After leaving Gringotts, Professor McGonagall walked at the front, leading the way for their shopping trip.
"This way—we'll buy your wands first. Afterward, we'll retrace our steps to purchase the rest," she explained, guiding them down the bustling street toward Ollivanders at the far end.
"That street there is Knockturn Alley. It's full of Dark magic, a gathering place for Dark wizards. Not somewhere young witches and wizards should ever set foot. In fact, I hope you never have reason to go there in your lives. Now, come along—we're off to buy the most important item for any witch or wizard."
Seeing Loren and Hermione staring at the shadowy, twisted street opposite Gringotts, McGonagall's tone sharpened with unmistakable warning. At once, Hermione tugged Loren's sleeve, and the two hurried to keep pace with her.
Before long, they reached their destination: a tiny, shabby shop at the end of the alley. The golden letters on the sign above were peeling, but they still read: *Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.* In the dusty display window, a single wand lay on a faded purple cushion.
As they stepped inside, a bell jingled softly from the back of the shop.
The space was cramped, with nothing but a single bench. McGonagall quickly ushered the four parents to sit down, and the little shop immediately felt more spacious with only Loren and Hermione standing in the middle, gazing up at the thousands of slim wand boxes stacked to the ceiling.
"Good morning, Professor McGonagall. Another new student for a wand? Oh yes, I still remember—the fir, nine and a half inches, very well suited to…"
"That's enough, Mr. Ollivander. Let's see to these two first," McGonagall cut him off. She'd heard his ritual greetings enough times to have memorized them herself.
Ollivander turned, his wide, pale eyes gleaming like two full moons. Both Loren and Hermione flinched at his piercing gaze.
"Oh, don't be alarmed, my dear children—I don't eat people," he quipped unexpectedly before continuing. "Now then, which of you will go first?"
"Ladies first," Loren said at once, stepping back and motioning Hermione forward.
"And your name, young lady?" Ollivander asked, studying her closely.
"Hermione. Hermione Jane Granger," she answered, a little stiffly.
"Very well, Miss Granger. Which is your wand arm?" He pulled out a tape measure inscribed with silver markings.
"My right," Hermione replied.
"Lift your arm, good… yes."
As he measured her, Ollivander began his customary explanation.
"Every Ollivander wand contains a powerful magical core—unicorn hair, phoenix feather, or dragon heartstring. No two wands are alike, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are the same. And should you attempt to wield a wand meant for another wizard, you will never achieve the same results."
At first, he guided the tape measure himself, but midway through speaking, it began floating about on its own, taking measurements as Ollivander disappeared into the shelves. His voice echoed faintly from between the stacks until he reappeared with several long boxes, just as the tape fell uselessly to the floor.
"Try this one, Miss Granger: scabious wood, unicorn hair, ten inches. Very good indeed. Give it a wave."
Hermione had barely raised it before Ollivander snatched it back.
"No, no. Cherry, dragon heartstring, nine inches—try this."
Again, he pulled it away before she could attempt a spell.
"Perhaps this one—vine wood, dragon sinew, fourteen inches…"
And so it went, wand after wand. None seemed quite right.
Watching closely, Loren noticed something unusual: each time Hermione held a wand, her magic rippled faintly against it. The resonance varied, but one in particular—the vine wand from the original novels—had responded almost perfectly, though Ollivander still rejected it.
Leaning close, Loren whispered,
"Hermione, let your magic flow. Just as you do when moving objects—reach out and feel the wands. Follow your instincts."
Closing her eyes, Hermione focused. At once, boxes trembled in a wave across the shelves before settling abruptly.
"Mr. Ollivander, could you fetch the wand on the bottom row of the third shelf at the back?" Hermione asked.
Startled, he obeyed, soon returning with a box.
"Ah! Cedar, dragon heartstring, thirteen inches. What an extraordinary combination. Few can master cedar. This wand has lain forgotten for years, waiting for its master."
He handed it over. Hermione grasped it, and the wand quivered in her hand. She gave it a graceful sweep, releasing a golden glow that circled the shop before vanishing.
"Splendid. A troublesome customer resolved. Now, young man—it's your turn. What's your name? And I do hope you aren't as difficult."
"I'm Loren. Loren Angus. And I'm not a picky customer," Loren said calmly. "Mr. Ollivander, please fetch the box beside the last shelf over there."
He too had tested the wands with his magic while Hermione searched. He already knew which one resonated, and he wasn't about to waste time—it was nearly noon, after all.
From the back came Ollivander's shocked voice.
"Merlin's beard—why this wand?"
He emerged clutching a box as if it contained a live dragon. Opening it, he revealed a wand.
"This wand is elder wood, with a basilisk fang core. Thirteen inches. It was my father's work. When he came into possession of the legendary Elder Wand, he became obsessed with recreating it—crafting something to surpass all mortal magic.
"But the first Dark Lord heard of his prize and tortured him mercilessly. To keep the wand safe, my father smuggled it away at the cost of his life. This wand is the only replica that survived; the rest were destroyed."
His voice faltered with grief as he handed the wand to Loren.
"Elder wood symbolizes unmatched power—life, death, contradiction, and conflict. The weak cannot master it. Use it wisely."
Loren felt the deep pulse of magic resonate in his hand and smiled.
"Of course, Mr. Ollivander. I'll use it well."
"That will be twenty Galleons. Leave them on the counter. Forgive me—I need time alone," Ollivander muttered, retreating to the shelves.
Loren dutifully set twenty Galleons down, then rejoined the others as they left the shop.
Outside, he checked his watch—it was nearly noon.
"Professor McGonagall, it's almost lunchtime. Allow me to treat you. It's the least I can do for your guidance today—and it will let everyone taste the cuisine of the wizarding world."
McGonagall didn't decline. Glancing at the sun overhead, she agreed and led them to a nearby restaurant.
It wasn't one he remembered from the books, but rather like a quaint English pub from the Harry Potter films' set designs.
Inside, the Anguses and Grangers skipped over the ordinary-sounding dishes on the menu, hunting for something more magical. Loren only shook his head, ordering normal fare—but he did add a plate of ginger newt biscuits, remembering they were McGonagall's favorite.
The meal was a success, everyone satisfied. The ginger newts, in particular, pleased both the curious families and the professor herself.
After a short rest, they left the restaurant. Professor McGonagall once again took the lead, and their unfinished shopping trip continued.
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