Wandering from shop to shop, gathering my school supplies, wondering how I would escape this technicolor nightmare hallucination and make my way to Kings Cross, I wandered into what screamed 'jock shop' in my forebrain. A mere glance around brought in helmets, pads, kickballs (strapped down and struggling) as well as golden novelty balls held aloft. But what kept me there was the curious assortment of cleaning supplies. An odd choice given the obvious Sports Memorabilia feel to the place.
Ignoring the Bully Armor, I made my way to the vast assortment of brooms. Then it hit me.
Literally. A broom had fallen from its plaque which I happened to be wandering beneath at the time
Rubbing the sore spot on my head with one hand, I picked up the offending broom with the other. That's when I felt it for the second time that day. A rushing of heat, and my grip strengthening around the wood of the handle.
"Young man," called the shopkeeper, "Are you alright?" An athletic man with a concerned look on his face rushed around the cashier counter to my side.
"I'm fine… can I, I mean, I need, um… how much for this?" Words were never easy, and just like the wand that found its way to me earlier that day, this dark brown, rough broom felt like it had chosen me. I couldn't bear to leave without it.
"I'm sorry son, that's an antique. The Moontrimmer wouldn't do you any good in modern Quidditch matches anymore, besides it's not really for sale. That there's a rare vintage; handmade from Ash."
"Are you saying you let a child become injured in your shop due to your negligence and then refused him service?" My gaze snapped to meet his with a ferocity I rarely felt in myself. He may stand 40 centimeters over me, but in that moment I felt his spirit wilt to that of a banker.
"NO! No. Of course not, you go ahead and you keep that broom. I'll put something else on the plaque later." He backed away, hands held protectively in front of him.
Now I knew how'd I'd make it King's Cross in time!