Diagon Alley was the heart of wizarding commerce in Britain, and yet it wasn't exactly glamorous. The cobblestoned street looked a bit old, a bit run-down, and more than a little crowded.
Strange little shops and eateries lined both sides. Robed figures in pointed hats strolled along, wands in hand. Some vanished into thin air. Others appeared out of nowhere. Owls perched on shoulders, cats curled in arms, toads hopped in cages—and a menagerie of other odd creatures turned the place into a living spectacle.
Ark spotted one wizard yank an old wardrobe out of a handbag that should've been ten times too small to hold it, arguing loudly with a shopkeeper over something. Another hurried down the street dragging a whole stack of crates floating above his head as if they were balloons. Ark couldn't stop staring.
McGonagall, by contrast, barely blinked. She walked alongside him, calmly explaining the basics of Diagon Alley and Hogwarts, and told him to pull out the supply list that had come with his acceptance letter. Time to start shopping.
Hogwarts, she explained, was funded by the Ministry of Magic with help from private benefactors. The school's purpose was to train young wizards—children who had awakened magic—in how to control their power, master spells, and learn the theory that would help them become part of, and protect, the hidden wizarding world.
There was no tuition. Room and board were free as well. But students were expected to provide their own equipment: wands, cauldrons, textbooks, and so on.
Which was why every future Hogwarts student made a pilgrimage to Diagon Alley before September. It was the one place to find everything on the list. Provided, of course, you had the money.
Wizarding currency was nothing like Muggle money. The economy ran on three coins: gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts. Seventeen Sickles made a Galleon; twenty-nine Knuts made a Sickle. Which meant four hundred ninety-three Knuts made a Galleon. The conversion rate made Ark's head spin.
For Muggle-borns, Gringotts offered exchange services. Run entirely by goblins, it was the only wizarding bank. Every witch and wizard stashed their wealth in its vaults, which stretched far below the streets. Rumour had it dragons guarded the deepest chambers.
With McGonagall at his side, Ark exchanged what little he had. His entire year's savings came to sixty-three Galleons and nine Sickles.
"That'll be plenty," McGonagall assured him. "A Galleon goes a long way. Even after you've bought all your supplies, you'll have some left for pocket money."
Ark did a quick conversion in his head. One Galleon was worth maybe forty pounds. Which meant once he'd bought everything, he'd have just over a hundred pounds left in hand. Barely anything.
Still grumbling inwardly, he followed McGonagall as she steered him toward their first and most important stop: a wand.
Ollivanders.
The shop looked tiny, cramped, and on the verge of collapse. But appearances were deceiving. This was the most famous wand shop in Britain, the sole supplier in Diagon Alley, and one of the great wandmakers of Europe.
According to McGonagall, Ollivanders had been in business since 382 B.C. Two millennia of wandcrafting tradition. Ark didn't know if that was true, but the decrepit storefront certainly made it believable.
"You in, Garrick?" McGonagall called as she stepped inside with Ark.
A reedy, cheerful voice answered almost at once.
"Well, well, look who it is!"
Out shuffled an elderly man with pale silvery eyes. He beamed when he saw McGonagall.
"It's been too long, Minerva. Once the students start trickling into Diagon Alley, I always know it won't be long before you arrive with a new one."
His gaze flicked to the wand in her hand, and he regarded it with the rapt attention of a jeweller appraising a priceless gem.
"Fir wood, dragon heartstring, nine and a half inches. Excellent for Transfiguration. Strong-willed. I remember the very day you claimed it, Minerva."
He spoke with such warmth that it was obvious he was a talker, an old friend of McGonagall's.
She, of course, remained as stern as ever.
"Catching up will have to wait, Garrick. For now, I need you to help this young wizard find a wand."
Instead of being put off, Ollivander's grin widened.
"But of course! You know this is my favourite time of year, Minerva. Each autumn means more wands finally going to their rightful owners."
At last, he turned his attention to Ark.
"Good afternoon, young wizard. I am Garrick Ollivander, proprietor of Ollivanders."
Ark bowed politely. "Hello, Mr. Ollivander. My name's Ark Byrne."
"Such manners!" Ollivander said warmly, instantly approving. "Now then, Mr. Byrne—let's see about your measurements. Which is your wand hand?"
Ark raised his right hand without hesitation.
At once, measuring tapes zipped through the air and began circling him, taking his height, the length of his arm, even the circumference of his head.
"Before we begin," Ollivander said, "you should know—every single wand in this shop is unique. Different woods, different cores, but more than that—each wand is its own individual. A wizard and his wand must suit one another. If you try to wield another's wand, neither of you will perform at your best."
He leaned closer, eyes bright. "Always remember: it is the wand that chooses the wizard, not the other way around."
With that, he began rifling through the towering stacks of narrow boxes that crowded the shop to the ceiling. He plucked one at random, opened it, and handed Ark the wand inside.
"Walnut. Unicorn hair core. Nine and a half inches. Flexible, adaptable. Give it a try."
Ark took the wand in both hands, curiosity sparking in his chest.
And instantly, he felt it. This wasn't just wood. It was alive. Like a creature with a will of its own, waiting in his grip.
He gave it a tentative flick.
A brilliant rainbow arced from the tip with a sharp whoosh.
Ollivander's cheerful face shifted. His brow furrowed.