"Alright boys," said Hagrid, "Last stop, Ollivander's."

Stan and Ford trailed along in the giant's wake as he easily pushed through the crowded thoroughfare of Diagon Alley. Both of them were excited and tired and nervous and happy, all at the same time.

Hagrid was the groundskeeper at Hogwarts, and he'd been sent by Dumbledore to take them to get all the things they'd need for school. He was really tall and scary-looking, but also really nice. With his help they'd already picked up their robes, books, and potion supplies, so all there was left to get now was their wands. He led the way to the tiny wand shop.

"Most everyone what goes to Hogwarts gets their wand at Ollivander's," he told them, "Most every famous witch or wizard ye ever heard of, at that. You'll be in good company, gettin' yer start at Ollivander's."

"But how will we know which wands to pick?" Ford asked.

"Don't you worry 'bout that," said Hagrid, "Mister Ollivander knows how to find the right wand fer ye. Been in the business fer centuries, the Ollivanders have. Besides, when ye get right down to it, you won't really be the ones doin' the pickin.'"

"We won't?" said Ford.

"'The wand chooses the wizard.' That's what everyone in the business says. When ye pick up the right wand for you and give it a wave, it'll know. And it'll let you know too."

"Wow…" Ford whispered.

Hagrid smiled and opened the door of the shop, ushering Stan and Ford inside.

The interior of the store was gloomy in comparison to the bright sunny day outside, and they all had to blink their eyes to adjust to it. The dim room was small and sparse: Just a spindly little chair—which Hagrid sat on—a counter with a cash register and some papers, and the boxes. The boxes. The place was stuffed with stacks, the very walls obscured by skinny boxes, packed tight together like bricks. There had to be thousands of them.

"Good afternoon," came a quiet voice. All three of them jumped—Hagrid nearly falling out of the chair—and whirled around to see the man—Mister Ollivander?—who seemed to have appeared from thin air.

He had silver hair and a thin face and was one of those grown-ups who looked like he could be anywhere from forty to four hundred, like he'd been born an old man. His eyes were the same silver as his hair and almost seemed to glow in the gloom.

"Stanley and Stanford Pines," he said, nodding at them each in turn. Ford wondered how he already knew which one was which, then got a sudden urge to stuff his hands in his pockets. "I've been expecting you today." He looked to Hagrid with a polite nod. "Rubeus."

Hagrid smiled nervously and nodded back, fidgeting with his pink umbrella. He'd been carrying it around all day, even though there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

Apparently that was all Ollivander had to say to Hagrid, because he immediately turned back to Stan and Ford.

"Let's begin, shall we?" he said, "Let me see your wand arms."

"That'd be the hand ye write with," Hagrid added helpfully.

Stan held out his right arm and, after thinking about it a second, Ford held out his right arm too. Ollivander got out a silver measuring tape and took lengths for both their arms, then checked from wrist to elbow on them, then palm-width, and then he let go of the measuring tape and went to go straighten up some paperwork lying on the counter, but the measuring tape kept on going, all by itself: It measured the distance between Ford's shoulder blades, then the circumference of Stan's forearm, then the length of Ford's nose. At that point he had to ask: "Are all these measurements really, um, necessary, Mister Ollivander?"

"Yeah," said Stan, ducking out from under the measuring tape as it tried to wrap around his head, "I mean, if 'the wand chooses the wizard' anyway, then we should just be able to try 'em until we find the ones that work, right?"

Without waiting for a response from Ollivander, Stan scampered over to the nearest stack of boxes and yanked one out at eye-level, miraculously leaving a space behind instead of toppling the entire pile.

"I wouldn't recommend that one," said Ollivander sternly as Stan opened the box.

"Why not?"

"Aspen, unicorn hair, fourteen inches. Fancy yourself a duelist, do you?"

"Guess not…" said Stan with a shrug. He pulled the wand out of the box and waved it around anyway. Nothing happened.

"Now if you'll come back over here, we can—"

But instead of minding Ollivander and coming back to be measured with Ford, Stan snatched another box from the stack.

"Stan!" Ford protested as the measuring tape wrapped around his wrist and got lengths for all six fingers, "You're not supposed to—"

"How about this one?"

"Rosewood, ten inches, phoenix feather," said Ollivander mechanically, "For you? Not likely."

Indeed, this wand failed to respond to Stan's flourishes too, even as they grew insistent, as if he expected to shake some magic out of the stick through pure brute force.

"Here, you try." Stan tossed the wand to Ford, who barely caught it.

"We're not supposed to…" Ford mumbled, staring at the stick in his hand. He looked up to Ollivander, who gave him a tired but encouraging smile. Looking back to the wand in his hand, he gave it a shake. That felt stupid. The wand didn't do anything more for him than it did for Stan. Face hot, he walked over and picked up the wand's box from where Stan had dropped it on the floor, then tucked the wand back inside it. He even spotted the blank spot in the stack where the box belonged and carefully slid it back in.

Stan, meanwhile, was pulling out more boxes. Some he peeked in and abandoned immediately, others he got out and played with to no effect. Ford followed behind him, mostly cleaning up his mess, but also surreptitiously trying out some of the wands himself. Ollivander had given up trying to corral them and simply stood back near the door with his arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked as if he dared them to find their wands without his help. Considering the number of boxes in the shop, Ford didn't like their chances.

Stan grabbed yet another box, tossed the lid away, and gave a surprised laugh when he looked inside.

"Hey, there's two wands in this one, Mister Ollivander!"

"I know," the man replied dryly.

"So what kind are these?" Stan asked. He grabbed one of the wands and then passed the box to Ford.

"Eight and a half inches each, cypress and pine." Ollivander pointed at the one in Stan's hand and the one Ford carefully took from the box respectively. "Cores of dragon heartstring."

"Hey, look!" Stan cried, whipping his wand in a circle above his head like a cowboy with a lasso. From the tip of the wand flowed a fluttering stream of bright orange flame, trailing through the air like a ribbon on a baton. Giggling with delight, he asked, "You think it likes me, Mister Ollivander?" Before the man could answer, the boy hollered, "Try yours, Ford! This is so cool!"

"Um, okay…" Ford gave his wand a tentative flick, and out came a great big shower of orange sparks, like it was the Fourth of July and he'd lit the mother of all sparklers. He laughed and flicked out another volley, then another, and all the while Stan kept carving patterns of light into the air around them. Between the two of them the shop was soon bathed in orange light, a sunset glow at three in the afternoon.

After a moment, Ollivander cleared his throat.

"It would seem you've stumbled upon your matches, Mister Pines," he said.

"Ya think?" said Stan.

Ford took the hint and stopped playing with his wand. He started to put it back in the box, but that felt like the wrong thing to do, a silly thing to do, like taking off his glasses and tucking them away in someone else's nightstand. He held onto the wand instead.

"Stanley…" he said after a few more seconds of his brother continuing to wave his about like he was conducting an orchestra.

Stan smiled bashfully and finally stopped playing around.

"Right," he said, "Uh…" He glanced over at where Hagrid sat, idly fiddling with his umbrella.

"Oh! Right." The giant stood up quickly, toppling the spindly chair, and started hunting through his coat's countless pockets. Dumbledore's money—Or was it Hogwarts's money?—was paying for all their essential magic school supplies. While Hagrid tracked down his coin pouch, Ford asked, "How come these two were in the same box, Mister Ollivander?"

"Because of their cores," the man replied, "You see, normally I only construct one wand from one dragon's heartstring. There are those who would argue that's a waste of material, but a true craftsman knows it helps ensure each wand's individuality. As I was preparing the core for this one, however—" He nodded at Ford's wand. "—the heartstring split—straight down the middle—leaving two perfect halves, most remarkable. Even so, I considered disposing of one half so the other would remain unique. But, you must understand…"

Something flashed at the edge of Ford's vision and he glanced over to see Stan fiddling listlessly with his wand, already bored with Ollivander's story and no-doubt anxious to start trying out magic now he had a wand.

"…the dragon that gave that heartstring was one of the oldest Ironbellies that ever lived. A great and fearsome beauty. It would have been a sin to waste her gift, so I made two wands instead."

"Wait," said Ford, "Does that mean…" He smiled shyly. "These wands are twins?"

"Precisely."

"Whoa…" said Stan.

"Cool!" said Ford.

Ollivander offered to wrap the box for them, but both Stan and Ford were reluctant to part with their new wands, and, chuckling, Hagrid told them they could hold onto them so long as they didn't try to cast any spells.

"At least," he added in a whisper while Ollivander's back was turned, "Not where no one can see ye." He winked.

He paid Ollivander for the wands, and, before they left, Ford made sure to say, "Thank you, Mister Ollivander."

"Yeah!" said Stan, "Thanks for the wands, Mister Ollivander!"

Ollivander nodded solemnly.

"Take good care of them, boys," he said, "I've never made a pair of wands quite like those before, and I doubt I will again."