One unrecognizable day passed another as the wind grew cooler, the trees less vibrant and, it seemed, the sky a little darker. But the sky was shining blue one cool morning when Alex and her mother set out for London.

They had not talked much about McGonagall's visit—in fact, they had not talked much, period. The usual routine compensated for the vacuum born out of the new knowledge; Alex took care of the household, holding down the fort while her mother went out to work. When they were together, they talked about normal things: the Price's new dog and its penchant for peeing in their yard; some funny customer at the restaurant; yet another run-in with Mr. Whitman; a book Alex found in the public library. But the biggest thing that was on their minds—on Alex's mind, at least—they never discussed.

But the day was so bright on their way to London, with the windows rolled down and the wind running through her hair, that Alex thought that almost anything was possible. They were going to London—to get school supplies, Alex assumed, although her mother did not say much about the letter they received a day after McGonagall's visit. She was instructed to board a train on September 1st—a day from now. Surely, their trip to London could mean only one thing.

Alex looked at the rear-view mirror, at the retreating view of the town she knew all her life. She could make out the tower of the post office, now the same size as her pinky nail. The clock in the tower struck at the exact hour, always, and the sound sometimes even reached their house. General supplies store where she sometimes bought Vaseline for dry skin was next to the post office, along with the restaurant her mother worked in. And across the restaurant was the local pub, where men's laughter could be heard into the midnight…

She would come back, though, wouldn't she? Wouldn't Hogwarts allow their students to go home during holidays? Yes, she will see her mother again in December, and sleep in her bed again before the year was over.

The tower was now the size of a dot on a page. Alex thought that she could make out the glimmer of gold painted rod on top of the tower, but perhaps she was just imagining. She held her hand out the window in silent salute.

"It will be a while before we reach London," her mother said eventually. Alex was toying with a Mars Bars in her hand, pulling at the edges of the wrappers. Somehow the excitement of leaving vanished once the view of her hometown disappeared from her eyes.

"Hmm," Alex said.

"I should probably tell you about where we're going," her mother tried again.

"London, right?"

"Yes. More specifically, we're going to Leaky Cauldron." Alex screwed up the edge of her nose.

"A funny name."

"Yes, it is a funny name," her mother said easily. Silence followed.

The rest of the ride to London followed the same path, the silence broken intermittently by a few remarks along the way and at once by a wayside restaurant, where Alex ordered a hamburger along with her mother. The Mars Bars in her hand remained unopened. Gradually the scenery changed. Gone were the greenery that she was used to, the terrain undisturbed by human presence. Buildings grew larger and closer together, more people were on the streets, roaming. Her mother found a public parking space, and it took Alex a few seconds to realize that not once in the entire trip had her mother consulted a map or anyone about directions.

The London streets were crowded—more crowded than Alex had ever seen them. People passed by quickly, and it took Alex a few seconds to realize that people on these streets did not know each other. There was the vague awkwardness that comes with self-consciousness as Alex surreptitiously stole glances at the passers-by, wondering what they were thinking. But it was evident that these people were minding their own business, nothing much else, and soon she settled into her own rhythm, finding security in the anonymity. Her mother led the way and Alex followed, looking around curiously. She'd never been to London, after all. After a few blocks her mother stopped unceremoniously in front of a grubby pub. Alex squinted up to look for a sign and thought that she could make out an outline covered with grime of a cauldron that had faded over the years. Her mother pushed the door and went in; Alex followed, feeling her throat constrict.

It was mid afternoon and the pub was relatively empty. Alex could make out a few people sitting on the tables hunched over some documents. The people kept to themselves, and Alex couldn't hear what they were saying, for they were whispering quietly, as if they were trying to keep off eavesdroppers. All were clad in a similar fashion that McGonagall had been wearing, a cloak of some color with a hat; however, Alex noted, the professor's cloak had been of finer material.

Sophia, meanwhile, had rang the bell on the counter. Alex turned her head at the noise, startled.

"Sophia!" a man appeared from the hallway opposite of the entrance they had came through. He quickly crossed the pub, but not before refilling the almost empty tankard nearest to him by tapping his wand on it. The brown liquid slowly rose from the bottom as if the beer molecules were multiplying rapidly and Alex's eyes widened.

"How—" she began, looking at her mother and pointing at the tankard which a wizard was now carelessly holding in his beefy hands, as though this was a normal happening. But Sophia Wilson stopped her daughter with a firm hand on the shoulder.

"Tom," she said. "It's been a while."

"A while?" the man—the wizard—chuckled. "I'd say it's certainly been more than a while." Sophia Wilson smiled at this, but, Alex noted, not quite warmly as she could.

"How long has it been?" Tom continued. "Ten, eleven years? The last time I heard, you were getting married right after graduating!"

"Sounds about right," her mother answered. "I was wondering if you had a room. I know today's one of the busiest days in the year."

The man's face darkened. "Not so busy anymore. Not as it used to be, anyway." He cleared his throat. "But still, an exciting time of the year, eh? Children leaving for Hogwarts!" Then Tom seemed to notice Alex for the first time, who had subtly placed herself behind her mother—rather unsuccessfully, as Alex had always been on the taller side, and was almost head-to-head with her mother when they were standing. She shrank back further as she felt Tom's curious gaze over her face.

"Your daughter," it wasn't a question.

"Yes," Sophia answered. She did not offer any further explanation. A short pause followed.

"Well, then," Tom finally said. "Your room number's 3B. Here's the key."

"Thank you," Sophia said. "Would it be alright if I paid after I visit—"

"Gringotts, yeah," Tom said, waving his hand off at her, as if she had asked an unnecessary, stupid question. "'Course. Just remember that dinner's served from five thirty to eight."

"Gringotts?" Alex whispered as they walked away from the counter. For some reason, she did not wished to be noticed by other people in the bar.

"Wizard bank," her mother said, her voice also low. "It'll make sense once you see it."

"Alright, so let's see if I can still remember," Alex said, her head spinning. "Twenty-nine knuts make a sickle, sixteen sickles make a galleon—"

"Seventeen, dear."

"Right. Seventeen," she frowned. "And a galleon is about five pounds."

"Yes." Alex let out a breath and looked at her mother, who had been for the last two hours had been answering her questions, seemingly unfazed.

Alex, on the other hand, was running the events that has happened in her mind. The visit to Gringotts had gone smoothly as her mother exchanged the money she had into wizarding currency, although Alex had a hard time trying not to stare at the goblins after being reminded rather pointedly that staring was rude, even if they were of different species. Embarrassed, she had tried to remain calm and polite throughout their shopping, but as they went through bookstores and potion ingredient shops to get the supplies for her school (all second-hand, as they could not afford to buy all of them at a new price, although Sophia insisted that the cauldron, at least, had to be new for the best results), she found it harder and harder not to turn her head every five seconds and stare. She was certain that she had even seen a broom shop, but Sophia dragged her away before she could openly gape at the store window standing still.

Now they had deposited all the supplies at the room in Leaky Cauldron and was again back on the Diagon Alley, Alex peered at the letter containing the list of things she needed.

"Robes, got them… pets…."

"No pets."

"Right," Alex said. "Wand. It's the only thing left on the list."

Her mother nodded. "I thought as much. We're going to Ollivander's." With that they turned around, heading toward the side of the alley that they had not gone before.

"Wand?" Her own voice sounded weird as Alex repeated the word to herself. A wand. A wand of her own. This was no longer a joke—it was not a fantasy that she could wake up from. A wand, like a proper wizard. The same wand that Tom had used to fill the tankard and Madam Malkins used to take her measurements while chatting energetically with her mother, who had been in the same year at Hogwarts. The same wand that her mother used to tap the brick wall to reveal Diagon Alley.

Alex felt nervousness creep into her stomach and managed another painful swallow, clutching at her mother's shirtsleeve desperately. Sophia seemed to notice her daughter's nervousness and smiled reassuringly at her.

"It will be fine," she said. "Mr. Ollivander is… somewhat quaint, but he is very nice and does his job very well."

"I'm not worried about him," Alex said crossly.

"No," Sophia Wilson sighed. "I know you're not." With those words she opened the door of the store in front of them, catching Alex off guard. The door was shabby, and the windowpanes on the walls were so fogged up that they could barely see the inside of the store. Was this the wand shop?

"Good evening," Alex heard a voice from above as she entered. She started and looked up, but couldn't see anything except stacks and stacks of tiny boxes haphazardly placed on shelves.

"Good evening," her mother answered calmly, also looking up at the doorway, and Alex realized that there was a slight form hanging onto a very thin, worn out ladder. She gulped.

"Hello," she managed.

"Sophia Wilson," the man, presumably Mr. Ollivander, said. "It's been a while."

"Garrick," her mother answered. "I'm here to get a wand for my daughter." Alex felt her mother put a hand on her shoulder, as though unmistakably marking her as the object of focus. "She's going to Hogwarts this fall."

"Yes," the man said, dragging out the s. "Yes, I have been expecting your visit for some time." Slowly, he climbed down the ladder, one step at a time, taking his time.

"What's your name, Miss Wilson?" Ollivander asked, and it took Alex a few seconds to realize that he was talking to her and not her mother.

"Alex," she answered. "Alexandra Wilson."

"I meant your full name, Miss Wilson," Ollivander's eyes gazed unwaveringly at her face and Alex fought off the urge to flinch away. There was something eerie and unsettling about that man's gaze, whose eyes seemed to have seen more than what his appearance suggested of his age, and his quiet voice, demanding neither attention nor loyalty, that made her uneasy.

"Um," Alex said. "I'm afraid that I don't quite follow."

"Atria," Sophia said. "Atria Wymond. It shouldn't have been that hard to figure it out, was it?"

The thin lips pulled back in a way that could have been described as a smile, but no chuckle came from Ollivander's mouth. "So Charles did have a reason to throw a fit. I must tell you that your father and brother did not take the news well when they were told you had run off with that Slytherin boy."

"That much I could gather from the Howler I received," Sophia answered cooly.

"Yes, well. A waste of opportunity, if you ask me. But—that is not what we are here to talk about, are we? So Miss Wymond, which arm is your dominant arm?"

So followed a succession of questions that Alex answered uncertainly, her mind half-distracted by the small bit of exchange that had preceded the questioning. Her mother's brother and father. She had a grandfather and an uncle. And a father—but who was that Slytherin boy? Her last name seemed to have resonated with Ollivander as gauged from his reaction, but it meant so little to her.

Ollivander, meanwhile, seemed to have gotten somewhat cheerier. As he measured Alex's arm length and height, he said, "I still remember the first time your mother held a wand. Unicorn hair, spruce, eleven-and-a-quarter inches. Bold and whimsical. Lovely for Transfiguration. Our families had been friends for some time, and I myself graduated from Hogwarts with her father—a rather whimsical man himself, although I must say that he has seen his better days. She later worked under me as an apprentice for some weeks—during summer vacation, I think it was. My memories are rather fuzzy on such details."

"It was the summer before my sixth year," Sophia Wilson supplied drily. "You complained that the heat driving away the unicorns farther into the forest."

"I would have complained of no such thing," Ollivander said. "Unicorn hair is most reliable when the animal has not had had any contact with humans. In any case, her potential as a wandmaker soon revealed itself to be very poor, which was probably, in any case, for the better, although she would have put Gregorovich to shame." Despite his words, however, Alex thought that she could detect a fondness in his voice for someone with such a poor potential. She looked at her mother who was watching Ollivander measure her from some distance. Alex made a face and Sophia shook her head in amusement. Soon Ollivander went to the back of the shop where she could not see him and came back a short while later.

"Here you are, Miss Wymond," he said, presenting her with a wand somewhat ceremoniously. "Blackthron, dragon heartstring, twelve inches. Strong and determined. Give it a swish." Alex took the wand uncertainly with both of her hands and looked down at it. It seemed so fragile, so thin. She held it out with her right hand and gave it a swish. With a loud whoop, she skidded a couple of inches as the force knocked her backwards. In front of her, however, everything remained perfectly in order.

"Rejected, hm?" Ollivander said, looking amused. "Not quite common, but that dragon was one nasty piece of work. Try this one. Maple, unicorn hair, thirteen and a half. Nice and supple." This time she held the wand with more confidence and ended up sending loose paper on his desk swirling around the shop in messy disarray.

This search continued for some time, with Alex growing more and more certain that there was indeed something wrong with her and Ollivander growing more and more excited. Had she been less tense she might have found his childlike delight at the challenge amusing. Her mother, on the other hand, seemed rather tired and sat down on a bench near the door.

"I do not do this often," Ollivander said, almost bouncing up and down the ladder in a way that was alarming. "But it might help to go farther back into the shop. Most of the wands back there were either made by my father or my grandfather—but wands, you see, Miss Wymond, have trends. Each generation of wands pick their generation of people. But it may behoove us to try. Follow me, please."

"Mr. Ollivander?" Alex said as she followed him through a network of tiny hallways in the shop. The shop itself was bigger than it appeared from the street, but it possessed no big rooms; instead, the narrow hallways were lined with shelves densely filled with boxes.

"Yes?"

"Um," Alex hesitated. "You said you remembered every wand that you ever sold, didn't you?"

"Quite right, Miss Wymond,"

"I was wondering," Alex said slowly, watching the man count off the boxes from the left. It seemed as though he had an organizational system that he understood. To Alex they all looked the same. "I was wondering if you remember my father."

Ollivander stopped counting and slowly turned his head to look at the elven-year-old.

"Well, from what you said, it sounded like you knew him, and…"

"Yes," Ollivander said slowly. "Altair Wymond. Hawthorn, phoenix feather, twelve and a quarter inches. Solid and adaptable, wonderful for any magic the wandbearer chooses. Quite an excellent wand, if I may say so myself. The family, I seem to remember, had some reservations about using a wand with phoenix feather. Or made by an English wandmaker." Ollivander sniffed; it was obvious that the episode still miffed him. "Those from east of Germany have, I'm afraid, a peculiar notion of what wands should and should not do."

"Oh," Alex said, uncertain if she was disappointed at the factual knowledge she just received or not.

"A bright boy, I remember," Ollivander went on. "Quite bright. I do not place a hawthorn wand in anyone's hand, Miss Wymond. Few possess the power to master it." Alex remained quiet, wondering if Ollivander was going to say any more, but he did not.

"Here we are," he said at last. "Pine, dragon heartstring, ten-and-a-half inches." Alex gingerly took the wand from him and gave it a wish. A loud bang ensued, followed by a sound of an avalanche coming down from somewhere further away. She heard a shriek of a woman that was not her mother's and a large oomph. Alex rushed to the front of the store in a panic.

"I am so sorry!" she yelled as she came closer. There was a tall figure of a woman clad in black standing imposingly on the doorway, looking at her accusingly. Next to her stood a boy about her age. She looked for the source of the sound of the avalanche. It did not take long—there was a small hill of boxes that had fallen from the shelves above the doorway and there was another boy struggling out of the heap, dusting his cloak.

"I am so sorry, I didn't mean to—" unfortunately, however, Alex had forgotten the fact that she was holding the wand in her hand, and as she gestured frantically to the boy and the mother who was giving her a disdainful glare, the wand swished across the air and more boxes began to fall on them. A cloud of dust rose from the ground as the boxes hit the ground with dull thuds like raindrops. Alex felt a sting on her shoulder as one particular box hit her at a vicious angle.

"Well," she heard Ollivander say from behind her. "That wand will not do, will it?"

"Mr. Ollivander," the woman said in a cold voice, "if you insist on selling wands to creatures who have no idea what magic is, then the least you can do is to restrain them beforehand." Alex frowned, the apology at the tip of her tongue, but the choice of words the woman used stopped her.

"Walburga," she heard her mother's voice close to her, and saw that Sophia Wilson had drawn herself up from the chair at the commotion. "That's no way to speak in public, now, is it?"

A sneer appeared on the woman's face that thinly suppressed a violent dislike. "Sophia Wilson," she said. "I was wondering when you were going to come crawling out of the filthy nest of Muggles."

"I don't intend to, when the world is still full of the likes of you," Sophia shot back, and Alex looked at her mother, surprised at the venom in her voice.

"Mrs. Black," Ollivander stepped in quickly, his voice louder than usual. "Good evening. How can I be of service?"

It was evidently difficult for Mrs. Black to swallow whatever retort she had back at Sophia Wilson and turn her attention to Ollivander but she did so with a great deal of haughtiness and condescension. Her superiority was in her mind established through her generous act of overlooking such wrongness in society. "My sons," she said curtly, "need wands."

Alex had thus far avoided looking at the sons, in part because her experiences told her to stay clear of any boys her age, and in part due to the embarrassment she felt by dropping several dozen dusty boxes on their heads, however unintentional it had been. But it felt like a good idea to engage in the conversation to show that she was not some dimwitted creature incapable of following logic and observed the family.

Mrs. Black was tall with aristocratic features that may have inspired some admiration had she not looked down upon Alex with the most disagreeable sneer. The taller of the two boys was standing some distance away from her, looking at Alex with poorly disguised curiosity, but with none of the malice she felt from his mother. The smaller one, who had been struggling out of the heap of boxes, had managed to dust his cloak to a presentable state. The two were obviously brothers, both having black hair and similar features, but it seemed to Alex that the taller one resembled the mother more strongly with their mutual shared sharp features. The smaller boy, who observed the interaction between his mother, her mother, and Ollivander with aloofness, cast Alex a glance. Even though his features were softer, his cool gaze made Alex feel as though she was being analyzed and found lacking. Alex looked away, feeling strangely chastized and small.

"It seems, however, that we came at… the most disagreeable hour," Mrs. Black continued, again casting a glance down at Alex. "Perhaps we'll come back at later."

"But—" the taller boy started. The woman held out a hand in warning. He ignored it.

"We're leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow!" the boy almost yelled. "We don't have enough time."

Mrs. Black's head snapped toward the boy. "Did I teach you to talk back to me?" The boy opened his mouth to answer—from his stance, Alex surmised, rather defiantly—but the smaller boy intervened.

"I think what Sirius is worried about is that the shop closes in less than an hour, Mother. And it does not open until noon tomorrow, by then which we both would be on the train to Hogwarts." The boy's voice was calm, reasonable, and he looked up at his mother with a small smile. "I would very much like to get my wand before we leave."

The woman seemed to weigh the situation. "Very well," she finally concluded. "We shall stay." The last line was directed at Ollivander, who nodded and gently took the errant wand from Alex's hand.

"For another time, old chap," he told the wand before putting it in a tight wand box. "Mrs. Black, Mr. Black, and Mr. Black. If you could please sit down and wait a few minutes—"

"Wait?" Mrs. Black's elegant eyebrows rose high in her forehead. "Are you expecting us to—"

"It will not take long. Miss Wilson has been here for quite some time." With these words Ollivander disappeared to the back of the store again. Alex found herself standing awkwardly in the middle of the cramped room, with boxes and boxes of wands scattered around her. She wanted to help Mr. Ollivander organize them, but had little idea where all these went—or how she could even carry any of them.

"Mom—" she began, but Sophia Wilson had already drawn out her wand. With a flick, the boxes were slowly lifted above the ground. They seemed to move on their own accord, slowly flying to find their niches in the store.

"Thank you," Alex said quietly, going to stand beside her and staring at her shoes.

"It's not your fault," Sophia Wilson said just as quietly, drawing her daughter closer to her side.

"So this is the honor you bring to the pure line of the Wilson family," Mrs. Black drawled from her chair. "A mongrel."

"We've had our arguments, Walburga, and this is not the time nor the place for another."

"Oh? Tell me, how is dear Charles these days?" the grip on Alex's shoulder tightened.

"The last one!" Ollivander said from the hallway. "I am certain of it. Ebony, phoenix feather, twelve-and-a-quarter inches. Powerful yet flexible. A rather old mixture, I admit, but certainly reliable." Alex looked at it uncertainly. It was pitch black and something about it seemed ancient. Determined not to show the woman her uncertainty, however, she almost snatched the wand from Ollivander. A cool sensation ran from her fingertip to her spine down to her toes, unsettling her like the autumn wind that envelopes the embracer. She gave a gentle flick.

Dark blue and silver sparks erupted from the tip of the wand, energetically dancing in front of her in a fiery circle before running out the store window toward the setting sun. She looked at Ollivander. He was smiling.

"The wand came from a tree that had survived a great carnage," Ollivander said. "My father had sent me abroad to acquaint myself with different regions of the world, and I came across a once magnificent estate that had crumbled to the ground… Those were, of course, unstable times… The family had fled, I believe, to a more secure ground." He turned to fully face her. "The question you asked earlier… it may be the key to understanding your own powers."

"Don't pay them much mind, Alex," her mother said reassuringly over the dinner table. "They're not worth your time."

Alex looked up from the soup which she had been whirling around in the bowl with her spoon, trying not to look too sullen but apparently failing at it, judging from her mother's tone. "What did I do?" she said.

"Nothing. She's the one with the problems."

"It looked like you knew each other." Alex wasn't sure what she was trying to say—was she trying to be accusatory, or was she just befuddled by everything that happened today that she couldn't tell the significance of each event from the other?

"She's a distant relative—but never mind that. Alex, I'm going to tell you something, and you have to listen carefully. I want you to remember this when you go to Hogwarts." Alex looked back at her skeptically. Her mother sighed.

"It's difficult to explain these things when—," her mother stopped, frowned, and then began to drum her fingers against the table—the sign that she was thinking. "Alex, you'll meet many different types of people at Hogwarts. Some of the students will arrive already knowing a lot of things about the wizarding society and magic. Some of the students will arrive knowing… well, as much as you do. And the students who come in knowing more might look down on students who know less, but you know something? None of that matters in the end. Hogwarts was founded to teach students from all background the same material they need to become good wizards and witches, and the students who come in knowing a little more don't end up knowing a whole lot more than the students who didn't know much. What matters is who you are, how much you grow, how considerate you are to other people, how much you can do and achieve. Don't let other people tell you otherwise."

Alex looked at her mother. It seemed like Sophia Wilson had been thinking about what she wanted to say for a long time during the long stretch of silence that filled their ride to London. And her mother sounded very sure of what she was saying; that it didn't matter if she didn't understand a thing about being a wizard. But it was Alex who was going to a school where she didn't know anyone. It was she who was going to learn about magic without knowing how to properly hold a wand. She didn't even know if wizards said hello the same way non-wizards did.

"But I don't know anything. Literally nothing," she said, trying not to sound like she was complaining. In some ways she was—she didn't understand why her mother couldn't, wouldn't, explain more. "What on earth am I going to do when I can't—I don't know, when I can't fly, or something like that?"

For the first time her mother grinned. "Oh, you'll be able to fly," she said. "There are special lessons for that. You'll see." There was a pregnant pause. "Now eat your dinner—Tom likes to think that his onion soup is the best in Britain, and you'll hear an earful tomorrow morning if he sees any leftovers."