"Come along, we shall head to Gringotts Wizarding Bank to exchange your currency first. I imagine you are quite eager to get started, aren't you?" Professor McGonagall noted with a faint smile, well aware that the young boy had brought a surprisingly substantial amount of Muggle cash with him.
"Gringotts is the sole financial institution of the British magical community, and it is entirely owned and operated by goblins. It is widely acknowledged as the second safest place in the entire world to store anything of value, surpassed only by Hogwarts itself," Professor McGonagall explained seamlessly as she guided Alan through the winding cobblestone streets.
Following closely behind the stern professor, Alan soon arrived at a distinct fork in the road. A crooked signpost pointed down a dark, foreboding side street labeled Knockturn Alley, while the other arrow directed them along the bustling main artery of Diagon Alley. Towering majestically right at the junction of these two contrasting streets stood an imposing, snow-white marble building. Standing at attention by its burnished bronze doors were several formidable goblins clad in crisp, scarlet and gold uniforms.
Upon entering the bank, they first passed through the gleaming bronze doors, where the armed goblin guards on either side bowed respectfully as they crossed the threshold. After passing through a second set of solid silver gates, they stepped into a remarkably vast, cavernous marble hall. Inside, roughly a hundred goblins sat perched on high stools behind incredibly long, polished wooden counters. They were busily making rapid entries into massive leather-bound ledgers, weighing piles of exotic coins on brass scales, and meticulously inspecting precious gemstones through thick jeweler's monocles.
It seemed that the violent external turmoil ravaging the human magical world hadn't significantly disrupted the meticulous, profit-driven lives of these goblins.
Under Professor McGonagall's efficient guidance, Alan approached an available teller, presented his official Hogwarts acceptance letter, and formally received the promised twelve Galleons in financial aid allocated for low-income students. Even though Alan had brought plenty of his own money to exchange, the school board had already approved the application, and his pragmatic nature saw absolutely no logical reason to refuse free capital. Afterward, he proceeded to exchange his thick wad of British pounds for the strict maximum limit of one hundred gleaming gold Galleons. For an eleven-year-old boy, regardless of the era, this was already an incredibly massive sum of liquid wealth.
Alan strode confidently out of Gringotts, tightly clutching a heavy deerskin pouch practically bursting with Galleons. He casually reached inside and pulled one of the large coins out, holding it up to the sunlight to examine it closely. "It certainly looks like pure, solid gold, but the physical weight and texture feel distinctly different from ordinary gold."
"That is because they are all meticulously cast by the goblins themselves, utilizing their highly unique, closely guarded metallurgy," Professor McGonagall noted. "It is widely known that highly complex goblin magic is deeply woven into the casting process. This prevents any outsider or dark wizard from simply transfiguring or counterfeiting them using ordinary gold."
"Now, I imagine you are quite eager to procure a magic wand of your very own. In our world, it is virtually impossible to accomplish anything of significance without a proper wand," Professor McGonagall said, a rare hint of amusement coloring her tone as she watched Alan carefully stow away his large sum of money.
Without missing a beat, she expertly navigated the crowded street and led Alan directly to Ollivanders, a famously historic establishment boasting centuries of wandmaking expertise. Alan pushed open the door and followed the professor inside, accompanied by the soft, echoing chime of a hidden silver bell.
The interior of the shop was incredibly cramped, narrow, and distinctly archaic. A single, elegant wand was proudly displayed in the front window, resting gently on a faded purple velvet cushion. Inside, towering shelves stretching all the way to the ceiling were densely packed with thousands upon thousands of long, narrow rectangular boxes. Standing quietly behind the wooden counter, a slender, white-haired old man was meticulously polishing a freshly crafted wand with a cloth.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander. We have come to purchase a wand for this new student," Professor McGonagall announced briskly.
"Ah, Minerva! Nine and a half inches, fir wood with a dragon heartstring core, stiff. It has certainly been quite a while since I last saw you in my shop. How time flies; is it already the season for new Hogwarts enrollments?" Mr. Ollivander peered closely at Professor McGonagall with his pale, moon-like eyes before shifting his intense gaze down to Alan. "These past few days have not been easy out there on the streets. Tell me, did you happen to hear the grim news about what occurred yesterday..."
"Yesterday's tragic unrest will absolutely not continue. You simply must maintain your faith in the Ministry of Magic and, most importantly, in Albus Dumbledore!" Professor McGonagall interrupted sharply, shooting a quick, protective glance at Alan. She clearly feared that discussing such grim, violent current events would unnecessarily terrify the young Muggle-born and undermine his fragile confidence in this new world.
"Yes, Dumbledore. To be perfectly honest, if it weren't for him still holding the fragile pieces of this society together, I reckon I would have boarded up my shop and fled the country a long time ago," Mr. Ollivander sighed heavily. "But you are right, let us not dwell on such dark matters today. Let me see exactly what kind of wand is destined for this young gentleman." He wisely dropped the morbid topic and focused his complete attention on Alan.
"Hello, sir. My name is Alan Wilson," the boy introduced himself with a polite, measured nod.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wilson. Exceptionally polite young men like yourself are becoming rather rare these days," Mr. Ollivander replied with a warm, eccentric smile. He casually reached into his dusty coat pocket and produced a long tape measure covered in bright silver markings.
"Hmm... tell me, which is your dominant wand arm?"
"I am naturally right-handed, sir," Alan replied.
The silver tape measure immediately sprang to life of its own accord, swiftly measuring Alan from his shoulder down to his fingertips, then from his wrist to his elbow, and even around his head. "My word, you are remarkably strong and physically conditioned for someone of such a young age. That is quite impressive!" Mr. Ollivander exclaimed in genuine admiration as his hands lightly brushed past Alan's dense, well-trained arm muscles while adjusting the tape.
Alan suddenly felt an uncomfortable wave of goosebumps ripple down his spine. *Is there something seriously wrong with this eccentric old man?* he thought, maintaining a stiff, stoic expression. *Having a magical tape measure fluttering around is one thing, but why is he practically examining my muscle density? Do I really have to endure getting thoroughly inspected like a prize fighter just to purchase a simple wooden stick?*
Thankfully, Mr. Ollivander was incredibly quick and efficient with his work. While Alan was still lost in his deeply suspicious thoughts, the old wandmaker had already darted into the towering aisles, pulled a specific rectangular box from a high shelf, and gently handed the wooden instrument inside over to the boy.
"Here, give this one a try. Ash wood, containing a core of phoenix tail feather, exactly eleven and a half inches. A combination known to be quite stubborn and immensely brave."
Alan cautiously gripped the smooth handle and gave it a sharp, experimental wave. Instantly, a massive, scorching ball of orange fire violently erupted from the wand's tip, nearly singeing his eyebrows.
"Goodness, no! Alright, it seems that one is absolutely not meant for you," Mr. Ollivander shouted, quickly snatching the smoldering wand out of Alan's hand and tossing it aside before diving back into the stacks for a replacement.
"How about this one instead? Elm wood, dragon heartstring core, precisely nine and three-quarter inches. A classic symbol of profound wisdom and magical elegance."
Alan had barely wrapped his fingers around the polished wood before Mr. Ollivander unceremoniously ripped it right back out of his grasp with a disappointed click of his tongue. "No, no, no. It seems it is definitely not this one either."
"Let us try this one next. Red oak, spun with male unicorn hair, ten and a half inches long, known for possessing exceptional agility in dueling."
Alan accepted it and gave the wand a light, conservative flick. A sharp crack echoed through the shop, and a glass vase resting on the front counter immediately shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
"Well, it appears your innate magical energy is already sharp and forceful enough on its own. This particular core is far too sensitive for your temperament," Mr. Ollivander noted analytically, smoothly taking the destructive wand back and repairing the vase with a casual wave of his own.
"Do not worry, Mr. Wilson. No matter how challenging the customer, you will absolutely find a wand that perfectly suits you within these walls." Over the next twenty minutes, Alan tested dozens of different wands from towering piles of discarded boxes, but each time, Mr. Ollivander shook his head and indicated that none of them were the perfect match.
Suddenly, a brilliant spark of inspiration lit up the old man's pale eyes. He rushed to the very back of the shop and returned carrying a dusty, ornate box. "Try this one. Crafted from incredibly rare thunderstruck wood, sourced directly from the heart of a remarkably sturdy ebony tree that survived a massive lightning strike. The core is a single, potent thunderbird tail feather. Exactly twelve and a quarter inches long. It possesses a firm, unwavering resolve and is exceptionally resilient. This was actually crafted using exotic materials that my dear friend Newt Scamander once gifted me; it is an incredibly valuable and volatile piece of work."
"It took a monumental amount of effort and precision to stabilize and craft this specific wand, but due to its sheer power, it occasionally produces spontaneous, dangerous electrical arcs. It is notoriously difficult to gain its acknowledgment and respect. However, an unusually picky and powerful customer such as yourself should always be paired with an equally picky wand," Mr. Ollivander explained in a hushed, reverent tone, finally handing over a stunning wand that looked as smooth and dark as polished black jade.
The moment Alan laid eyes on the sleek, jade-like instrument, he felt an inexplicable, magnetic pull toward its profound, dormant power. The very second his fingers wrapped around the dark handle, an electrifying jolt rushed up his arm. He felt as if the magical wood in his hand was directly connected to his very bloodline, seamlessly integrating into his nervous system and becoming a true, biological extension of his own body.
With a confident smirk, Alan lightly slashed the wand through the dusty air. A breathtaking, ethereal electric glow—subtly flickering with crackling blue and white lightning—illuminated the dimly lit shop from the wand's tip, casting stark, dancing shadows against the walls.
"Bravo! Yes, this is undeniably the one," Mr. Ollivander applauded, his wrinkled face breaking into a wide, genuinely joyful smile. "I am always profoundly happy whenever a particularly difficult wand finally discovers its rightful, suitable owner. It is abundantly clear that this powerful instrument likes you very much, Mr. Wilson." As a pure, dedicated craftsman, finding the perfect, destined home for his most challenging creations brought him an unmatched sense of absolute delight.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Ollivander. I happen to like it quite a bit myself," Alan said, his usual stoic facade breaking into an overjoyed grin as he expertly twirled the beautifully balanced, black-jade wand between his nimble fingers.
"Ebony, also commonly referred to as blackwood in certain magical circles, is exceptionally well-suited for highly destructive combat magic and complex Transfiguration. I firmly believe it will shine brilliantly in your capable hands. Additionally, regardless of the exotic materials used, a young wizard's first wand uniformly costs exactly seven Galleons. Any excess manufacturing costs are generously subsidized by the Hogwarts school board. Just be exceedingly careful not to lose or recklessly damage it!" Mr. Ollivander reminded him sternly as he wrapped the empty box.
"You do not need to worry about that, Mr. Ollivander. I take excellent care of my weapons," Alan assured him with a sharp, confident nod. He cheerfully counted out seven heavy gold coins onto the counter, thanked the eccentric wandmaker one last time, and proudly marched out of the dusty shop, falling into step beside Professor McGonagall as they headed back into the bustling alleyway.