The wand chooses the wizard, or so they say.

Margaret never quite understood what that meant, despite hearing it from her family for most of her life. Her mother said she'd understand when she was older. Her father, a Muggleborn, just shrugged and admitted he never quite understood it either. Her elder brother had tried to explain it once, but Alex wasn't good at explaining things to start with. She supposed that once she was to pick her own wand, it would at least make a little more sense. That was why Ollivander's was the first place she dragged her parents to when they arrived at Diagon Alley that morning. Her brother, already possessing a wand, wandered off to Quality Quidditch Supplies. They had the new Windbolts and Nimbus 3000s on display in the shop window, and he'd spotted a cluster of his friends.

The little wand shop was dusty and dim, crowded with little boxes and smelling heavily of sawdust and resin. Mr. Ollivander smiled at the family from the counter, moving around shakily to take Margaret's measurements. Mum said that the Second War was hard on him. That much was clear in the way his voice trembled, and the fact that he had to stop to rest every few steps. He even startled now and then at a loud noise from outside the shop. All the same, he seemed eager to help as he pulled box after box from the shelf and handed the wands inside to the girl to try.

"Let's start with this. Beech and phoenix feather, nine and one-quarter inches. Springy."

Nothing.

"Oh well. Here, try this one. Mahogany and dragon heart string, eleven and one-half inches. Good for transfiguration."

Nope.

"Alder and unicorn tail hair, ten and three-quarter inches."

"Oak and dragon heart string, ten inches."

"Birch and unicorn hair, eleven and one-quarter inches."

"Cedar and phoenix feather, ten and one-half inches."

Not even a spark, not from the wands anyway. Mr. Ollivander seemed to think that they were getting closer though. he shuffled off into the back of the shop, as if an idea had struck him. That was good. Mum had long ago taken off to get Margaret's other supplies, and Margaret herself was getting frustrated. Dad didn't seem concerned but then, nothing ever seemed to rustle his jimmies. Suppose that's why he was a Hufflepuff back in his day. Finally, Mr. Ollivander came back with one more box. He set it on the counter and flipped it open before handing the wand inside to her.

"I just finished crafting this one last night - had a feeling I'd be needing it today."

Even before Margaret touched it, she had a feeling that this was the one. It became an extension of her arm as soon as she wrapped her fingers around it.

"Go on, give it a wave," Mr. Ollivander said. The wand made a whistling noise as she whipped it through the air. A mass of blue and lilac sparks shot from the end. Dad looked very pleased and frail Mr. Ollivander actually clapped.

"That's the one, that's just the ticket!" he was saying, "I knew we'd get it soon enough!"

Margaret insisted that she be allowed to pay for it herself. It cost a whole ten Galleons, almost all of her leftover birthday money, but she didn't care! The wand was a symbol, a symbol that she was finally going to be a witch inher own right!

Hazel and phoenix feather, 12 and one-quarter inches, and it had chosen her.