CHAPTER FIVE
The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over
the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 b.c. A
single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.
A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they
stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single,
spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as
though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of
new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at
the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling.
For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and
silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.
“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid
must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise
and he got quickly off the spindly chair.
An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shin-
ing like moons through the gloom of the shop.
“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly.
“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you
soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s
eyes. 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 moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would
blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.
“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand.
Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for trans-
figuration. Well, I say your father favored it — it’s really the wand
that chooses the wizard, of course.”
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