Harold Flourish was sorting his Knuts from his Sickles—the incompetent cashier clearly did not know the difference between the two—when a loud rumbling came from his fireplace.

Mr. Flourish ignored this. Customers often used the Flourish and Blotts fireplace to Floo into Diagon Alley, and although the disturbance bothered him, he had quickly learned not to yell at the culprits for causing it. Yelling scared them off, and scared people didn't buy many books.

The first incomer was a kind-looking, middle-aged woman with suspiciously jet-black hair and eyes that twinkled at everything they saw. The second was a child—one of those damned eleven-year-olds, Mr. Flourish noticed, his heart sinking. Well, of course she was eleven. Children under eleven never came into the bookshop because they simply couldn't be bothered with books. They were too busy causing trouble for their relatives—this was perfectly fine with Mr. Flourish, of course, because they weren't causing trouble for him. Eleven was the fatal age when one was forced to enter a bookshop to buy one's school books. There were a lot of eleven-year-olds this year, he noted. They were bad for business. They ran around and shouted and tried to make forts in the back room. Why, one of them had even sunk his teeth into an extremely rare copy of Hairy Nose, Human Heart! The nerve!

This particular monster was very small and very scrawny, with bright eyes. She looked up at Mr. Flourish disdainfully.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare at me, or are you going to ask me if I need any help finding anything? Oh, and you have a tomato stain on your front."

Mr. Flourish looked down at his clean, pressed uniform robes, and saw that the child was right. He swore. After a moment, he looked up, a wide, fake smile on his face.

"Do you need any help finding anything, miss?"

"No, I don't," she said in a dignified voice. With that, she took the hand of the elder woman (who did not look quite as kind-looking now) and marched off to where the Standard Book of Spells sets were showcased.

Mr. Flourish swore again, then stormed off to the back room to complain to Mr. Blotts about eleven-year-olds.


"You were quite rude to him, Lola," chuckled Mrs. Pomfrey as they strolled through the alley laden with shopping bags—or, rather, Mrs. Pomfrey was laden with shopping bags, and Lola was peeking into whatever store was nearby. "It was uncalled for, mean, and very funny."

"Does that mean you approve?" Lola smirked.

"What? No! No, no, no," said Mrs. Pomfrey hastily. "No, I do not approve. And if I get any word that you've been doing that to people at Hogwarts, you will be in big trouble, young lady."

"Yeah, yeah," Lola muttered. "Look at them." She pointed to a group of teenagers in bright robes ooh-ing and aah-ing over the latest broomstick, and wrinkled her nose. "Quidditch is so stupid, Pomfrey."

"Too right it is," said Mrs. Pomfrey. "And dangerous, too. It's good you don't like Quidditch."

"Isn't it? What's next? I've ticked off my uniforms, my books, my cauldron, my telescope, my scales, and my phials—is there anything else, besides the wand?" Lola looked very hopeful.

"Well, it says you're permitted to have an owl, a cat, or a toad."

"Oh, I don't need an owl, we're allowed to borrow the school ones, aren't we? And toads are naff. Can I have a cat, Pomfrey? Please?"

"Maybe," said Mrs. Pomfrey hesitatingly—cats were expensive. "We'll go by Eeylops after we buy your wand and see if there's any other pet you like, sound good?"

"Oh, I'm dead set on a cat, but yes, I suppose."

"All right, that's settled then. You go get your wand, and I'll buy you some nice quills and parchment, the stuff they give out at the school is rubbish, I'm afraid. And getting one's wand is really something one should do alone, don't you think? Pip pip, Ollivander's is that way!"

Lola grinned, and set off at a skipping pace towards the wandmaker's shop. This seemed to bother the shoppers jostling her as they hurried towards their destination, so she slowed down, not wanting to call attention to herself.

Gee whiz, Lola thought, Ollivander's a right geezer! This was a rather crude way of putting it, but she was right. Ollivander's white hair was falling out, he was more wrinkled than a gnome, and when he smiled, he showed off a lot of cracked, yellow teeth.

"Miss Creevey, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ye-e-es, I remember your parents." He closed his eyes. "Your father: nine and a half inches, cedar, and phoenix feather. Unbending. Your mother: fourteen inches precisely, hazel, one of the last unicorn hair wands I made. Surprisingly swishy—good for Transfiguration. She was an exceptional witch, wasn't she?"

"Yes, sir," Lola repeated.

"I was quite sorry to hear of her death."

She was silent.

"You must excuse me, dear girl, that was insensitive. Now, how about we get to the exciting stuff—try some wands, eh?"

"Yes!" Lola exclaimed. "Please," she added sheepishly. Ollivander seemed not to notice her awkwardness, however, as he was busy prising a box out of a drawer. He opened it, and gave the wand inside to her.

"Go on. Try it out."

She waved it enthusiastically, expecting excellent results. A mirror on the wall shattered and fell to the floor. "Was that good?" Lola asked.

Ollivander hesitated before answering. "Er—maybe we'll try another one."


Half an hour later, Lola decided that getting a wand was not all that it was cut out to be. She had tried dozens of wands, and according to Ollivander, none of them were 'just right.'

"I don't give a rat's arse," she growled finally, abandoning all the manners Mrs. Pomfrey had taught her, "if the wand's 'just right!' I just want it to function, you know, do magic! Can't you just give me some random one so I can give you my seven Galleons and go get my cat?"

Ollivander, however, was not discouraged by this outburst. "Now, now, Miss Creevey," he said smoothly, pulling out yet another box, "patience is a virtue, you know. Try this one."

Furious, Lola snatched the wand, pointed it at the ceiling, and brought her arm down. Hard.

Suddenly, she felt a warm, tingling sensation float up her arm, and silver sparks shot out of the wand like fireworks. Ollivander clapped his wizened hands.

"Well done! Yes, very well done. That's twelve and three-quarter inches, redwood, and dragon heartstring. Slightly springy. That'll be seven Galleons, Miss Creevey."

Lola gratefully slid the gold across the desk and got out of the wand shop as fast as her feet would take her, clutching her wand in her left hand.


"You got it, then?" Mrs. Pomfrey said. "Excellent! Now, give it to me so I can put it in my purse."

Lola's grip tightened on the wand. "Why?"

"It'll be safer that way," she explained. "And besides, it's not like you can do anything with it now, you haven't learned any magic yet!"

"I suppose," Lola grumbled, handing over her precious wand. "Let's go buy a cat!"

"Only if you don't like anything else, dear," said Mrs. Pomfrey hastily. "Only then."

When they reached Eeylops Owl Emporium, Lola immediately ran off to see where the cats would be, while Mrs. Pomfrey admired the jobberknolls.

There weren't many animals she liked. Toads caused skin afflictions, owls bit your fingers, and kneazles were unnaturally aggressive. But jobberknolls were sweet, puffy birds that cuddled against your cheek and never made any obnoxious noises, and Mrs. Pomfrey had a fondness for them.

"Excuse me, miss," she said, trying to get a hold of a curly-haired salesgirl, "could you tell me how much—? Excuse me!"

The salesgirl was weaving through the throng of chattering shoppers as if she had not heard Mrs. Pomfrey. Finally, she stopped, and tapped another girl in violet uniform robes on the shoulders.

"Oi, Gladys, when was that shipment of Owl Treats supposed to come in?"

"Yesterday," chirped the salesgirl named Gladys.

"Damn them, they're late again, Mr. Mulpepper won't be happy about this..." She continued muttering to herself as she walked away. Mrs. Pomfrey huffed, and tried to contact Gladys instead.

"Ex-cuse me..."

But she was deep in conversation with none other than Lola. Lola was gazing at a cage full of tiny black pixies. The pixies were squealing among themselves excitedly and pointing at her.

"Most mischievous creatures we've ever sold here, but they're dead useful, they'll bite off a corner of your enemy's ear if you like, and they can send letters if it's not too heavy. And we've placed a special charm on them so that they can communicate with their owners, it's excellent, Mulpepper invented it. But you've got to make them like you, or they'll cause havoc. They'll burn your sheets and rip up your important things—no, siree, you won't want an angry pixie on your hands. What d'you say, miss?"

"Wicked!" said Lola, a gleam in her eyes that was making Mrs. Pomfrey uneasy. "I like them much better than the cats. I'll have to ask Pomfrey first, though—oh, there she is! Pomfrey!"

"Dear me," murmured Mrs. Pomfrey. A cat, however expensive, sounded quite good at the moment.

"Pomfrey, can I have a pixie?"

"Of course not," she said primly. "They're dangerous, Lola."

"But they're amazing, look at them! And dead useful," Lola replied, quoting Gladys. "Please?"

"Just because you say 'please' doesn't mean you can have one. The answer is no—now, how about a knarl? Cute, aren't they—aargh!" Mrs. Pomfrey had held her hand out to one of the hedgehog-like creatures, only to receive a bite on her finger promptly. Lola sniggered. "Well, maybe not a knarl. Let's have a look at those puffskeins."

"But I don't want a puffskein. I want a pixie."

Mrs. Pomfrey did not think Lola with a pixie was a good idea. There would probably be many Memory Charms to be performed on Doris, and she thought of all the complaining letters she would receive from the school...what would Madam Zeller think of her, the girl she was taking care of landing more people in the hospital wing in the first week than Quidditch did in the course of the year? The disdainful looks she would get!

"No."

"But, Pomfrey..."

Ten minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium with a small silver cage housing one of the black pixies.

"I don't know what to name him," Lola said absentmindedly, sticking her finger through the bars of the cage so that the pixie could latch onto it. "It'll have to be an original name, not an annoying one. I can't stand those people who name their pets Fluffy or Snowy, it's preposterous, don't you think so, Pomfrey?"

"Mm," said Mrs. Pomfrey, her brain reeling as she tried to figure out how Lola had convinced her to buy a pixie, of all things.

"Can we stop by Flourish and Blotts again? I want to have a look in that Shakespeare book, maybe I'll find some names in there."
"No, we can't, we've got to get back home, I promised Ackerley I'd Floo him at four."

"Pity. What do you think of Hamlet?" Mrs. Pomfrey said nothing, but the pixie nodded his head frantically. "Hamlet it is, then."

"Come on, love, we've reached the approved Apparating point. Take my hand." Lola did so, keeping a firm hold on Hamlet's cage. She felt the uncomfortable sensation of being pushed down a very narrow tube, and then they were back at the St. Albans cottage.

"When do I go to Hogwarts, Pomfrey?"

"The first of September."

"That's a long way away," Lola pouted. "What shall I do in the meantime?"

"Study your books," Mrs. Pomfrey said shortly as Stewart Ackerley's head appeared in the emerald flames. Lola rolled her eyes, took out a few books, and tottered down the hall to her bedroom.

"Good to see you, Mrs. Pomfrey," he greeted her.

"And you, Headmaster. Now, Madam Zeller has promptly ignored my request of weekly updates on how things are going in the hospital wing—again. I was hoping that you could give me some answers? How are the preparations going? Have any staff been injured? Is there anything from my personal stores that you would like me to send?"

"No, no, that won't be necessary. Madam Zeller is just preoccupied. The preparations for the school year are going wonderfully, the staff are all well, and the hospital wing is stocked with everything we'll need for the coming year. Actually, that wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about. I understand your—erm—subject—will be starting Hogwarts in the fall?"

"Good Godric, Headmaster, you needn't speak of her in such a cold way. My subject?"

"What word would you use, then?" asked Ackerley defensively. "You're not related, Mrs. Pomfrey—you're just her caretaker. I don't know why you took her on at all, I was under the impression that you didn't like children."

"Of course I like children," said Mrs. Pomfrey sharply. "I was a school nurse for twenty years, wasn't I?"

"Well—yes—you're right, of course. I was just going to ask if you wanted to come back to Hogwarts and perhaps assist Madam Zeller in the hospital wing—maybe you would want to keep an eye on the girl?"

"No, thank you, Headmaster, I am retired from that job permanently. I will be working at Twilfitt and Tattings during the school year. And even if I wasn't, I should hardly be an assistant to a woman with far less medical experience than myself," sniffed Mrs. Pomfrey.

"Of course," said Ackerley respectfully. "It was only an inquiry—yes, Cordelia?"

A flash of dark blond hair came into Mrs. Pomfrey's view, and an unknown figure murmured something into Ackerley's ear.

"I'll be there at once," he said. "Sorry, Mrs. Pomfrey, I'll have to be going. I'll arrange for you to speak with Madam Zeller before school begins."

"Goodbye, Headmaster," murmured Mrs. Pomfrey as Ackerley's head disappeared and the fire extinguished itself. At this moment, Lola chose to re-enter the room, holding a massive book entitled One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.

"Pomfrey? I don't quite understand the properties of aconite, could you explain them to me?"

"Of course, dear."