Chapter 12: Books and the Wand
After leaving Gringotts, we stepped into the bright afternoon light and made our way down the bustling cobblestone street. Twinkling magical lanterns hung overhead, and the air was filled with the mixed scents of brewing potions, fresh parchment, and sweet pastries from a nearby shop.
"Next, we should visit Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions," Professor McGonagall suggested, gesturing toward a storefront enlivened by mannequins draped in gleaming black robes with colorful house crests. "Once we provide your measurements, we'll continue on to the other shops, and by the time we've finished, your new robes will be perfectly tailored."
Madam Malkin's shop stood proud in its minimalist elegance. Inside, dozens of robes hung from polished oak racks, each labeled with precise measurements and house colors. Madame herself emerged from behind an embroidered velvet curtain, her warm smile instantly putting us at ease.
"Welcome, dear," she said, lifting a handsome measuring tape. With a graceful flick of her wand, the tape unraveled into midair, floating around me as it recorded the dimensions of my shoulders, arms, torso, and legs. The cloth rustled softly as it glided over my robes. "My, what a fine frame you have! You'd make an excellent model for schoolwear."
I exchanged a glance with my father, who fought back laughter, his eyes twinkling. "Thank you, Madame," I replied. "While I'm honored by the offer, I'm simply here to buy robes today."
Madame Malkin's expression softened into understanding. "Very well, dear. Three hours later, return here, and your robes will await you," she said as she waved her wand. Instantly, a steaming cup of tea appeared on the counter before her. "Care for some tea while you shop?"
We politely declined and stepped back into the bright street. The next destination lay just around the corner—Flourish and Blotts.
I had always loved the smell of old books, and Flourish and Blotts did not disappoint. The moment we entered, the subtle mustiness of parchment blended with the sharp scent of ink and the faint aroma of dragon-hide bindings. Carved wooden shelves reached to the high ceiling, each shelf crowded with volumes on every branch of magic. Sturdy ladders allowed patrons to reach tomes stored aloft.
A crowd had formed at the center of the shop, clamoring for Gilderoy Lockhart's newest release, Wanderings with Werewolves. Colorful posters featuring Lockhart's grinning portrait lined the walls. I remembered his antics from my second year—his flamboyant rescues and ostentatious self-promotion—and I rolled my eyes. His books were more sensational than factual, but I briefly entertained the idea of glancing at one.
As I turned to leave, a gilded sign caught my eye: Official Lockhart Lottery! It proclaimed that one copy of Lockhart's new book contained a hidden coupon entitling the bearer to ten free books at Flourish and Blotts.
Intrigued, I let my magical senses guide me through the stacks. Faint magical traces coursed through certain volumes, like whispered secrets in the air. One pristine copy of Wanderings with Werewolves glowed softly, and I gently drew it from its place.
My parents reminded me that school textbooks were more urgent—especially since the Lockhart book cost nearly five Galleons—but I trusted my instincts. Besides, I thought to myself, i had read hundreds of stories—manga, novels, screenplays—from my world back home. Why not become a storyteller here ? With the coupon, I could afford my textbooks and still satisfy my curiosity with other books.
at Counter Point receptionist congratulated me for winning the lottery coupon.
Clutching the bright green coupon, I gathered my essential semester books: and other books like Foundations of Transfiguration, Graded Potions for Beginners, Introduction to Occlumency, The Art of Defensive Magic, and Magical Theory and Practice etc. those might be helpful for me.
Ten of those books were free thanks to the coupon. My parents generously added several authoritative volumes on wizarding history, herbology, and magical creatures to my haul.
Once our arms were full, we split into two pairs: Professor McGonagall and my mother remained to purchase potion ingredients from a nearby apothecary, while my father escorted me toward Ollivanders, the legendary wand shop.
Stepping through the narrow doorway of Ollivanders felt like entering a different world. The air smelled of polished wood and ancient magic. Hundreds of slender wand boxes lined the walls in neat rows, each inscribed with the wood type, wand length, core material, and date of manufacture. An old wooden sign creaked above: "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
At first, the shop was empty, but from a shadowed corner, a slight figure emerged. Mr. Ollivander himself—sleepy-eyed and tweed-clad—approached with a curious tilt of his head.
"Ah, a young wizard," he said softly, adjusting his spectacles. "I suspect you come from a non-magical family."
I raised an eyebrow. "How could you tell?"
He tapped a long, ivory wand against his fingertips. "I have matched every witch and wizard from the hogwarts and I can remember them. I do not forget the wand I sold and not even the person i sold it to. Your appearance—particularly those golden eyes—does not match any name in my records."
He told me to stand beneath a softly glowing lantern. "Now, remember: the wand chooses the wizard. A wand that feels wrong will let you know."
He pulled a slender box labeled English Oak with Dragon Heartstring. I accepted the wand within. The moment I held it, the shop lights flickered twice, and I felt a surge of energy—but unsettled, like an echo without a source.
"Not quite," Mr. Ollivander said, gently taking it back. "Next, holly with phoenix feather." As soon as I gripped it, a swirl of gold sparks erupted from the tip. I forced myself to steady the wand, but the sparks jumped and hissed away from me.
"Too temperamental," he muttered, replacing it carefully.
One by one, he presented wands of yew, cherry, hawthorn, walnut, and even elder wood. Each time I clasped a wand, a tremor of power surged through my arm, but none settled into harmony. Sometimes the wood cracked softly; other times a faint whine of disapproval echoed in the air.
My father watched with concern as I tested each wand. In his nervousness, he bumped a display table. A porcelain vase teetered and shot toward the ground. Instinctively, I thrust out a hand, and in a graceful arc, the vase floated back to safety.
Mr. Ollivander's breath caught. He strode forward and examined the wand boxes, his fingertips tracing their edges as though listening for a secret. He hummed to himself, beads of perspiration on his brow.
"Remarkable," he whispered. "I have never witnessed such delicate control combined with raw power. Your magic refuses to be contained by any ordinary wand."
He sat at his desk, rubbing his temples. "Mr. Willson," he said in a hushed voice, "I fear none of my existing wands can truly resonate with you. You have been chosen by every wand here, but each wand was rejected by your magic . It appears your magic is… exceptional."
My heart pounded. The idea of a custom wand had never crossed my mind, yet his next words filled me with excitement.
"Therefore," Mr. Ollivander whispered, "I must craft a custom wand for you—one that will contain your unique magical signature. It will take time and care, but I promise, it will be worth the wait."
I nodded eagerly, imagining the slender, polished wood—perhaps with an uncommon core—and the moment it identified me as its master. Outside, the sounds of Diagon Alley continued: shopkeepers calling out their wares, children laughing, and the distant chime of a trolley.
I felt a surge of gratitude toward the venerable wandmaker. In a few weeks' time, I would return and finally hold the wand destined for me—a true partner for my journey at Hogwarts.
I think I can still use magic without a wand but how can I feel of journey at Hogwarts when I don't use a wand
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