"Ollivanders' wand shop?" I mumbled under my breath, clearing away the droplets of drizzle from my face and waving away the smoke escaping from my mouth to read the swaying shop sign properly. It sounded familiar, poking at a distant memory of my father walking the same streets a very long while ago and me; nevertheless, it was the right place to be. I looked up and down the road for any sign of my family who had accompanied me on this shopping trip, but I believe their closeness quickly dissipated into the bustling masses of shoppers.

I ventured forward without them, admiring the shop's charming ambience and feeling thankful I was finally out of the icy grip of an unfortunately dreadful August morning. Thousands of elongated cardboard boxes loaded the tiny pigeonholes carved into the shelves, spanning two floors. Behind the shop counter stood a dusty brown ladder, leaning upon the berms of the frames, expecting to be used. At the very rear of the shop, shrouded in a thick shadow, was a cosy-looking workbench loaded with mountains of wood chips and carving materials. A familiar aroma of polish, inkwells and burnt wood was potent but still left a feathery feeling in my chest and a slight smile on my face.

However, an immediate sound of scuffling brought me from my awestruck trance, and I watched as a tall, slender man emerged from a storage cupboard holding a mountain of boxes within his arms. He quickly but delicately placed them onto his workbench, sifting through them all by their colour, shape and texture of the box. I awkwardly stood there, letting my hands cross behind my back as I was unsure of how to get the man's attention. A bell sat at the corner of the counter, winking at me to press it under the candlelight. I lightly tapped the palm of my hand onto the head of the bell, enjoying the soft chime emitting from its underbelly.

The man quickly turned, his face utterly stoic in the dark before he promptly rushed towards me with a sudden broad smile after analysing my face with his deep blue eyes. "Ah, Miss Olympia Warwick! I have been expecting you to turn up for quite some time. Unfortunate it is such a gloomy day," he said, placing out his hand for me to shake as he quickly glanced outside the shop window and grimaced at the falling rain. His sudden moment of distraction allowed me to study his appearance before I took his hand.

He had messy, grey hair that echoed his old age, but still, those piercing blue eyes, hidden behind aged half-moon glasses, made me question his actual age. His ruby-red ascot cravat effortlessly draped around his neck, its silk shining endearingly under the candlelight and complimenting his pale button-up shirt, dark indigo blazer with gilded buttons and icy-blue, fluorescent waistcoat. His wrinkled hands appeared welcoming despite the tips of his fingers looking warn and scabby, and aged scars littered the back of his hand. It finally dawned upon me who was exactly standing before me, and suddenly I felt a flush of embarrassment.

I promptly took his extended hand, relishing in its warmth, "It's lovely to meet you, Mr Ollivander."

His once large smile turned to a simple one, letting out a light chuckle, "You're the spitting image of your father; you've got the exact same smile as him."

"You speak of him as if you know him personally, sir. Do you often attend our dinners?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as if thoroughly searching through my memories of countless evening dinners, yet I could not pinpoint those unforgettable blue eyes anywhere.

He let out a light chuckle, "Well, you could say I once knew him; however, it feels like such a long time ago. He stood where you're standing with such unrivalled eagerness to buy his first wand: ten and a quarter inch long, made of apple."

"Sure sounds like my father," I mumbled to myself before placing my attention back onto Mr Ollivander.

I could see his eyes sadden, letting out a small sigh as he tapped his right forefinger on the counter four times. "But, of course, everyone knows your father on some level. He is one of the most influential man of his age," he noted.

I gave a curt nod in agreement; of course, everyone knows him. I would often get halted in the middle of the street during a shopping trip by elegantly gloved hands on my shoulders, ladies telling me how pretty I have gotten over the years. After complimenting my appearance, they'd drag their annoying sons forward to spark an awkward conversation. Grumpy, bearded older men often stood behind them, asking me how my father was and complimenting his intelligence as I watched the other children freely shopping in the sweet shop and looking through the Quidditch gear shop window.

They would suddenly change the subject to my father potentially being free to come over and fix any shortcomings of a current product. It was a grand scheme to avoid the inflated repair price at my father's company. Finally, their snotty-nosed brats of children would often bug me about the next dinner party while I tried to buy some sweets in peace; they all loved the Warwick Estate and its fireworks.

"What's your wand arm?" Mr Ollivander asked, pulling me once again from my deep thoughts.

"Right, sir," I said, extending it slowly out to him as he suddenly produced a small roll of tape measure from his robe pockets. He measured from my shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to my toes, knee to my armpit and around my head. Noticing my confusion at his sudden study of my physique, Mr Ollivander cleared his throat, "No two Ollivander wands are the same, Miss Warwick. You'll never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

Suddenly, leaving the tape measure to record its findings on its own, it turned the large oak wood shelves and began taking down the colourful boxes. "That'll do," he said, waving his hand dismissively towards me. The tape measure suddenly fell into a crumpled heap on the floor.

"I want you to try these," Mr Ollivander continued, taking off the lids of three separate boxes and revealing wooden wands. They all looked as majestic as the next; it was hard to choose which one to pick up. I looked at him, confused and waiting for him to tell me which ones I should try, but all he did was a nod towards the boxes.

"Urm, okay," I said hesitantly, picking up a wand with a sleek brown texture. Its perfect shine was handsome to the eyes, but its floral design around the handle was what enticed me to pick it up. The wand felt light within my hand; however, incredibly cold.

"That's a Beech-wood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Go on, give it a flick," he said with a smile. I pointed the end of the wand towards the floor, muttering a minor incantation, but a lantern abruptly exploded right before us. We both ducked for cover as the glass shards dispersed over us. An excited laugh escaped his lips, scaring me slightly, "Oh well! Next one."

I picked up another wand similar in colour to the previous one, but it had a plainer handle. It felt remarkably smooth within my hand and the same bitter feeling. "Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches." "Another one!" I gave it a simple flick, and this time an entire shelf of wand boxes flew out of the pigeonholes behind us.

I picked up the final one, and something about it felt perfect. Its weight was ideal, its handle was the perfect length to wrap my fingers around it, and its magical essence surged through my limbs, resembling a calm river. "Elder wood with unicorn hair. Eleven inches." Its handle was a simple spiral with small dots cut within the indent of the ring while the rest of its body was perfectly sanded down.

"Urgh, Mr Ollivander; I think - I think this is the one," I said, looking up at him with a nervous but eager smile.

"Well, we won't know till you give it a flick," he said with a wide smile as he marvelled at the wand within my grip as if a kid looking at all the delicious sweets within a sweet shop's display case. After giving it a small flick, a small, feathered quill began to levitate slowly before falling back to the book it belonged to. "Impressive. You've got your work cut out for you, Miss Warwick," he said.

"This feel amazing." the soft warmth filling my hand as I held its handle felt incredible. The wand felt almost like an extension of myself, and I could never part with it.

"Pairing with a wand is an incredibly feeling, Miss Warwick. It's a one in a life-time experience never to be found again." I placed the wand back into its box carefully and let Mr Ollivander bag the box.

After a minute of haggling with the store owner, I reluctantly left the store without parting him with the full Galleons owed for this beautiful wand on the shop counter. I had given him many thank yous, hoping to repay him the future for the generous prize he had given me. "There you are. We've been looking all over for you!" Mother shouted, panting as if she had been running to find me. "What you have in that bag?" she asked, pointing towards the brown paper bag.

"My wand," I said, holding the handle towards her so she could inspect the contents, but all she did was wave it away dismissively. She seized my wrist, dragging me along the cobblestone street towards the nearest fireplace. She took a large grip of shimmering powder before whispering into her hand and blowing it towards the raging fire. I felt her drag me forward into the flames, pulling me away from the crowded street and the most fantastic shop ever.