yes, you're clever and mature, but I've never seen a young wizard—or even an adult wizard—who so deeply understands the idea of 'the wand chooses the wizard.'"

"You understood it from the start, though I must say I didn't appreciate your phrasing."

"Perhaps you should try this one."

Ollivander retrieved another wand: "Cedar, phoenix feather, eleven inches."

"I would never dare challenge the owner of a cedar wand. Few wizards possess one; they all have keen insight and perception."

"I believe this will suit you."

Harry reached out and took it. This time, the wand's aura did not struggle but cautiously brushed against his hand before curling around it joyfully.

He waved it gently.

A breeze swept through, ruffling Ollivander's hair.

"Perfect!" Ollivander, unbothered by his disheveled appearance, clapped his hands. "This wand is your ideal match."

"You're a picky young wizard! Oh, I must make a note of you in my records. This is truly remarkable."

Harry inspected the little wand, nodded, and asked, "Thank you. How much?"

"Seven Galleons," Ollivander replied, rummaging behind the counter and pulling out a book. "I'll include Wand Care as a gift."

"Remember, treat it well."

"Finding another wand to match you won't be easy."

Harry took out the Galleons and accepted the book, asking casually, "By the way, Mr. Ollivander, may I ask something?"

Ollivander raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"Do you know where there might be a blacksmith, perhaps in Diagon Alley?" Harry asked.

Ollivander froze, his eyes wide.

Good heavens...

Did he really hear that?

"Why would you ask such a thing?" he stammered, eyeing Harry's wand and silently cursing that he hadn't sensed any displeasure from it.

You've only just found your wand, and you're already thinking about other weapons?

Wake up!

Don't let him sway you!

"I want to forge two swords," Harry answered earnestly. "I think I'm best suited to become... a Gryffindor sort of wizard." He repeated the line he'd overheard at the robe shop.

"Gryffindor only had one sword." Ollivander's face went cold, and he scoffed, "And there are no blacksmiths in Diagon Alley!"

"A century ago, goblins used to forge weapons here for Muggle-born wizards, but times have changed. No young wizard would buy something so crude, violent, and primitive!"

"All the goblins work at Gringotts now."

Harry sighed. "What a shame. Do you know any goblins, by chance? I'd like to ask—"

"No, I do not!" Ollivander snapped, cutting him off with a scowl. "A wizard only needs a wand! Take care of it!"

"Gryffindor's era is long gone!"

"Now, if you'll excuse me,

I'm quite worn out from helping such a troublesome young wizard. I need to rest."

They were promptly ushered out.

Harry wasn't the least bit surprised—witchers tended to have this effect.

Even when he thought he was having a civil conversation, it always ended up involving swords or fists.

Hagrid looked at Harry with an odd expression. "I've never seen Mr. Ollivander so upset before, Harry... You really are a true Gryffindor."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

So...

Being irritating is a Gryffindor trait?