It was a lovely, golden, Autumn day when I visited Diagon Alley the after I received my acceptance letter, I made sure to save Ollivander's for last. I had been looking forward to it for ages, and when I first stepped into the dank, musty-smelling shop with walls lines with the many thousands of wands nestled in their boxes among dark green velvet, I was sure I would not be disappointed.
My parents and siblings waited outside; I had wanted it that way. For this, the first great leap of my magical education, I wanted to be alone. I glanced nervously around me, taking in my surroundings.
"Hello?"
A voice came, out of the shadows. "Hello."
I jumped.
"Mr Ollivander," the voice said, and when I looked up I saw a man, frail and elderly, with wild, silvery hair and watery blue eyes. He had an odd, wise, sort of feel to him, and his slightly cross-eyed gaze gave one the sensation that is saw more than was perhaps natural.
I told him my name, and he nodded.
"Ah. Yes. I wondered when I could be expecting you."
I wondered how he know me, but when I asked, he merely dismissed my question with a wave of his wrinkled, veined hand.
"Let us begin." He took out his tape measure and, as I knew it would, it began measuring me, completely of its own accord. Ollivander spoke, apparently unconscious of the measuring.
"Let me see, let me see..." he muttered. "Ah, yes. Here."
He carefully took a box down from the shelf and looked at me. "Cypress and Unicorn," he said. "Eight inches, springy." I picked it up nervously, and flicked it about, but before I could do anything more, he snatched it back. "No, no. Try this. Ash and Dragon, fourteen inches. Stiff."
Once again, I waved the thing about, but a second later it, too, was taken, only to be replaced by "Alder, Phoenix, nine inches, supple,", then "Dogwood, Unicorn, ten inches, unyielding".
The pile of tried wand was mounting, and my confidence was doing the opposite. What if I messed up now? What if nothing worked for me? I could almost here Ollivander's voice: "Ah, no. There must have been some mistake. You can't be a witch after all."
Then: " Aha!" I nearly jumped in surprise. "Here! Try this. Cedar with a phoenix feather core; Eleven and a half inches, fairly supple."
The wand was thin and elegant, with a delicate, coppery-gold pattern of leaves winding up the handle and into the shaft of my wand. Its handle was slightly thicker than the rest, woody-feeling, and the base color was a dark shade of woody brown.
He handed it to me, and I felt its rough wood beneath my fingers, lifted it carefully in the air, feeling that wonderful, warm tingling spread slowly up my fingers. I brought the wand down in a quick slashing motion, and a shower of golden sparks flew out the tip.
As if from the end of a long tunnel, I heard Mr. Ollivander's sudden outburst of clapping, the cheerful 'well done!', and I listened only vaguely to his words. Odd, disjointed phrases drifted towards me: 'strength of character, unusual loyalty'.... 'powerful adversary'.... 'nice, straightforward style of magic'.... 'good adaptability'.... 'rarest core type'....
I gripped my wand tightly in my hand, and tried to brush away the tears that had suddenly welled up in my eyes.
I shoved the wand box in my bag, but I gripped my wand tightly in my hand as I left the shop.