"The lute chooses the wizard, Mr. Lockhart," Ollibarder said, "not the other way around. Now try this one, twelve strings, angora kneazle gut, ten inches fretless yellow cedar mast, light and supple, perfect for ternary rhythms and memory charms, doubles as mêlée weapon in a pinch."
"This is it," thought Gilderoy, "the feeling of power is intoxicating." The very low soft hum of the instrument as he took it in his hands only confirmed it. Lockhart caressed the strings lovingly.
"Turn, turn, tuuuurn," he softly sang, "turn your back at the shop's doooooor... Forget, forget, forgeeeet, forget you ever had this lute for saaaaale..." then left the shop at a hurried pace leaving behind a glazed-eyed Mr. Ollibarder.