AN: I do not own anything from the Harry Potter series. I am making absolutely nada, zilch, zero for money. It all belongs to JK Rowling. I am in your debt for creating such a wonderful series! Please don't sue me!!!!

AN: Presently, I am in shock. I wrote out a brief outline last night. I think this story will take me to August with 50 chapters total..... WHAT HAVE I STARTED???!!!! (2/15)

Chapter 5: Ollivander's

I don't remember what the weather was like, there was only a few small windows high on the wall, near the celling. I think it might have been a cloudy day outside the mansion; I don't seem to recall a bright beam of light shining out onto the middle of the workbench, but I don't remember the sound of rain hitting the mansion and the window panes either. I do remember it was early August, I would be turning eleven in a little over a month and a half.

I was turning the burner down and letting the clear purple liquid in the beaker simmer when I heard him. My ears, which were used to the utter silence of the mansion the faint sound bubbling potions, heard a sound which was foreign: my father's shoes were walking down the hall.

At first I thought I was imagining the sound, but when I looked towards the door my hand dropped to my side, potion all forgotten. My father stood in the door frame, looking at me with those eyes like coal, memorizing the dimensions, the objects, the colors, the texts and then finally settling on me. I was about 5 ft 1 in then, a little above my father's elbow. My hair was about shoulder length, tied because of its sheer annoyance when working. I was wearing a loose black turtle neck and black trousers despite the sweltering heat of the room. My black work robe was hanging, forgotten, on the edge of the chair by the bookshelves. That is what I may have been wearing and what I looked like but I couldn't tell what my father saw in me, how he summed me up. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, what he was calculating behind those emotionless eyes.

I remembered the potion in front of me and turned off the burner. This could wait. If my father came out from that study of his, it had to be important. Even if it were the end of the world I think he would continue writing, hoping that someone would survive and find his words.

We stood there silent for a while staring at each other.

You've been accepted at Hogwarts.

It wasn't a congratulation or distaste. He just simply stated the fact, emotion all drained out from years of solitude.

I nodded. I had seen the snowy owl on the perch outside my father's study earlier this morning. My name was written upon it in emerald green writing, but I had never received a letter before and decided to leave it alone.

He was about forty, far from young, but far from old. He had inky bangs and hair cut at moderate length, coming to a stop a little past his ears. He wore a gray collared shirt with a loosely tied black tie and black slacks. He had his black robe under one arm; a single, small, golden pin with a red rose on the end of it showing; a present from mother when she was alive, an anniversary gift.

You'll need a wand.

I blinked, it had never occurred to me to get a wand, much less use one and how to use it, but every great witch and wizard had one. I stood there silently, not knowing how to respond. Usually, the house elves would buy and prepare everything I required without having myself to ask but a wand... a wand would require my own self and someone to take to me to get one.


and with that he left towards the living room.

I think I stood there for a few more seconds, disbelieving, debating if I had inhaled the fumes from the potion and was hallucinating but there were no such side effects to this potion.

Silence. And then..... I scrambled across the room knocking over a coat rack near the door and headed down the hall to fetch my normal robe, ran down the stairs while buttoning the first few buttons near the top, letting the bottom swirl and flap after me.

I stopped a few feet short of the living room and cautiously walked to my father who was polishing his own wand. I looked up at him and looked at the fireplace.

Are we going by Floo Powder?
He looked at me sternly.

I think not. Unless of course, you would prefer ashes on you robe?

I shook my head once, twice.
No, sir.

Then we'll apparate. Hold onto my hand tightly now, and don't let go.

His had felt warm in mine, his large fingers clasped around my palm, ink blots staining the skin. I closed my eyes, trying to hold onto the feeling, thinking that this is what my father felt like. I felt a rush of cool air brushing against my face, the feeling I had left my body in some distant land and then... I stumbled onto a cobble stone road. My father pulled me back, letting me gain my balance again. I had heard about Diagon Alley but had never visited it myself thus far. I could make out the sky between the tall and rustic buildings, chimney stacks littering the roof tops chugging out puffs of white and gray smoke, owls sometimes swooping around as well. There were crowds of people, a constant and steady chatter, slightly muted if you did not pay attention to any one specific conversation. I saw children younger than myself pressing their noses against glass, looking at the newest broomsticks and other showcased items. We walked for a while, myself following behind my father's figure and trying to soak up the sights and sounds.

We stopped once, I almost bumped into the back of my father. We stood in front of a narrow and shabby little shop with a sign saying Ollivander's. Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC over the door. There was a faded purple cushion with a single wand in the window display. My father walked in first and there was the faint sound of a bell ringing in the back of the building. My father walked up to the counter and I followed close behind him, unsure of what to expect.

A man in his early forties popped up from behind the counter, a crazy look in his eyes and his light brown hair fringed on the ends. He smiled broadly, a cheshire cat smile. He looked at my father and then switched his gaze towards me.

Ah.... I was wondering when you would come in, young master Snape.
He edged himself around the counter and bent down to meet my gaze. He looked into my face, searching.

You're a splitting image of your father.... but you have your mother's skin, like alabaster... Now, which is your wand arm? and he pulled out a tape measure from a pocket within his robe.

I indicated my right arm, slowly raising it a bit.

Good, good. A little higher please.

He measured the distance from my shoulder to my wrist, the span of my palm, wrist to the tip of my thumb... my father sat down in the spindly chair in the corner of the shop and looked upon the scene, not really seeing. I realized the tape measure was moving on its own accord and caught sight of the shop owner rushing off to the back of the store, lined with small boxes upon boxes. He quickly returned with a mahogany colored box. The tape measure obediently stopped, rolled up and returned to lay on the counter. He carefully removed the lid and placed a wand into my palm.

11 inches, yew, supple, unicorn hair. Good for charm work. Try this. he mentioned, his voice eager.

I swished it once. Nothing. It was cold.

The shop owner quickly took the wand from my fingers. No. It seems not. and rushed back to the boxes in the back. He came back with a tan box and pulled out another wand.

12 1/4 inch, willow, pliable, phoenix feather. He looked at me expectantly.

I swished it. Once again nothing. I was powerless.

Nope. Third time's a charm. and then went, this time taking a little more time than the last two times. He returned this time he carried a dusty and thin black box, edges worn with time.

Perhaps it is your time? he said to the wand.

My fingers clasped around the wand. I felt a calming warmth spread.

11 1/2 inch, birch, stiff, dragon heartstring. Good for- but he was cut off as I swished the piece of wood and the melodious and sad song of a hundred nightingales filled the small shop. It reminded me of my mother. Perhaps she was watching from the shutters, from the heavens.

With one last wavering note, the room went silent. I had found my wand.

Told you the third time was a charm. the shop owner said with a wink and took the wand gently from my hand and placed it between the folds of dark green velvet, into the dusty black box.

My father got up from his chair and paid for the wand and we left without saying a single word.

I didn't know when I would use it; but I held onto that box, that wand, a gift from my father, a memory of my father.

AN: yay~! 1555 words for this chapter alone! I'll make this a satisfactory story yet! I was so mad when I read the notice that I couldn't update my story until sunday. All I could think was but I want to update this now~!!!! _ (friday) Well, I hope your enjoying the story so far. As for the cat part in the beginning? All will become clear in chapter (counts fingers)....13! (I think).... either that or chapter 9. I'm still debating about Snape's next flash back. I had fun writing this one. I usually like to write like this but sometimes I worry all the details get boring to read. Is it? If it is, please tell me, I'll try again with another style after the next set of 4 chapters. I liked Quillusion's story about Snape buying a wand and I was tempted to have green bubbles or rain be the result of his wand waving but I didn't do it! I won't steal anything if I can! I'm a little worried about the next chapter. I wanted to write about Neoma's experience buying a wand in comparison but I'm afraid that you, the readers, have had your fill of wand shopping? Please bear with me. Reviews are welcome anytime!!!! (2/14)