J. K. Rowling owns Harry Potter
Chapter Ten
It was strange to think that he had been a wizard for nearly a year before setting foot in the magical world (well, technically he had been a wizard his whole life, but he had only found out last year) but that was about to change. He would soon be on his way to London for tomorrow's visit to Diagon Alley. He found this both exciting and terrifying, which he figured was justified, based on what was going on now in the Wizarding world.
He was up to date on wizard politics, thanks to Alec's last letter, which had arrived just two days ago. It seemed that this You-Know-Who (which Mark still thought a completely ridiculous way of referring to someone) had come into the open, and that everyone was saying it was time for the Minister of Magic to resign, and that there were three people considered likely to succeed him (this was accompanied by detailed information on each of the three). It also seemed, Mark thought, that his friend was a little too obsessed with politics.
It would be nice to see Alec again tomorrow; now that school was finally out, they had planned their trip to Diagon Alley for the first opportunity they got. He picked up his supplies list for the thousandth time, marveling at how the wands, broomsticks, and cauldrons which sounded almost like a caricature of some evil witch to him were but a part of daily life for his friend. He folded the parchment and put it in his pocket, heading downstairs through the empty house. His overnight bag was waiting packed at the door, ready to be taken to the car.
His parents (with whom he had not shared Alec's last letter) would be home from work soon; they would eat dinner; his father would drive him to the train to London. He would spend the night there at his grandparents', and his grandmother would take him to Diagon Alley in the morning. He would get his wand there, and everything else, and he would be a real wizard, the same as everyone who would be in his class next year.
If he could never be a normal Muggle, perhaps he could at least be a normal wizard.
They met outside the underground station, leaving them a few minutes' walk to the alley, which Mark spent listening raptly to Alec talking about Hogwarts and its castle. Their grandmothers spent the time reminiscing about their childhood, which Mark found odd, considering that they had fifty years of separation to catch up on.
"…and Kevin says the Christmas decorations in the Great Hall are magnificent," Alec said as they turned a corner.
"Do they stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, then?" Mark asked anxiously.
"Nah, only if you want to, and most people don't," Alec said.
They were stopping now in front a pub with a sign reading The Leaky Cauldron.
"We go in through here," Alec's grandmother said.
"It's in a record shop?" Gran asked confusedly, motioning to the next shopfront over. Mark wondered why she didn't notice the distinctly magical name of the pub, but her cousin was unfazed.
"Excuse me, I forgot," she chuckled, taking Gran's hand. "Muggles can't see the Leaky Cauldron unless they're touching a wizard." She led the group into the pub, gently tugging along a dazed Gran.
They entered the pub, their eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. It was moderately crowded; a group of people in sharp-looking robes sat eating breakfast at a table nearby, an elderly man sat alone the bar, drinking from a large tankard, an older teen with fiery hair was laughing loudly with a girl with dreadlocks. Through the hum of conversation, though, he sensed an undercurrent of nervousness, even fear, in the room; several people looked up as they came in, one of whose eyes followed them for a while. Alec's grandmother was still smiling as they walked through the pub, but the smile seemed as though it had been glued to her face. Her hand, Mark noticed, remained in her pocket, as if fingering a weapon.
"School shopping, are we, eh?" the barman called with a little too much joviality to be entirely natural.
"Morning, Tom," she responded, stepping closer to the bar. "We are school shopping today, but I think we can get two butterbeers for the boys. To go, please," she added, placing two silver coins on the bar, her other hand still in her pocket.
"Right you are, ma'am," the barman said, handing over two bottles.
"Don't worry, Anne, there's hardly any alcohol in them," she said as they made their way out the back door of the pub to a small courtyard completely enclosed by brick walls.
"Er - what are we doing?" Mark asked no one in particular.
Alec looked at him straight-faced, a trace of laughter in his eyes. "Just watch," he said, as his grandmother pulled out her wand and tapped a brick.
Mark watched in amazement as the wall melted away and became an archway leading into a long cobblestone street. "This," Alec told him triumphantly, "is Diagon Alley."
He stepped through the archway hesitantly, awed by the magnitude of magic's capabilities. There were tens, possibly hundreds, of shops, in the alley. Crowds of people, all sorts of people, in the strangest variety of clothing he had ever seen, bustled about doing their shopping. These were no ordinary groceries-and-clothing purchases either - there was an Apothecary nearby, with barrels outside filled with what looked like various herbs and animal parts; an ice-cream parlor offering flavors such as pumpkin and licorice; and what he hoped was a medical practice, toward which a man with a furry face was walking, a woman with odd flapping objects streaming from her nose a few feet behind him. All this, and who knew what else, hidden by a disappearing wall behind an invisible pub on an ordinary London street. It was impossible, it was fantastical, it was wondrous. He wanted to run off and examine every shop and stall in the place, but Alec's grandmother said tightly, "Stick with me, boys."
They set off through the alley, and the marvel did not lessen. Magical bookshops, pet shops, travel agencies, even a beauty salon offering Patented Eyelash-Lengthening Charms and Weight-Loss Potions! This place contained every trapping of a fully-formed society, all of it altered in a way that made everything bizarrely strange and utterly familiar at the same time.
"Where are we going first?" he asked Alec after he had walked and stared for some time, swigging his butterbeer, which was deliciously unlike anything he had ever tasted.
"Gringotts, the bank. They don't use Muggle money here; you'll need to change some." Alec was still holding his closed butterbeer; Mark wondered if he didn't like the stuff or was feeling too proper to drink it in the street.
They made their way to the end of the street, where a large building stood, adorned with towering columns of brightly polished marble. A tiny, swarthy man, with proportions and features that couldn't possibly be human, stood beside a gleaming pair of bronze doors, through which they entered as Alec whispered, "That's a goblin." Walking through another pair of doors (bearing a long inscription which Mark did not bother to read), they ended up in a magnificent hall, covered in more marble and lit with what must have been thousands of candles.
Many more goblins occupied the hall, weighing coins, speaking to customers at a counter stretching nearly the length of the hall, showing other customers through little doors leading off the sides of the room, and scuttling to and fro bearing keys, sacks of coins, and various other expensive-seeming items.
They waited in one of the queues for a while, giving Mark time to admire the gemstones and ancient-looking artifacts which appeared to comprise a large portion of the dealings here. This was clearly no typical bank.
Eventually they reached the counter, where a bearded goblin changed a few hundred pounds for them, into a pile of gold, silver, and bronze coins, which Alec explained were called Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. "And it's seventeen Sickles to the Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to the Sickle which makes four hundred ninety-three Knuts to the Galleon and please don't ask me why they haven't switched to decimals yet because I don't know either," he said in one breath, sounding defensive.
Leaving the bank, they headed next to a tiny shop whose sign read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. They stepped inside, where everything was so dusty it looked intentional. The walls were covered in thin boxes, and a white-haired man sat at a small table polishing a wand.
He looked up as they entered, his eyes a gleaming silver in the dim light. "Ah, how beautiful," he said in a quietly mystical voice. Mark was vaguely self-conscious of his open bottle of butterbeer. "Two young wizards setting out together on their journey of wandhood. I am sure we will find the perfect wands for each of you, or, to be precise, I am sure the perfect wands for each of you will find you. What is your name?" he asked Alec.
"Alec Whitby, sir," he answered politely.
"And which is your wand arm?" he asked, as two measuring tapes jumped off the table and began measuring every inch of the two of them, right down to the length of their shin bones.
"I'm left-handed, sir," Alec said calmly, paying no attention to the tape now measuring his eye sockets.
"Oh, are you?" Mark interjected in surprise. "I didn't know that."
"Ah, so you are left-handed as well," Mr. Ollivander - or at least Mark assumed that was his name - replied. He smiled at Mark's surprised face, but did not explain how he knew. "Now then, let us begin," he continued. "Every wand has a powerful magical substance as its core. Here we use phoenix feathers, dragon heartstrings and unicorn hairs. Wands can be made of tens of types of wood, however, and every wand is unique, rather like their owners.
"Try this wand, Mr. Whitby, walnut and unicorn hair, thirteen and three-quarter inches, unusually firm. Give it a wave." He handed the wand to Alec, who waved it slightly in the air.
A shower of silver sparks sprayed from the tip of the wand. Alec beamed, and the old man clapped his hands happily. "Excellent!" he cheered. "Truly excellent. It is highly uncommon for a wizard to be chosen by the first wand he tries. This is walnut, a powerful and sturdy wand, excellent for combat magic. That is good, in these troubled times, is it not? Whichever cause you will fight for, I am sure you will do well. On to you, Mr. …"
"E- Evans, Mark Evans," Mark stammered, by now finding the man severely creepy.
"Well, Mr. Evans, let's start with chestnut and phoenix feather, seven and a half inches, a good all-round wand. Try it out."
Mark took the wand and waved it. Nothing happened.
"No worries, no worries, we'll soon find the wand that chooses you!" Mr. Ollivander said. "Maybe this, spruce and dragon heartstring, eleven inches exactly, flexible."
Mark waved this wand as well, to as little effect as the first.
"How about this one, poplar and dragon heartstring, nine and a quarter inches, excellent for defensive spells."
It did nothing, as did the next several wands he tried.
"Cherry and unicorn hair - Olive and phoenix feather - Acacia and phoenix feather -"
No matter what he tried, nothing seemed to work. Not mahogany and unicorn hair, not elm and phoenix feather, not cedar and dragon heartstring. At least the old wand maker seemed to find this totally normal, saying casually, "I do love a good challenge. Hmmm, this could work, try redwood and phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches, very thin."
Fifty or so wands in, though, he was feeling very foolish. His grandmother was looking worriedly at her cousin, Alec looked anxious, but the wandmaker was enjoying himself more with every wand he tested.
"It's been years since I had someone try so many wands. Let's see, pine and dragon heartstring, eight and three-quarter inches, quite rigid - no? What about maple and unicorn hair, nine and a half inches, good for Transfiguration - still no? Well, well, this is a tough one, isn't it? But I've never failed yet!"
Another twenty wands were added to the used pile, and even Mr. Ollivander started looking nervous. "I've tried everything with a prayer of working for you… ah! This must be it! Here, oak and unicorn hair, ten inches, give it a wave!"
Mark waved the wand desperately, but it did nothing, and Mr. Ollivander sank into his chair defeatedly.
This was it, Mark knew; he had failed; they had no wands left for him. What was wrong with him? Why could he not even pass the first test of being a wizard? He could never go to Hogwarts without a wand. Would he have to just go back home to the Muggle world, back to the feeling of differentness, never again to see the magic of Diagon Alley and its people? He stared at the floor, unable to face anyone.
"One minute," the wandmaker said slowly. Mark looked up. Mr. Ollivander was wearing a knowing smile, his silver eyes fixed on Mark. "I have an idea," he said.