"Hmm," he says, and spins with a swish of his robes to examine the shelves of wand-boxes.  "Hmmmmm..."

"Laurel and unicorn hair," he murmurs to himself.  "I have a laurel and unicorn hair for sale, in fact, let me..."

He retrieves a box, and returns, slides it across the counter to her.

It doesn't react any better; it seems to be sliding off her a bit, somehow. Like a key that fits in a lock but won't turn it fully.

"Hmm, hmm, no matter," he says, and plucks the wand back out of her hand.  "What about... perhaps a hazel instead?"

She tries whatever wands he offers her, though none of them click.

"You don't strike me as a dragon heartstring, but perhaps against the right wood..."

"You could do well with a cedar, one day, I think, but maybe not for your first..."

"...English oak?" he says to himself.  "Here, this one, with a unicorn hair."

She waves it, still with the same careful focus as ever.

It - almost fits. She could certainly do magic with this wand, and do it well.

But it's not perfect. The wand's waiting for another wielder; she's waiting for another wand. Even if these two could get along.

"In another life, perhaps."

He takes the wand back, and examines it closely.

"I have... but no, surely..."

Another swishy spin toward the shelves of wands.  He slides another box from the shelf, narrows his eyes at it.

"Well," he murmurs, "it can't hurt to try, surely."

"Try what, Mister Ollivander?"

"Another English oak," he says, turning to her.  "But this one... well."

He hands her the wand.

She waves it, as she has every other one.

It releases a shower of golden sparks.

“Well,” he murmurs.  “How curious.  Something has a sense of humor, it seems.”

"What do you mean, Mister Ollivander?"

“That wand,” Ollivander says, “contains the tail feather of a certain phoenix.   I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Miss Evans, and the creature that gave of itself to make it.  The phoenix responsible for your wand only ever donated one other feather.”

"Was that other wand important?"

“Indeed it was,” Ollivander says, somberly. “It was discovered at the site of your parents’ murder, Miss Evans.  It belonged to the woman who killed them.”

"...Oh."

"That, I think," he says, nodding toward the wand in her hand, "is a - portentous - device."

"What does portentous mean?"

"A thing is portentous if it is foreboding; if it is a sign of great and significant things in the future.  I think these things shall be enacted by you, Miss Evans."

She seems really skeptical of that.

"If you say so..."

He smiles an almost-smile and chuckles an almost-chuckle.  His eyes move from Harriet to Hagrid.  "That will be seven galleons, and our business is concluded."

Hagrid pays, and they depart.

"You've got your wand now, Harriet," Hagrid says proudly.  "How's it feel?"

"It feels - right."

"Felt that way to me, too," he says, a little wistfully.  "You oughta hold onto that yourself," he adds.  "Sturdier than it looks, though, don't worry."

"Okay. Thanks."