There also seem to be thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of Dorea'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.

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

Whoah.

"Ah yes," says the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Dorea Potter." It's not a question. "You remind me of 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 Dorea. "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."

Okay this is getting kind of really creepy.

Mr. Ollivander has come so close that he and Dorea are almost nose to nose.

"And that's where..." Mr. Ollivander touches the lightning scar on her 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..."

Really really creepy. "I...don't think it was probably the wand's fault..." she offers tentatively.

"Probably not." He 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. Dorea might notice he grips his pink umbrella very tightly as he speaks.

Oh, so that's what's up with that thing. Well. She's sure as hell not going to tell.

"Hmmm," says Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look, before turning back to Dorea. "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 right-handed."

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measures Dorea 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 wizard'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 it despite the creeptasticness.

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 it.

The wandmaker takes that one before Dorea'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."

She does, assuming he lets her.

Not that one, either. Or the next one, or the next, or the next. The pile of tried wands mounts higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulls from the shelves, the happier he seems to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination—redwood and phoenix feather, fourteen and a half inches, springy."

She waves it, not expecting anything in particular.

There is a sudden warmth spreading through her arm, and the tip of her wand trails golden and silver sparkles as she moves it. "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious..." He puts Dorea's wand back into its box and wraps it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious... curious..."