Professor McGondal recognized her charge by the wide-eyed wonder common to all muggle-born first years, and his dull colored pullover and jeans. In an ordinary crowd, she was certain the boy would fade like a ghost. But, fortunately for her, Diagon Alley housed the absolute antithesis of an ordinary crowd. Rossamund Bookchild anxiously peered at the passersby, hands strangling the scroll the professor had given him the week before. Professor McGondal stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, pleased that he had the sensibility to sit where she could easily find him. Rossamund smiled, all tension abruptly gone, as he got up. No, she realized, the sensibility to sit where he could see her. "Welcome to Diagon Alley," she said, and the boy chirped back a polite thank-you-for-inviting-me. McGonal allowed her ever-stern features to soften into a rather stiff smile. These first meetings weren't always the best indicators of personality, but some Hugglepuffs were obviously meant to be. Tom bid them a good day, and Rossamund waved back with oddly restrained cheerful abandon. Professor McGondal offered a more subdued farewell, and they stepped out of the dingy pub. "We'll stop at Olivander's first. Finding a wand usually takes longest, and it will be the lightest thing to carry," she said. Rossamund nodded, even more wide-eyed, though he did not bounce with excitement. Barely. From Mr. Fransitart's and Mr. Crauplin's uneasy looks at the fragile decoratives in Madame Opera's parlor, she guessed it was a hard-broken habit. Or perhaps an early expression of magic- though she doubted his power would naturally manifest so destructively. Magic, after all, reflected personality more than anything else. Rossamund stopped a few feet away from the shop, as if catching faint strains of music. Professor McGongall allowed him without complaint. Knowing Olivander- and the nature of the wand selecting process- he very well might have heard something unusual. The boy lingered for only a few seconds before pensively following her into the dim shop. - Professor McGondal stared at the perfectly innocuous wand gripped loosely in her pupil's hand. Cherry wood and a strand of threstle mane twined with monster hair. Two omens of death, and a contrary core. Yet thin twigs sprouted and twined around the wood, budding tiny, fragrant blossoms, and wind whispered about their feet. Umbrage, she decided, must never know of this, whatever 'this' was, as the living branches sank back into polished wood. Rossamund just beamed as Olivander magiced the shop's chaos back into order.