Once outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checks Sarah's list again.

"Just yer wand left."

"Cool."

The last shop is narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382b.c. A single wand lays on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rings somewhere in the depths of the shop as they step inside. It's a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sits on to wait.

She looks around still smiling.

There also seem to be thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of Sarah's neck prickles. The very dust and silence in here seem to tingle with some secret magic. 

"Good afternoon," says a soft voice. An old man is standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

Sarah startles a little bit. Where did he come from? "Hello."

(There's a loud crunching noise and Hagrid gets quickly off the spindly chair.)

"Ah yes," says the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Sarah Potter." It's not a question. "You look just like your mother. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." Mr. Ollivander moves closer to Sarah. "Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it—it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

"Wands are intelligent?"

"Well. In a way." Mr. Ollivander has come so close that he and Sarah are almost nose to nose. "And that's where..." Mr. Ollivander touches the lightning scar on Sarah's forehead with a long, white finger. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he says softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands... well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do..."

"We can never know the future. That's what makes it the future."

"Yes, indeed," he says, smiling, then shakes his head and finally spots Hagrid. The failure to do so immediately is probably a record of some sort. "Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again... Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It was, sir, yes."

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" says Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.

"Er—yes, they did, yes," says Hagrid, shuffling his feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he adds brightly. 

"But you don't use them?" he says sharply.

"Oh, no, sir," says Hagrid quickly. Sarah might notice he grips his pink umbrella very tightly as he speaks.

She's not going to try to get Hagrid in trouble, though she might try to look for old newspapers at some point.

"Hmmm," says Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look, before turning back to Sarah. "Well, now—Ms. Potter. Let me see." He pulls a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"I'm left handed."

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measures Sarah from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round her head. As he measures, he says, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Ms. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another witch's wand." The tape measure, which is measuring between her nostrils, is doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander's flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. "That will do," he says, and the tape measure crumples into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Ms. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

She waves the wand gently.

And Ollivander promptly snatches it out of her hand, grabbing another wand and handing it to her. "Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try this one."

She waves this one as well.

The wandmaker takes that one before Sarah's even finished raising it. "No, no—here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."