Harry Potter: Magic and Guns

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Humans have an incredible ability to adapt. It's like staying in a bathroom for a while—you eventually stop noticing the smell. Either the environment adapts to you, or you adapt to the environment. Clearly, Harry couldn't manage the former, so he had no choice but to accept the latter.

Hagrid, half-dead and barely dragging his feet, headed for the Leaky Cauldron, while Harry followed the directions he'd been given. Ollivanders was situated in the middle section of Diagon Alley.

The buildings here were much more rundown than those in the bustling shopping street he had passed earlier. Only three or four shops showed signs of still being open, but they were practically deserted. The most prominent among them, right at the crossroads, was Ollivanders.

Harry stopped in front of the shop's sign, looking up.

*Ollivanders: Fine Wandmakers Since 382 B.C.*

The short advertisement was fitting for wizards waving around little sticks. However, the dusty display window didn't showcase a lone wand on faded velvet. Instead, it held an odd, ancient-looking wooden tube, reminiscent of a rolling pin. According to the tag, this was a model created by Leoc Ollivander in 1230, the first modern wand designed for Europeans, inspired by Eastern firesticks.

Harry grew even more silent, but amidst that quiet, a flicker of excitement stirred within him.

He pushed open the door, and a small bell chimed melodiously.

*Ring~Ring~Ring* echoed a sound from somewhere deep within the shop.

The front room of Ollivanders was small, containing nothing but a bench. Behind the counter, towering wooden shelves stretched all the way to the ceiling, stacked densely with black, rectangular boxes of all shapes and sizes.

There was something magical hidden within the stillness and dust of this place.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice, startling Harry. Ollivander emerged from the darkness behind the counter like a ghost. His large, bright eyes were so pale they gave him an almost spectral appearance.

"Good afternoon, sir," Harry said, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"Oh yes," Ollivander began, "Yes, I knew I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter. No doubt about it. Your eyes, they're just like your mother's. I remember when she came here to buy her first wand—it seems like only yesterday. Ten and a quarter inches, willow wood, with a trigger that snapped crisply—a fine wand for casting spells."

Ollivander moved closer, his moon-like silver eyes studying Harry intently. The gaze made Harry's hair stand on end, as if he were being seen right through. It felt almost magical.

"Your father, though, was different. He favored mahogany, eleven inches long, with excellent rebound, superb flexibility, and faster casting. It was stronger, too—perfect for Transfiguration. I always say, the wand chooses the wizard."

Ollivander leaned in even closer, not looking at Harry's eyes, but at his scar. Harry never bothered hiding it; in fact, he thought having a Glock tattooed on his forehead would look cool, matching his Stallone-like muscles.

"Different. Very different indeed."

Ollivander touched Harry's scar with his finger, muttering to himself, "Yes, quite a curious discovery."

"What?" Harry asked, unsure.

"Your scar," Ollivander withdrew his finger and took a step back. "It was caused by a wand I sold. Thirteen and a half inches, yew wood, extremely powerful—too strong for most to handle. But it fell into the wrong hands."

"A .50 caliber Desert Eagle?" Harry asked, referencing the handgun he had seen in his dreams.

"I don't know what it looks like now. Perhaps. Perhaps not. If a wand recognizes two wizards, and I say if, because that has never happened before, it would appear different in each wizard's hands."

"The wand chooses the wizard, it accepts the wizard, and the wizard influences the wand. They are intertwined, affecting each other."

"Wandlore is a profound study. If you're interested, Hogwarts has some introductory books on the subject. Bookshelf 133, second shelf from the left, seventh book. I read it once—it was written by my great-great-grandfather. It's still a good read for beginners."

Ollivander's memory was astonishing—he must have been at least a hundred years old, yet recalling these details didn't seem to take him any effort at all. Harry figured he must have some kind of super memory.

"Let's start by measuring your size," Ollivander pulled out a silver tape measure, "Which hand do you favor?"

"I use both. I've trained myself so I can throw a left hook for a knockout."

That was one of Harry's secret techniques in boxing matches. Most people have a weaker left hand and tend to guard it less, but Harry's left and right arms were almost equally strong, with less than a kilogram difference in power.

"Alright, spread your hands. Yes, just like that."

Measuring such a well-defined, strong hand delighted Ollivander, and while taking measurements, they chatted about wands, which suited Harry just fine.

"Mr. Ollivander, I saw a wand in the display window. It's Europe's first modern wand. What did the older ones look like?"

"Oh, that." Ollivander paused for a moment, surprised. Not many customers took an interest in wandlore, and this was the first time he'd ever heard such a question.

"Look over there," he said, gesturing toward the wall. "You'll see all the different designs wizards have used throughout history. Check the first row—that's what the earliest wands looked like."

Harry's gaze drifted upward. The wall, previously shrouded in darkness, was now softly illuminated by a light that appeared from nowhere, revealing a side of the shop few had ever seen.

However, upon seeing what was displayed, Harry became even more unsettled.

"Why... why does it look like a shepherd's whip?"

Harry pointed at the wand on the first row, speaking with surprise. The wand in question was a simple wooden stick with a rope as thick as a pinky finger tied to the end. As his eyes moved along, the wands gradually transformed into long wooden strips, bound by one or more ropes, resembling some sort of strange string instrument. By the third row, the wands had morphed into curved sticks, looking more like bows.

"The earliest wizards used magic through 'projection,'" Ollivander explained. "When they swung the stick, they would hurl magic using conduits made of magical creature hair or similar materials. The accuracy wasn't great, so it quickly evolved into the second row's plucking method. Eventually, the wand was adapted into the bow-staff you see in the third row. From 445 A.D., European wizards began using it widely, until—around 1000 A.D.—Eastern wizards invented the modern wand. However, due to the chaotic times, the concept didn't reach us until 1230, and it has been continuously refined since."

"Although modern wands no longer resemble staffs, we still call them 'wands.' Or, if you prefer, you can call them 'guns.'"

"Alright, Mr. Potter, you can lower your hand now."

Ollivander had finished his measurements and turned toward the shelves behind the counter.

Before long, he returned, carrying several boxes.

"Let's start with this one—beechwood and dragon tooth, with a core made from dragon heartstring. Nine inches in barrel length, thirteen inches overall. The trigger has moderate resistance. Try giving it a pull."

"A pull?" Harry reached for the flintlock gun Ollivander handed him. This antique reminded Harry of the pirate movies he had seen in his past life. In this world's pirate movies, they used crude electric stun guns, thanks to the early discovery and widespread use of naturally occurring power-storing crystals.

"Yes, pull the trigger. To determine whether a wand has chosen you, activating the core is the simplest test. Your internal magic will be converted into a spell-carrying projectile. In the past, it would have been an arrow or something similar; now, it's a bullet."

"But don't worry. Without using spells, the converted bullet doesn't carry true magical power."

"No bullet tip?" Harry asked.

"You're quite perceptive, and yes, that's correct," Ollivander nodded approvingly. "You can aim over there—there's a target for testing."

Ollivander pointed to the right of the counter, where a mannequin served as the target.

Even though what Harry held wasn't a modern handgun like he had used in his past life, but an old flintlock, there was still something thrilling about the experience.

'What's with these wooden sticks?' Harry thought, already mentally tossing aside the concept of wands. 'This is what a real man should be using!'

Harry twirled the flintlock in a flashy spin, his finger hooked inside the trigger guard, spinning the gun before gripping it firmly and pulling the trigger without even aiming.

*Bang!* A loud crack echoed as a cloud of black smoke erupted, causing Harry to cough uncontrollably. He barely noticed when Ollivander quickly snatched the flintlock from his hands.

"No, no, that's not right," Ollivander said hastily, handing Harry another one. "Try this—ebony, rhino horn, and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches."

One after another, Harry tried the flintlock wands, but none seemed to satisfy Ollivander. The boxes piled higher and higher on the counter, yet with each failure, Ollivander only grew more enthusiastic.

"A discerning customer, eh? No matter. I believe we will find the perfect match for you here. Let me think... ah, yes! How could I have forgotten—a truly extraordinary combination!"

"Holly wood, basilisk fang, phoenix feather—the ultimate clash of death and rebirth. Eleven inches long."

"Remember what I mentioned earlier, Harry?" Ollivander hesitated slightly as he handed over the wand. "The man who left that scar on your forehead—his wand was made of yew wood, basilisk fang, and phoenix feather."

"The wand you now hold is its twin. Both were crafted from the longest, sharpest fangs of the same basilisk and the most radiant tail feathers of the same phoenix."

With great care, Ollivander handed Harry the wand—or rather, the flintlock.

"Go ahead, give it a try."

Harry felt a surge of pressure as he took hold of the wand, which seemed intertwined with the threads of fate itself. His heart pounded as he gripped the wand in both hands, aimed it at the mannequin, and pulled the trigger.

(End of Chapter)