"And does 'Young Harry' have his key?" The Goblin asks in a gruff, mocking voice. I hold my key up, barely reaching the desk. Curse these tiny legs. He snatches it from me and scrutinizes it intensely. I look down and brush my foot on the metal tile at my feet. Many frustrated wizards have stood here, waiting. "Everything seems to be in order." He says reluctantly. "Griphook!" A younger looking Goblin rushes over. "Vault 687." He then says something that might register as another language if it didn't sound like sandpaper against another piece of sandpaper.
"This way." 'Griphook' says. We follow him to a rickety looking cart attached to an equally frail looking track. I sit down and feel the fear imprinted onto the cart.
"What-" I get cut off as the cart lurches forward. I can't help but scream a bit. That explain the fear. Dumbledore seems to be enjoying himself. We stop just as suddenly as we started, I climb dizzily onto the walkway.
"Key." He holds out his hand, I put the key in this hand, taking care not to touch him. He opens the large door.
"Cor." I say, staring at the money. "What am I looking at? What's the exchange rate to pounds?" I ask Griphook.
"I would have to consult my superiors for an accurate exchange rate." He says, not so helpfully.
"Just a rough figure, I won't hold Gringotts to it." I say.
"Approximately five British Pounds to the Galleon." He says. I look back at the vault.
"Bloody hell."
We surface a while later. I'm now the proud owner of my first wizard pouch, although Dumbledore insists on calling it a coin purse, I know a wizard pouch when I see one.
"Can I get my own wand now?" I ask the elderly man. "Will it be second hand? I don't really like the idea of that."
"Very rarely will a wand choose another witch or wizard. Yours will no doubt be brand new." He says. "But first we must get your uniform and other supplies." I look down at my list.
"Cauldrons?" I ask in disbelief. It's like the whole community is from a bad T.V show.
"Professor!" I look up, I've followed Dumbledore into a shop without realising. The woman looks over his robes. "You've not burnt another hole anywhere have you?" She steps around him.
"Not today my dear." He smiles and looks over at me.
"Another one for Hogwarts?" She asks, Dumbledore nods. "I don't think I've ever seen you escort one yourself." She says.
"I've made an exception for Mr. Potter." He says, patting my shoulder.
"Harry Potter?" She looks down at me for a while. "So much like your Father." She shakes her head slightly. "Arms up." She says sharply. I daren't disobey now that she's in what appears to be 'measuring-mode'.
The tape measure has been used 30 times today already and hundreds of times since it was made 17 years ago.
"13 galleons for the set, Where should I send them to?" She asks, looking between Dumbledore and I.
"4 Privet Drive in Surrey." Dumbledore tells her.
"...vet drive." She writes. "There we go." I fish out 13 gold coins for her. We exit the shop. There is chatter about us.
"The wand choosing is a somewhat ceremonious occasion." Dumbledore tells me. "Best experienced by ones self." He points out the wand shop. "I do like to visit old students from time to time, I shall collect your other items." I quickly make way to the wand shop. The bell tinkles faintly as I push the door open to the empty shop.
The excitement and wonder from the countless numbers that have come here for their wands are heavily imprinted onto the hard wood floors. The whole shop seems to be whispering with hidden magic.
"Ah, Mr. Potter. I thought I'd be seeing you soon." An old man slides into view from behind a stack of long boxes.
"Err ... right." I say, barely holding in my excitement.
"I see that Albus was with you outside. A very tricky customer." He nods slowly. "Tricky indeed." He produces a wand from nowhere and holds it out to me.
As my fingers close around the wood, it rapidly heats up, I throw it back to him with a yelp.
"No, no. Not even close." He scratches his beard and vanishes again. He reappears with a new wand. "9 and a half inches, yew and a single hair from a unicorn's tail."
A very old wand, nearing 70 years and passing through hundreds of hands, but never quite finding it's match. It seems disappointed to have failed again.
"I think I've upset it." I say, handing him back the wand.
"Quite." He regards me curiously.
Six wands and a smashed vase later, he comes back with a dusty box. "Perhaps this one. 11 inches, holly and phoenix feather."
Just like my key, the wand is the same age as me, right down to the second. The tree was 47 years old when he cut from it. The phoenixes feather is a similar age to the tree, very vague somehow, I couldn't place it's exact age. Rather than talk, this wand sings to me.
"There it is." Ollivander smiles. "A perfect fit, curious. Very curious."
"The feather. It belongs to-"
"Albus Dumbledore's familiar." He nods with piercing eyes. "He gave two feathers, just two. The wand in which the other resides, it's brother in some respects, was the weapon that gave you that scar." He points to my forehead and fixes his eyes on my 'trademark'. Wonderful.