"Are you here for Hogwarts uniforms, dear?"
As soon as Albert stepped into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, a squat, smiling witch dressed in mauve bustled over to greet him.
"Yes, Madam," Albert nodded politely. "Thank you for your trouble."
"What a polite young man! Come, step up here. Let me take your measurements."
Madam Malkin beckoned with a crook of her finger. Immediately, a tape measure, a pincushion, and a pair of scissors zipped through the air, hovering around Albert like eager hummingbirds. They began to measure his inseam, shoulder width, and arm length automatically.
Herb watched from the doorway, his mouth slightly agape.
Custom fitting the robes was a surprisingly lengthy process, taking a full thirty minutes. As they were finishing up, Madam Malkin told them to return later to collect the wrapped package.
"Madam," Albert said as he straightened his disheveled shirt, "in addition to the standard school list, I'd like to place a special order. A plain black pointed hat and a plain black cloak, sized for me, but without any name tags. Oh, and please package them separately."
"A plain hat and cloak?" Madam Malkin blinked, looking from Albert to Herb in confusion. "No school crest?"
"Yes," Herb nodded, catching on immediately. He knew exactly who these were for. "It's a gift."
"I see," Madam Malkin smiled, asking no further questions.
After paying a deposit of one Galleon, the father and son left the robe shop. They headed next door to Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment.
Albert simply handed the shopping list to the proprietor, Mr. Wiseacre. "I need everything on this list, please."
Wiseacre was efficient. Within minutes, he had gathered a set of brass scales, a collapsible brass telescope, and a set of glass phials, wrapping them neatly in brown paper.
Following the shopkeeper's directions, they easily located Potage's Cauldron Shop, where Albert selected a standard pewter cauldron (Size 2).
Then came the apothecary.
"Good lord," Herb gagged as they approached the shopfront. "What is that smell?"
A pungent stench of rotten eggs and pickled cabbage wafted out the door, seemingly designed to repel anyone with a functioning nose. Inside, the shop was crammed with fascinating horrors.
Shelves were lined with glass jars containing dried roots, brightly colored powders, and shriveled herbs. Hanging from the ceiling were bundles of feathers, strings of yellowed fangs, and desiccated claws.
"How could anyone possibly brew these things into a drink?" Herb muttered, eyeing a jar labeled Pickled Slugs. "It's barbaric."
He watched Albert calmly select the required ingredients for Potions class.
"It's too disgusting," Herb whispered to himself, a look of existential dread creeping onto his face. "This father is beginning to doubt his life choices. Is sending him to this school really wise?"
Albert paid for the ingredients and a set of basic brewing tools, then practically dragged his shell-shocked father out into the fresh air.
"Albert," Herb said seriously, taking a deep breath of non-sulfurous air. "How about we forget this? We can go to Eton. It smells much better there."
Albert's face twitched. He shook his head firmly.
"But... the more I see, the more unreliable it feels. Maybe Daisy was right," Herb said, looking at his son with complicated eyes.
"We still need books, a wand, and an owl," Albert countered. "Don't jump to conclusions before you see the whole picture, Dad."
"Alright," Herb sighed, defeated. "Let's get on with it."
Their next stop was Flourish and Blotts. Here, Albert was in his element. He bought all the required textbooks, plus several extra volumes on modern wizarding history and magical theory. He wanted to browse longer, but seeing the time, he settled for grabbing a catalog so he could order more books by owl post later.
Next, they visited Scribbulus Writing Implements, located next to Quality Quidditch Supplies. They stocked up on parchment, quills, and color-changing ink.
With directions from the stationer, they headed north to Eeylops Owl Emporium. The shop was dark and filled with the soft rustling of wings and glowing eyes.
"We need an owl to send letters home," Albert explained.
They selected a sturdy, intelligent-looking barn owl. Herb also insisted on buying a large bag of premium Owl Treats and nuts.
By now, they had accumulated a trolley's worth of goods. Herb checked the list.
"Only one thing left," he said. "The wand."
Ollivanders was located on the south side of the alley. It was a tiny, narrow building with peeling gold letters over the door: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.
As Albert pushed open the door, a tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop.
Ding-ling.
The interior was cramped and silent. Thousands of narrow boxes were piled neatly right up to the ceiling. The air was thick with dust and a strange, tingling magic. The only furniture was a spindly chair.
Herb squeezed the trolley inside; it seemed to fill the entire available floor space. He sat on the chair, munching on a pumpkin pasty they had bought from a street vendor earlier.
"Is anyone here?" Albert called out, finishing his own pasty.
"Good afternoon."
A soft voice drifted from the shadows. An old man with pale, moon-like eyes stepped out from between the shelves.
"Hello, sir. I'd like to buy..." Albert started, quickly wiping crumbs from his mouth.
"A wand. Yes, of course. A Hogwarts first-year." Ollivander smiled faintly. "What is your name?"
Seeing Albert's hesitation, he added, "The Ministry requires a record of all wands sold."
"Albert Anderson."
"Very well, Mr. Anderson." Ollivander pulled a long tape measure with silver markings from his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"
"I'm right-handed." Albert held out his arm.
The tape measure sprang to life. It measured from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit. It even began measuring the distance between his nostrils.
"Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance," the old man murmured as he flitted around the shelves, pulling down boxes. "We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same."
Albert swatted the tape measure away as it tried to measure the circumference of his head.
"Try this one," Ollivander said, handing him a wand. "Holly and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite flexible."
Albert reached for it, but the moment his fingers brushed the wood, Ollivander snatched it back.
"No, no. Try this. Ash and unicorn hair. Eight and a half inches. Good springiness."
Albert waved it. Nothing happened.
"Apparently not," Ollivander muttered, tossing the wand onto a growing pile. "Try this one..."
Albert tried wand after wand. Sometimes he barely touched them; other times he gave a wave only to shatter a vase or send boxes flying. Herb jumped every time something exploded.
"Tricky customer, eh? I like tricky customers." Ollivander seemed to be getting happier with every failure. "Let's see... Red Cedar and Phoenix feather, nine inches. Nice and whippy."
Albert took the wand.
Instantly, a warmth flooded his fingers. It felt like holding a live current. He gave it a gentle swish.
WHOOSH.
A stream of red and gold sparks shot from the tip, blooming like fireworks against the dusty ceiling. The shop was momentarily bathed in warm light.
"Bravo! That's the one," Ollivander cried, clapping his hands. He took the wand back to box it up.
"An interesting choice," Ollivander mused, his pale eyes fixing on Albert. "Legend says that wands made of Red Cedar bring good luck to their owners."
"Do you believe that?" Albert asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," Ollivander replied softly. "I believe that Red Cedar wands have an affinity for a certain type of wizard. They are attracted to those who already possess the ability to turn danger into opportunity."
"So, it's not the wood that brings the luck, but the wizard who makes the wood look lucky?"
"Precisely," Ollivander nodded, handing him the box. "That will be seven Galleons, Mr. Anderson."