Chapter Three

Uncle Emrys bought Meghan's school supplies with an accountant's mathematical precision. His method was to go down Diagon Alley in order and end with a balanced ledger: books +robes +cauldron + pet + wand = Budget.

At Flourish & Blotts, Meghan asked for a book on Selenancy. "I know Moon Magic runs in the family, but best just to start with the basics," he countered. On seeing her crest-fallen face he added, "Meghan, this is all new to you. Read these books on the required list to find out what really interests you. Then I'll get you books on those subjects at Christmas."

The assistant was very helpful until Uncle Emrys asked, "What do you have in Squib Studies?" The assistant blushed. "We only sell those behind the counter." He glanced at Meghan. "And even then only to patrons at least seventeen years of age." He backed away slightly.

Back on the street, Meghan asked, "Why did that happen?"

"Squibs aren't exactly welcome in Diagon Alley, I suppose." Uncle Emrys tried to laugh, but there was hurt in his eyes. "Never mind. Robes next!"

Madam Malkin led her into the back of the robe shop. An assistant was altering another student's robes. Meghan knew she was a student when the other girl took one glance at her and said, "You look like a Hufflepuff. What a waste."

"That's enough from you, Miss Parkinson!" Snapped Madame Malkin. "You're done here." The girl looked down her nose at her as she stepped off the stool.

Now Meghan stood on a stool, and Madame Malkin turned her attention to measurements. "Oh. We'll have to make the sleeves a bit longer won't we? 4'11 and 25'' arms. Unusual, but it's not a problem. "

From the front of the shop Parkinson's voice sneered "What are you, part elf?" The doorbell chimed, the door slammed, and there was a rather uncomfortable silence, made worse by the sound of Uncle Emrys' uncomfortable cough. He broke the silence when they were back out on the street. "Did I ever tell you about the werewolf I once knew? He recommended chocolate for despondent occasions." They went across the road to Fortiesque's ice cream shop.

Feeling much better after two scoops of double chocolate chunk ice cream, Meghan asked, "Where to next?"

"Magical Menagerie is back across the road. Let's go get your allowed—" he consulted the school supply list—"one owl or cat or toad. "

The shop was crowded, smelly, and noisy with animals. There were owls of all kinds. There were toads of all kinds (including a vain one in a striped waistcoat who, when he saw Meghan glancing in his direction, belted out, "Oh I'm a won-der-ful TOAD!") There were felines of all kinds (including a Cheshire cat and a big, bushy-tailed, bandy-legged creature who stared down imperiously from a high shelf). Then Meghan saw small creatures that looked like a cross between a mole and its longer-nosed cousin, a niffler. The sign in front of the cages said:

NIFFLE-WARP

Cute, affectionate, and fits in a cloak pocket-

THE PERFECT TAKE-ANYWHERE PET!

Only 4 Sickles

"Oh, Please!?" said Meghan. Uncles Emrys replied exactly as she expected him to. "The rules are very clear, Meghan. How about a nice, er- well, maybe not a singing toad."

"Humph," said the witch behind the counter. Meghan and Uncle Emrys glanced over at her. She was wearing thick glasses and didn't look up from The Daily Prophet issue she was reading. "You didn't hear this from me," she said, turning a page of the paper, "but I know for a fact that the current assistant gamekeeper at Hogwarts brought an Exploding Newt for his pet. He got to keep it, too. And rumor has it that Dumbledore himself brought a just-hatched phoenix in a fire-proofed cloak pocket. Anyway, those pet rules were laid down years and years ago by Phineas Nigellus, and he always was a Wizarding snob—He was all for "Pure-Blood" wizarding families—anti-Muggle and all - more traditionalist than traditional." She licked a finger and turned another page. "Take it for what it's worth. You didn't hear it from me, mind."

Ten minutes later Meghan walked out with one Niffle-Warp (in cage), pet supplies, and an already-being-read copy of

THE COMPLETE SQUIB'S GUIDE TO NIFFLE-WARPS

BY

GOLDA DIGGER

[page 1] '"Quick Facts You Need to Know":

· Niffle-Warps feed on worms and small invertebrates found in soil.

· Niffle-Warps' natural predators are owls, the common rat, kneazels, and cats.

· Niffle-Warps get along well with water rats, badgers, and toads.

· Niffle-Warps have a tendency toward homesickness, and dislike spring cleaning.'

Meghan also read, " 'The Niffle-Warp (Talpa Europeea Nifferae Mouldywarpus) is three-parts

mole and one part niffler.'"

"Meghan, don't run into the door!" She glanced up. Straight ahead of her was an old man with milky mother-of-pearl eyes and a very alarmed expression. Meghan realized she was looking at him through a pane of glass attached to a door knob: Ollivander's Wand Shop.

It was dusty here, and cramped, and small. Ollivander eyes almost glowed through the gloom. "Wand, eh? Which arm?" Immediately a tape measure began measuring of its own accord (Meghan's arm, height, head size, and even between her unibrow) while Ollivander went to the shelves. These were lined up to the ceiling with long, narrow boxes. Ollivander took one box down. "Enough," he said. The tape measure fell to the floor. "Here," he said to Meghan, "Try this: Maple, dragonheart string core, 10 ½ inches.'' Meghan took the wand, gave it Ollivander's commanded "A nice swoosh," and—nothing.

"Oak, thestral tail hair, 11 inches"—nothing.

"Ivy, phoenix tail feather, 12 inches"—nothing.

After that, Ollivander gave her wands so quickly she had no idea what they were made of. None of them worked. He dropped each wand on the floor as he handed her the next one—the floor began to look like a game of spellican pick-up sticks. The shelves emptied. Finally, Ollivander held four last wands in his hands.

"Hawthorn, 10 inches, unicorn tail hair"—nothing.

"Vinewood, 9 ¾ inches, dragon heartstring"—nothing.

"Willow, 14 inches, unicorn tail hair"—nothing.

Then, the very last one. Ollivander took a deep breath—he looked unsure as to whether or not to give it to her. "Holly, 11 inches, phoenix tail feather." Meghan took it and—nothing.

Ollivander narrowed his eyes at her. "What is your name?"

Meghan hung her head. "Meghan Jones."

"Jones? Any relation to Gwenog Jones of the Holyhead Harpies Quidditch team?"

Uncle Emrys spoke up. "Distant cousin."

"Well, Mr. Jones, I've never had a student accepted to Hogwarts not be able to find her wand—"

"Prewett," said Uncle Emrys. "My surname is Prewett. I'm a distant cousin of Meghan's myself. Legal guardian."

"Oh, that Jones family," said Ollivander. He sounded as if he did not quite approve. "That clears things up quite a bit. Tell me," there was an edge of annoyance in his voice, "Did you bring the wand with you or were you hoping against hope that the wand wouldn't attach itself to her?"

Uncle Emrys flushed with embarrassment, then anger. He reached into his inside coat pocket, pulled out something long and not-quite-thin between his fingers, and plucked it down on the counter. "Both."

"Neglected, is it?" Now Ollivander sounded really annoyed. He picked up the wand and began to polish it. "Ah." He held it up to the dusty sunlight and smiled. The wand shaft was just a shade lighter than the handle, yet they fit together almost seamlessly. This was because the intricate handle was carved in a spiral shape; each spiral turn corresponded perfectly to four fingers and (due to a depression on one side) a thumb. Between each turn, a thread twisted itself—golden hued and setting off the handle. Meghan gasped.

" 'Pearls: the offspring of the dew of heaven,'" intoned Ollivander. "'But that found in Britain, they say, is of a golden tinge, and duller in sparkle.'"

"What?"

"Mostly from a homily by Origen, Mr. Prewett."

"Who?"

"Someone much maligned and rightly so. Never mind. This wand," he held it horizontally between his fingertips, "has a shaft of Hawthorn—biflora strain. Yew handle—Fothingall, if I'm not mistaken. The core contains a selkie hair. Wand constructed for Geraint Jones in 1661 by this establishment. "

Meghan was awestruck. "You made this in 1661?"

"Not usually the components I use," replied Ollivander. He hadn't answered her question. "Try it."

Meghan obeyed. A warmth through her arm, a singing through her heart, and Meghan did the first graceful thing of her life with one flick of the wand. Out of the end came a stream of green, blue, and rose-gold sparks, like a fluid roman candle.

"That's it!" Ollivander looked excited, almost happy. "Although I didn't expect such a display. Very unusual. One wand is meant for one wizard—they are paired for life. So hand-me-down wands, even in families, will rarely work as well for successive owners. Hmmm. Who was the last one to own the wand?"

"Ioan," Uncle Emrys spoke up. "Meghan's father." He did not look happy.

"I see," Ollivander gave Uncle Emrys a blank stare. He turned back to Meghan with a smile she didn't quite like. "It seems the wand has found another master—or mistress, as the case may be."