Chapter 3: I Don’t Even Need a Wand to Deal with You

Malfoy smirked mockingly at Edward standing before him. Even though he hadn't learned many spells, just holding his own wand gave him an unmatched sense of confidence. And let's not forget—the guy standing half a head taller in front of him didn't even have a wand of his own. "Young masters, my little shop can't handle your antics," Ollivander said with a wry smile, eyeing the two young wizards squaring off. Despite his age, dealing with a couple of young wizards should've been no trouble. The only issue? The one pointing his wand at the other's nose was someone he couldn't afford to cross. Or rather, he couldn't afford to cross his father, Lucius Malfoy. "Don't worry, Mr. Ollivander. I won't let your shop get blown to bits," Edward said, completely unfazed by the hawthorn wand pointed at his nose. He gave a slight nod to reassure the old man behind him. That attitude only made Malfoy more irritated. He was sure the real reason Edward was so fearless was that he didn't believe Malfoy could cast anything worthwhile with his wand. But if this idiot thought that, he was dead wrong. Malfoy had already mastered a few simple hexes with his mother's wand and could cast them with decent skill. They wouldn't cause a huge scene, but they'd definitely make this guy regret crossing him. Malfoy was already debating whether to make Edward's front teeth grow or force him to hop around all day. In the end, he decided making his teeth grow would be more humiliating. "Incen—" But before Malfoy could even raise his wand or finish the spell, a sharp pain shot through his wrist. The pain was so intense he couldn't hold onto anything. His wrist went limp, and his wand slipped, only to be caught steadily by another hand. Edward held a ruler he'd grabbed from who-knows-where in his right hand, while his left gripped Malfoy's wand, pressing it firmly against Malfoy's nose. Malfoy was sweating bullets, his eyes nearly crossing as he stared at the wand tip. Clutching his aching wrist, he couldn't figure out what had just happened. All he needed was less than a second to cast the spell and humiliate this kid. So how had Edward managed to grab a ruler and smack his wrist hard enough to disarm him in that split second? "I call this move the Disarming Charm, no-wand edition," Edward taunted, as if reading Malfoy's confusion. "You need more practice, Malfoy. Your casting's way too slow." "Go find your parents. I think I saw them heading this way on the street," he added, casually tossing the wand back to Malfoy. Malfoy caught it clumsily, rubbing his sore wrist as he slunk toward the door. "We'll meet again, Edward. At Hogwarts, no one's going to help you," he spat, slamming the door behind him as he stormed out of the wand shop. Ollivander's heart, which had been in his throat, finally settled back down. "Merlin's beard, that was quite the performance, Mr. Edward," he said. Once he was sure Malfoy was gone, Ollivander hurried out from behind the counter, his pale eyes scanning Edward up and down as if he were some fascinating new discovery. "Just a little trick," Edward said modestly with a smile. Thanks to the blessing of his foresight, he'd already seen through Malfoy's intentions. When he focused on Malfoy, every movement seemed to slow to a crawl in his eyes. Even which spell Malfoy planned to cast and where he aimed it was crystal clear to Edward. For Edward, Bedivere wasn't just a surname or title—it was the legacy of a Round Table Knight. Since he was old enough to remember, his father, William, had never let up on his training—physical conditioning and basic swordsmanship included. So, with his foresight's blessing, knocking Malfoy's wand away was no big deal. If Edward had wanted, he could've snapped Malfoy's wand in half, but doing that in Mr. Ollivander's shop would've been a bit much. Still, Edward wasn't entirely satisfied with his strike. He felt his angle, force, and precision could've been better. Ideally, he would've knocked the wand into the air and caught it mid-flight instead of letting it fall. After the little incident, Ollivander quickly got up and started rummaging through the stacks of wands. "How about this one? Applewood, phoenix feather, 11 inches," he suggested. Edward gave it a cautious wave, but nothing happened. "Not that one, then. How about this? Black walnut, dragon heartstring, 13 inches?" Edward flicked it toward a nearby filing cabinet. The cabinet let out a deafening bang, and an unseen force yanked all the papers out, scattering yellowed parchment across the floor. Edward quickly put the wand back on the counter, startled, while Ollivander waved his hand dismissively and climbed a ladder to search higher up. But then, Edward heard a faint rustling sound. He knew it was his foresight kicking in again. "Mr. Ollivander, what about that wand?" Edward asked, guided by his instincts, pointing to the third row, second box on a shelf near the counter. Ollivander, still searching high up, looked down at the young wizard in surprise. Sure, wands chose their wizards, but finding the right wand for a customer was his job. He'd never met a wizard who could sense their own wand among the countless others in his shop. Ollivander hurried down the ladder, pulled out the box Edward had pointed to, and carefully handed it over. "Poplar, unicorn hair, exactly 12 inches, sturdy," Ollivander muttered, eyes wide. The moment Edward touched the wand's handle, his palm warmed, and a dazzling white light burst from the tip, illuminating the dim shop. A sudden gust of air gently tousled his hair, and the flames in the oil lamps flickered. "Mr. Edward, I know it's early to say, but if—if—you ever consider a career in wandmaking after Hogwarts, please come find me," Ollivander said, marveling at the changes in the room. "I'm certain you have a remarkable talent for wandcraft." "You're the first customer in all my years who's chosen their own wand." He didn't give Edward a chance to respond, continuing to ramble. "Even Mr. Dumbledore, or that dark wizard whose name we don't speak, didn't have this gift." Ollivander leaned closer, his cloudy, pale eyes glinting with an odd light. But mentioning wands sparked a sudden thought in Edward. "Mr. Ollivander, I have a question about wands," he said. "My ancestor, Sir Bedivere, and King Arthur, and the other Round Table Knights—did they use wands too?"