MICHAEL III
Michael had specifically waited to be the last person to get his wand. Conner and Seth had gotten theirs as soon as they had entered through the Brick Wall. Both flicking the things back and forth after Michael had insisted on staying outside the shop. Conner's had been a very standard stick, with a slight aesthetic dent in it, made with cherry wood, embedded with a Phoenix's feather. Seth's was a jagged piece of beautiful mahogany, with a very large hole in a jutting hilt, and somewhere within was imbued a strand of a unicorn's mane. They were both incredibly beautiful, and Michael would bet the remainder of his galleons on his being even cooler. He had only two galleons.
Ollivanders was a curious shop. Despite being the famous, reputable, and most popular wand shop in all of Diagon Alley, the street around the entrance to the shop was deserted. No one seemed to want to move close to it, and the shop itself was incredibly dingy. The letters on the sign were practically peeling with old paint, Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. it read proudly. It seemed the shop's reputation might have been a bit dated.
A small little bell sounded as Michal pushed open the rather heavy wooden door, echoing slightly through a room most would assume was filled with shoeboxes. Bookcases were piled up as tall as in Flourish and Blotts, going up several stories, with ladders in place to allow one to reach even the tippity top. However, instead of books, these cases held numerous little boxes, within each was a wand.
Phillis had been very clear in explaining that their wands were not meant to be used until they had arrived at school, but Michael figured that since he was last and alone, how would she find out? For this reason, he was excited to blow something up, or at least make it sparkle. The first thing that struck him was how empty the shop was. With terms starting, every wizard and their mother were filling up each and every store ready for purchasing supplies, yet the wand shop was free of any and all lines.
The next thing he noticed was how eagerly he was being watched. The old man behind the counter was transfixed on Michael as he looked around, not saying anything, but not looking away. The man was certainly Ollivander, this much Michael already knew, but Michael hadn't seen him before today. The man had a very wrinkled face on him, topped by incredibly long and stringy white hair, that poofed and twirled this way and that in the most unkempt of ways.
Michael had an otherworldly respect for people who had uncontrollable hair, as he had the same affliction, and thus, found himself already taking a liking to the man. Not to mention, anyone about to give Michael the ability to perform magic was alright in his book. As Michael returned the man's stare, neither of them said anything, and so it was clear to Michael that he would have to initiate the conversation. He cleared his throat.
"Um, Hello." He said. The man nodded curtly. But said nothing in response. "I'd like a wand." Michael continued.
"Young man, I can hardly imagine any other reason one would enter my shop." Mr. Ollivander said, very matter-of-factly. Maybe Michael didn't like him very much after all. The entire time, their eyes had been locked, neither one of them wanting to look away.
"Can I have one?" Michael asked again, expecting an equally rude response.
"Young man, do you know why a wizard needs a wand?" Ollivander asked him.
"To do magic?" Michael said, thinking the question rhetorical, but Ollivander shook his head.
"Any wizard can do magic with a surge of emotion, and when one knows the effect they can produce and the name which it is given, it becomes easier to produce it. Very experienced wizards have no need for wands." He explained.
"Okay, cool." Michael said, now desperately wanting a wand, and not very intrigued by what the man was teaching him.
"A wand is merely a tool, used to aid the wizard in discerning spells. But, even still, they are so much more." As he said this, the old man practically leaped around the counter to stand directly in front of Michael, startling him.
"You see, the wand chooses the wizard."
"Um...it what?" Michael asked, now incredibly confused. It had never occurred to Michael that wands could be alive, and if they were, he was glad he hadn't been born as a magic stick.
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, young man, and I'll remember yours until the day I die." Ollivander said mysteriously, as he grasped Michael's right arm, and began moving it around.
"Is this your wand arm?" Ollivander asked him. Michael nodded, having no idea what that meant.
"I think I've already got the perfect wand in mind." Ollivander said, racing back to his counter, and up and up a ladder with astonishing speed. He returned a moment later carrying a little black box. He placed it firmly into Michael's hand, and opened the top, revealing a wand. It was a rather gaudy thing, with little bits and prods sticking out of the ends, like a mace, made of an incredibly dirty looking wood. Michael removed it from the box, and looked up at Ollivander.
"Well, give it a wave." He told him, gesturing with his arms. Michael did as much, thrusting the wand towards the back of the shop, as an array of flowers sprouted out of the end with a loud pop, flying about the room, almost peacefully, until they all started exploding in a small fiery array.
"Not that one!" Ollivander spoke up, wrenching the stick from Michael's grasp.
"Try this one!" He said, swapping the box currently in Michael's hand for another. Michael did as ordered, removing a stick that seemed as though it hadn't been worked at all, and still had its bark. He flipped it about in his fingers, and suddenly oil started squirting out of the tip, dousing the box the wand had once been in, nearly drenching Ollivander as he quickly evaded the spurt.
"Oh deary me! Hand it over!" Ollivander said, trying to get at the wand without getting drenched. He took the wand over to a locked trunk, and simply waved a hand at it. The lock upon it popped off, and Ollivander threw the wand in. He then quickly threw the latch upon the trunk, as several chaotic wands seemed to be reacting. Then, all was silent again.
"Sorry about that, out of control wands are a messy business." Mr. Ollivander said, brushing off himself, trying to save face.
"Now...um…" Mr. Ollivander trailed off as he paced back behind his counter, and began fiddling underneath it. He produced three more boxes, placed them on the counter, and then stood up.
"Here," he said, and gave the one he had just placed on top to Michael. Michael took it, and swirled it around. It immediately exploded with a horrifically loud noise, and nearly incinerated the jacket Michael was wearing. Without so much as blinking, Olivander pushed the next box towards Michael. He hesitantly did as he had been doing, and removed the top.
This next wand was an incredibly pale wood, almost white, with a rather large handle and a very thin shaft. It came to an incredibly sharp point, as if a knife, and was only about six inches long, half the length of an average wand.
Michael touched it, to remove it from the box, and when he came into physical contact with it, he was overcome with a very strange feeling. It was as if his hand had suddenly grown cold, and the temperature drop slowly spread to his entire body. He felt tired as he touched it, less energetic about getting a wand, as he slowly took it from the felt casing.
He waved it about, and nothing happened.
"Hm…" Ollivander wondered, placing a finger to his chin. "I think that one just might do for you." He said. Michael stared down at it. He didn't really want it to be his wand. It gave him a sad feeling.
"Are you sure?" Michael asked.
"You're sure you're right-handed?" Ollivander questioned. Michael nodded.
"Then, yes." He said, smiling with a nod. "That'd be a galleon."
"Only a galleon?" Michael asked. He had been expecting a bit more.
"For that wand, yes." Ollivander replied, holding out a hand.
"Well...in that case…" said Michael, as he produced his wallet, and saw the two golden coins remaining within.
"I want two."