Rapture, noun. An intense feeling of happiness.
After the first time, it was relatively easy to gain the necessary skills to demonstrate her right to know about magic. Just three months since she first met the blond stranger, she was fully aware of just why he'd been to her shop in the first place. When she first learned that she'd been animating the mannequins, she'd not believed him, but three months of being cooped up in his flat and seeing just what happened when she was angry or tired or stressed or – one rather memorable time – happy, she couldn't deny that she could do quite impressive things without meaning to.
She was still living high off of her success as he moved her through the street she'd glimpsed through the windows. She smiled and responded to the greetings of Madam Malkin, the tailor Draco had enlisted to help her dress properly when she'd first arrived. He had to practically drag her away from the windows of Flourish and Blott's, where she heard the siren's song of books unread, though she missed the perturbed expressions of passers-by at the sight of an infamous Malfoy grinning amusedly at her ardour for the written word. She could only stare apprehensively, though, when he pushed her through the dingy door and into the dusty shop he assured her was, "the best place to get a wand."
Ollivander's was, in Hermione's opinion, more than a little off-putting. The high shelves, stacked with nearly identical boxes with nearly identical unreadable labels was a let-down, but she put her faith in her companion's word; he hadn't been wrong, yet, much to her chagrin, so odds were he was correct this time, as well. The hunched old man that came to greet them was the first part of this whole experience that she was able to imagine correctly, though to be fair, she'd made the assumption of what the proprietor would look like based on the surroundings. He was tall but stooped, hair thin and falling limply around his shoulders, and his entire appearance was just as dusty as the shop around them. And then he spoke, and she had to remind herself not to make assumptions.
"Draco Malfoy, unless I'm mistaken, you still have a wand and have no need of my services." The old man's voice was strong and entirely unwelcoming.
She had asked, here and there, about his family when they took breaks from her lessons, and while she clearly understood that he was from money, he'd never once led her to believe that he was disliked. This man, however, clearly held no fondness for her companion, and the way he'd spat out Malfoy clearly hinted that whether the dislike was personal or not, it certainly went beyond that.
Draco, for his part, remained polite, though the tightness around his mouth gave proof of his discomfort. "And you would be correct, as always in matters of wands, Mr Ollivander. I'm here to help this young lady find the wand for her."
The full force of the older man's gaze weighed heavily on her shoulders, the flush of excitement having worn off and been replaced with trepidation. Her nerves only heightened when he pulled his own wand and inspected her hand. "Name?"
"Oh, er, Hermione, sir. Hermione Granger."
"Granger, Granger… I'm not familiar with the family." He sent a cold glare at Draco, as though he were somehow at fault for the lack of knowledge.
Hermione looked to Draco as well, more than a little out of her depth, now, but Draco never took his eyes off the old man still clutching her hand. "Mr Ollivander, more than being the best of the best when it comes to anything wand related, never forgets a person, nor the wand that chooses them." His eyes flicked up to hers, briefly, and at the least she understood that much now. "You don't know the family, because she's Muggle-born."