The wandmaker takes that one before Victor's even finished raising it. "No, no—here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

He... attempts to wave that one too...?

Not that one, either. Or the next one, or the next, or the next. The pile of tried wands mounts higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulls from the shelves, the happier he seems to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination—fir and phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches, rather solid."

...Victor tries this one too, hardly expecting Mr. Ollivander to leave it in his hand long enough for him to wave it.

The tip of the wand leaves a trail of gently glowing blue mist in the air. He blinks at it. Is that good?

"Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious..." He puts Victor's wand back into its box and wraps it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious... curious..."

"Curiouser and curiouser," croaks Muninn from his cage.

"Er, what's curious?"

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Evans. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar." He peers at Victor again. "Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Evans... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

...he is not sure he wants great things to be expected of him.

But he's very sure he doesn't want to say that to Mr. Ollivander.

He hesitates, unable to think of anything to say.

Nothing's supposed to be said, apparently; Hagrid pays for the wand, a somber look on his face, and as they walk out of the shop he smacks his forehead. "Blimey, Victor, I just thought—did those Dursleys ever tell yeh what really happened to yer parents?"

Victor shakes his head.

His face grows even darker. "Not here. We need privacy."

"Okay."

They return to the pub, Hagrid more taciturn than usual, and he rents them a room. Once there he sits on a bed, which creaks dangerously under his weight, and looks at Victor, gravelly. Or nervously, one of those.

Victor sits on a small chair and waits.

"It begins, I suppose, with—with a person called—but it's incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows—"

"I didn't grow up in your world," he points out quietly.

"Right," he agrees, then swallows. "Well—I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does."

"Maybe you could write it down?" he suggests.

"Nah—can't spell it. All right—Voldemort." Hagrid shudders. "Don' make me say it again. Anyway, this—this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too—some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Victor. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches... terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him—an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway."

Victor listens solemnly to this explanation.

"Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before ...probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side.

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an'—an'—"

Hagrid suddenly pulls out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blows his nose with a sound like a foghorn. 

"I understand," murmurs Victor.

"Sorry," he says. "But it's that sad—knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find—anyway...

"You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then—an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing—he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin' by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh—took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even—but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Victor. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches an' wizards of the age—the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts—an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

"And no one knows why...?"