Ollivanders
A small boy, only days older than eleven, stood in front of the old and dusty counter in a narrow and shabby shop in Diagon Alley, shifting his weight from foot to foot with his hands pushed into his pants pockets. The boy was thin and stringy; he was short for his age. His coarse black hair stood up on his head in uncontrollable lumps and spikes. It was stuffy in the shop, and he was sweating. He wore an uncomfortable tan suit, which his mother had bought at a muggle shop only a few days ago. The sign above the door of the shop in which he stood read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC. The gold letters on the sign were faded and peeling.
The boy had been in the shop for several hours. About two hours after their arrival at the shop, his mother, realizing that it could be many more hours until their business there was concluded, had left him alone in the wand shop so she could buy the rest of the goods they needed. She had handed him a pocket full of coins, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and walked out into the busy alley, which was bustling with hurrying wizards and witches. That had been about an hour ago, and the shop owner, Mr. Ollivander, had continued trying to sell him a wand.
Mr. Ollivander had measured the boy's arms, his legs, his instep, the length between his shoulders, and every other conceivable measurement; then he had begun to hand the boy various wands. Each time he did so, the boy had given the wand a hopeful swish, and nothing had happened. After about the thirtieth time this had happened, the shop owner had muttered under his breath that he had never before had such trouble selling a wand. Five or six other families had come into the shop to buy wands during that time, and Mr. Ollivander had supplied them with their wands almost immediately. The boy was beginning to wonder if something was wrong with him.
Mr. Ollivander came out from behind a ceiling-high stack of wand boxes carrying yet another wand for him to try. He was old and stooped with large, pale eyes and wild, white hair. He must have seen the look on the boy's face because he stopped and said, "Don't look so downtrodden, Mr. Phaeton. It's the wand that chooses the wizard, not the wizard who chooses the wand. Somewhere here is a wand that will claim you. Now, try this one. Nine and a half inches. Mahogany with dragon heart string."
The comment didn't seem to cheer the boy up much, but he removed his right hand from his pants pocket anyway and reached out for the wand Mr. Ollivander was offering him. He gave it a small flick and nothing happened. Frowning, the shop owner took the wand back and disappeared behind another ceiling-high stack of boxes. He returned moments later with another wand. "Try this one," he said. "Ten inches. Ash with a phoenix tail feather."
Young Mr. Phaeton swished the wand dutifully, but nothing happened. He returned the wand to Mr. Ollivander, who again disappeared behind a stack of boxes. The boy wiped sweat from his forehead with the palm of his left hand and then jammed it back into his pants pocket. He was beginning to wonder if he was even supposed to be here. Then he remembered his mother's excitement, shortly after he and she had moved to London, when she had taken a small brown envelope from the grasp of a large barn owl that had landed on their window box. She had cried with joy when she had opened it and seen the letterhead of Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Remembering this, young Mr. Phaeton resolved to wave wands all day if he had to, until he found the one that would belong to him.
Disclaimer: I own Newt Phaeton and his immediate family. All other characters and locations are owned by J. K. Rowling.