HP: Professor From Azkaban

Diagon Alley could almost be called the financial center of the British wizarding world, with Gringotts, the only magic bank in the country, situated there.

However, Diagon Alley wasn't particularly grand or upscale. The Leaky Cauldron, which served as the entrance, was proof enough of that.

The entire financial system of the wizarding world was crude and primitive, filled with loopholes in every corner. Any college student with a basic understanding of finance could exploit these gaps and make a fortune.

But being simple didn't mean it was ineffective. An imperfect system meant loopholes for exploitation, but it also meant that countermeasures were almost limitless. William had seen plenty of economic criminals in Azkaban; each thinking they had mastered the system's flaws.

Petty cleverness? That didn't exist here.

Due to the lack of financial laws, sentencing depended entirely on the mood of the authorities. Anyone bold enough to fleece the Ministry of Magic was bound to end up in Azkaban, which wasn't built merely as a showpiece.

William vividly remembered an inmate in the high-security wing. That man had successfully predicted a major upheaval in the Far East using numerical divination and swindled a fortune in Muggle currency. When he tried to exchange it for gold at Gringotts, the Ministry of Magic charged him with violating the Statute of Secrecy and disrupting financial order. They confiscated all his assets and gave him a twenty-year sentence in Azkaban to set an example.

The lack of comprehensive laws gave the Ministry of Magic immense power. If everything were regulated, how would the Ministry hold sway over the pure-blood families?

But William wasn't in the mood to rant.

Standing before Gringotts' doors only reminded him of those prisoners in Azkaban. The Ministry's authority was beyond his influence. After spending so long in prison, he no longer entertained grandiose ideas of reforming the magical world in two years or unifying the Ministry in one. He still had ambitions for the future, but he wasn't delusional.

If I remember correctly, I have just under thirty Galleons in the bank. More importantly, I need to retrieve my custom potion-making set. Getting a new one would cost no more than twenty Galleons, but the time it takes to customize it would be too long, and I don't have that kind of money.

Unfortunately, today seemed to be payday for many people. A long queue had formed at Gringotts. Wizards stood in line with small bags of gold, chatting about various topics.

What made it worse was that the goblins weren't speeding up their work despite the crowd. Only a few goblins were guiding people to their private vaults, and even though the line for the carts going underground was long, the bank didn't bother assigning more staff.

After waiting in line for ages with no sign of progress, William gave up on retrieving his items from the vault. Instead, he headed straight to his second destination; Ollivanders Wand Shop.

Gringotts' vaults were more like safes.

Back when the original owner was planning some smuggling activities, he had stuffed all his important belongings there. But since Gringotts was too busy, he decided to figure out what was wrong with his disobedient wand at Ollivanders.

After some searching, he finally found the tiny, dilapidated shop after passing it twice. The faded sign made him think it was an abandoned store. Only after scrutinizing the sign did he confirm it was indeed his destination.

"Ollivanders – Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."

A thousand-year-old shop, known for its reputation and quality.

William couldn't help but scoff internally before pushing open the door.

***

The shop wasn't spacious at all, hardly deserving of its thousand-year-old reputation. However, apart from a single chair outside, there was no other furniture, making the space feel less cramped.

Boxes stacked to the ceiling immediately came into view. Amid this towering background, an old man was busy with something, his head bowed.

On the counter beside him sat an open, empty box, identical to the rest.

"A new customer?" The man lifted his head, speaking softly.

He glanced at William's coat pocket, prompting William to almost instinctively protect his wallet. Back in Azkaban, he'd met plenty of petty thieves. One of them, Nine-Fingers, made a living out of it. The nickname came from his habit of losing a finger every time he got caught before downing potions to regrow them.

But the old man's gaze wasn't on William's money. Instead, he was staring at the half-exposed wand sticking out of his pocket.

"Oh, it's that one. Sold eight years ago. Twelve inches, red willow, with a powerful swing. It's rare for a child to get their wand at nine. This isn't Japan, after all. Your name is William, correct?"

"Yes, that's me."

William was astonished. The man could remember a wand sold eight years ago just by looking at it. Such extraordinary memory was impressive, even if explained by magic. It was like recalling the contents of three thousand scrolls without forgetting a single detail over the years.

"Is something wrong with it?"

"I think so. Ever since I left Azkaban, it's been acting up," William admitted honestly. He didn't want to hide anything from this walking encyclopedia. Even though mentioning Azkaban seemed a bit far-fetched, it still served as a decent excuse.

"Azkaban, you say?"

Ollivander drew out William's wand, gently stroking it as he carefully wiped off fingerprints and sweat. With a regretful sigh, he handed it back.

"Normally, a wizard's wand remains with them for life, unless there's a profound change in their soul."

"Take good care of it, Mr. William. You no longer need this wand to provide courage. A new wand will become your companion as you continue your journey."

Without hesitation, William followed Ollivander's instructions. For a wandmaker capable of recognizing a wand's owner after eight years, even the most cryptic advice was worth heeding. William figured the old man could probably recall the entire history of every wand in the shop just by looking at them.

Mastery like this, approaching the realm of the divine, was no trickery.

With that thought, William asked about the price of an empty box and purchased one for three Sickles. He carefully polished his uncooperative wand and placed it securely in the box before closing it.

A creation of this caliber deserved such respect.

Even though William's new wand had yet to appear, he was confident that, strong or weak, it would be the perfect fit for him.