Since telephones and presumably most electronic devices didn't work in the presence or contact of wizards, I assumed there would be some magical way of summoning a raven or a pigeon to carry messages. Actually, after Roxanne wrote her letter to the hospital, an owl flew in through the open kitchen window, and took her neatly rolled-up parchment in exchange for a handful of biscuit crumbs. Aside from its being active during the day, I thought the bird had an unusually strong presence. Because I wanted to learn on my own as much as possible, I didn't comment, but I would have sworn that creature was considerably more intelligent than observation of its species so far suggested.

After the owl departed, it was time to go out into town. I expected us to exit the building physically, walking down a stairway, or taking a lift, and walking into the street like normal people trying to fit in, but I was wrong. Apparition was again the preferred mode of transport. I did ask why, not remotely eager to experience it again, and longing for the day when a portable transmat device was invented, but Roxanne failed to give a conclusive answer. She mumbled musically about the flat not strictly existing and only being tenuously attached to the building it was in, before grabbing my arm. She unceremoniously dropped the two of us and the newly ingested contents of my stomach in some back alley goodness-knows where, in the middle of London.

I'd only been to London once before, when I was much younger, more stupid, and to use wizard jargon, had less control over my obscurus. It was a school-trip to the UK, during which my principal concerns revolved around not getting separated from the rest of the group, and fighting the anxiety linked to that prospect. It happened once, and the results were not pretty. Windows were smashed, render peeled from walls, and some cobbles popped. A nearby woman had her diamond ring altered in a way that somehow didn't involve fracturing the object yet still rearranged the lattices fundamentally. I think she might have been quite pleased to have such a unique jewel in her hands if it hadn't rather gruesomely embedded itself in the bones of her wrist. That was the incident which saw me strongly encouraged to attend Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. The X-Men themselves were doing some sleuthing in the city at the time, and I was one of their red herrings. I suppose it is pure luck they found me before any British Aurors did. All of this to say that, though my visit with Roxanne was not my first, it may as well have been. From concentrating hard on never losing sight of my half-friends and tentative bullies, I never got a good look at my surroundings. And I certainly wasn't going to waste energy listening to my teachers' boring rambles about various architectural styles and where historical figures that nobody our age cared about.

Even on my day of introduction to the Wizarding World, where I was now old enough to have some passing interest in this huge famous metropolis, all I got was a glimpse of the less-famous parts of the part everybody knows about. You see, a brisk walk (I don't know how little Roxanne does it; perhaps she levitates her feet) through two muggle streets and we entered Fantasy Land. A section of brick wall spontaneously dismantled itself at the touch of a wand, and we entered a small grouping of trap streets. My first prolonged and attentive exposure to the city was in Diagon Alley, a place no one in my entourage would know about, and which I was likely forbidden to speak of. I call it Fantasy Land, because, including Roxanne, almost every fantasy stereotype was on display. There were people seriously wearing sleeved robes, full-circle cloaks, leather boots, monocles, and walking with elaborately decorated canes. Waistcoats under jackets were the norm for men, as opposed to signs of an uptight office job, and so every variation in material, style and wear was represented. There were people well out of the normal bounds of modern human growth patterns, huge towering monsters and little beady-eyed sacks of wrinkles. One particular variety had pointy ears and hooked noses. I simply had to ask whether they were a different species, and Roxanne confirmed they were goblins.

I spotted a tall man, pale and with apparently natural bleach-blond hair flowing over his shoulders. I was trying to decide whether his air was deliberately haughty or just an unfortunate quirk of his resting face, when Roxanne stopped me in front of one of the many boutiques in the alley. It had two protruding half-cylinder windows on either side of the door. The inscription read 'Ollivanders, makers of fine wands since 382 B.C.' I have yet to accept that as a believable foundation date, magic or no magic.

"Here, this should be sufficient," she said, pulling some coins from a pouch that I had not seen the slightest sign of on her person before. It was of course not the same currency as the rest of the country at large.

"Well, where are you going?" I asked taking the money, "I don't know the first thing about your society, won't I be a little conspicuous? What age do wizards usually get a wand? It must be earlier than me?"

"You had one before," she insisted, "It was destroyed. That's the truth. I'm sure he'll be only too happy to refresh your mind on the principles of wand ownership."

"All right," I ceded, "But where are you going, leaving me in the wild like this? I don't even know plain muggle London let alone this nightmare."

"I have to make a few purchases which will be useful to us later. If you are especially quick, you can find me at Goosey & Bawkes. If you're especially long, ask your way to the Leaky Cauldron. Don't worry, no one will eat you. I think your little hardened vowels are quite charming, to be honest." After that, she smiled encouragingly at me and walked off into the crowd. I had no choice but to seek my fortune within the allegedly ancient shop.

Colour inside was made up of whatever you could achieve with stained wood, with splashes of yellow from the oil lamps. It pleased me, compared to the depressing grey fog outside. In the countryside I don't mind cloudy weather, as it is offset by the vegetation; the city, even this slightly more colourful spot, only reflected and amplified the dullness. That it was also nice and warm here only added to my comfort.

Behind the counter was a stairway leading up, and to beyond that I could see basically a library of long thin boxes, stacked up together all the way to the ceiling. There was even a sliding ladder so you could climb and then move sideways while mucking around up top. For a long time, I was the only person around. Perhaps the owner was a little deaf; the bell did ring when I came through the door. That reminded me: I had absently walked without lifting a finger to the doorknob. Both Françoise and Roxanne had spoken of magical mutants being unheard of in the wizarding world, and my gut feeling was that it was for worse reasons than simple rarity of the combination.

"Ah, welcome, my dear." said a voice from around the corner, behind the stairway. An old man with enormous amounts of hair appeared. He stopped dead behind the counter as soon as he laid eyes on me. I assumed – correctly – that he was surprised that I did not fit his expectation of my age. "Curious," he said, "The school year begins in a few months, and many do come to find their wands at this time; but you are well beyond your first terms at a magical school. To what do I owe the honour of your visit?"

"I had a wand," I said, latching onto Roxanne's words, "It was destroyed."

"Oh," he said, as if receiving the news of dead family member, "How very unfortunate. There is really no chance of mending it, then?"

I shook my head, "It disintegrated." At that he raised an eyebrow. I expected him to repeat 'curious' again in a mystical way, but he politely asked me my name instead.

"Marie Delamare," he repeated after me, as though savouring the words like a pleasant new taste. "Well," he said, "Let us find you your first wand from Ollivanders."

He motioned for me to come closer, and I stepped up to the counter while he ventured back into the stacks. "Now," he started, "you'll need one of a slightly lesser presence than those destined for eleven-year-olds. A wand willing to let you pick up where your last left you. Let me see..."

Still rambling to himself he moved out of sight. Now unobserved, I gently reached out with my feelers, imperceptibly nudging him and the objects around him to see what he was doing. He took three boxes from a shelf much smaller than the rest, somewhere behind the stairs and to the left of my position, before leisurely walking back into the picture and setting the boxes down on the counter before me. He contemplated his choice a second longer, and then opened the one he'd plopped nearest to me, and handed me its contents. The stick was pale, shiny, and quite straight, with decorative spirals on the handle. I took it gingerly in my leading hand, and considered my options.

To reproduce my successful uses of magic was out of the question. So I had to find a non-volatile experiment. There were only three proper spells I had knowingly witnessed being performed. The first would definitely land me in trouble, as I understood it to be solely dedicated to causing the cessation of life. I couldn't imitate the second, as I was too dazed at the time to remember the incantation. As for the Confundus Charm, I thought it a little silly. Besides, I worried that attempting and failing to cast might result in the revelation of the contraption currently allowing me to use my body on two legs. So, I aimed to reproduce what I had been underwhelmed by at my shooting range: just a little light or lights. My reward for restraint was an electric shock, with lingering pins and needles. I also got a new scorch mark in my palm to go with the scar my last wand had gifted me in its exploding death.

After he literally waved away the pain with his own wand, Ollivander handed me the next box in line. The result was similar, only this time, the pretty stick itself took most of the damage, rich red finish almost completely peeled away. The next unfortunate contender snapped in two like rhubarb the minute I closed my fingers on it. I was about ready to apologise for damaged property, pay for the trouble and leave, but the old man didn't give me the chance.

"Perhaps," he said, slowly, "it would be wiser if the intermediary were removed. Come." He waved for me to walk around the counter and beyond.

"You want to let the right wand guide me to it?" I said. He smiled.

"Very good, Ms Delamare," he said rubbing his hands delightedly, "I see your first wand-seller knew their craft."

So I began my quest, and was soon engulfed by the maze-like library of wands. At first, I tried to discreetly feel what I could, using my telekinesis, in a big bubble of constant ad gentle nudging, seeking a reaction, but that was wrong. After a few minutes I retreated, reduced my perception to my hands and feet. The change came after several more minutes of aimless exploring, but it didn't disappoint. I sensed an energy field of a familiar taste and texture. I recognized it to have been present before and after every one of my safe-zone sessions. It was the taste of magic. It was novel feeling it without fear, without the pressure of quickly finding a faraway place to let it loose without consequence on others. It was there, and so was I, at the same time, without tension or conflict.

A new landscape formed for me to navigate, in which each box, each wand was a different colour, a different texture. Each had a different message. Some longed to be tried, no matter who took them; some yelled to be left alone, and some felt numb, indifferent, as if they would have to be seduced. The only thing I could pin on all of them was foreignness. There wasn't one which shared a colour with both me and its brethren at the same time. I was, everywhere I turned, the outsider. There was none for me. Not until I arrived at the very back end of the shop.

There was a big cardboard box sitting in a corner. There were other cardboard boxes, and boxes of other materials, and wand stacks that had seen better days, but this one stood out in the magical landscape. Unlike every other nebulous item around me, its contents were nattering endlessly. There was no uniformity to the message, nothing stood out loud and clear like it did with the other, except that, within that noisy mess, there was one familiar flavour. I went to my knees in front of the box and pried it open with my own hands, digging beneath the staples with my nails and rooting them out like weeds. Inside were several boxes, roughly piled onto each other. They were much bulkier than any of the others, as if holding much bigger objects within, yet when I pulled one out at random it felt no heavier. Opening that first box, I looked upon a stick that was nothing like most in the shop, devoid of special decorations or patterns, finished simply to a dark shine, and quite crooked, with a lazy curve from the handle to the spire. It felt warm in my hand, just like the one from Saulxures had when I first levitated it to my grasp.

Yet the conversation was not over. I put the wand in its box and delicately set it down on the floor beside me, before answering the call of another wand in another box. This one was an even more exotic shape, snaking not once but twice across its length. The point was sharp as well. I continued going through the box, each new find as welcoming as the last.

It occurred to me I hadn't officially called in sick to Geoffrey. Françoise probably had done so on my behalf, but if I called and said I was still up to the job, it could be recorded as if I had never been off the case a second time. Whether I was going to respect the wishes for secrecy of a society which had already demonstrated its want to kill me was yet to be seen. Nobody else was ever going to find the evidence that Ollivander had so eagerly allowed me to find. For I was sure there was kinship between these wands and the one destroyed in battle hours earlier.

Contemplating the future of my investigation, I almost didn't hear the doorbell of the shop ringing, and Ollivander greeting the newcomer.

"Forgive me," I just heard him say, "I sense my last client may be nearing their prize."

About half a minute later he arrived at my location, to find me sitting in a small sea of open boxes, in each a differently curved piece of wood, each of the same dark finish, each free of embellishments, and each ceaselessly whispering their welcome to me.

"You're sure these are the ones?" asked Ollivander. I nodded.

"They feel like kin," I said.

"Then the final word, for the time being, is yours."

At that moment I was holding the closest approximation to the wand I had found in the château, a clearly defined handle, and a sharp angle at the base of the needle. "This will do," I said.

He cast a spell with a wave of his hand and all the other wands flew back inside the cardboard, boxes sealing themselves, and the staples jumping from where I'd let them drop and sinking back into the lid, locking it up again. "Come, my dear," said Ollivander, and we walked back to the front room of the shop. "Tell me," he said, "You didn't have one of them before, somehow? I believe the last to have purchased a wand of this peculiar family died decades ago."

I didn't answer straight away, distracted by the person who had arrived during my search. It was the tall pale man with the sickly blond hair. He stared right at me as I floundered for an answer.

"I don't know if it was one of them," I lied, "But it was like them. It was very talkative. It couldn't wait for me to use it." That was the truth.

I used to sell these wands to one singular line of wizards," Ollivander rambled as he fumbled around the counter for some papers, "The exact name they bore escapes me, but it was of the same country as you, Ms Delamare. An old french family, native to the north-east if I recall correctly. Yes," he stopped, and looked up at the ceiling, summoning his knowledge, "the word referred to flowers, not that I can translate it, unfortunately..."

"De Fleurville," I blurted, and instantly regretted it. Before the old wandmaker could verbalise his surprise, the other being in the room slithered into the conversation. He stood uncomfortably near, his height forcing me to look up at him to maintain eye contact.

"That is the name of a noble and most ancient house," he said, "One which traced its roots to the same source as mine." He moved a tiny bit backwards and held out his hand to me. "Lucius Malfoy," he said, a thin smile tightening his lips.