DIAGON ALLEY
Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost
nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.
“And that’s where . . .”
Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead
with a long, white finger.
“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said 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. . . .”
He shook his head and then, to Harry’s relief, spotted Hagrid.
“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again. . . . Oak,
sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”
“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.
“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half
when you got expelled?” said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.
“Er — yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. “I’ve
still got the pieces, though,” he added brightly.
“But you don’t use them?” said Mr. Ollivander sharply.
“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he gripped his
pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.
“Hmmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look.
“Well, now — Mr. Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape mea-
sure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand
arm?”
“Er — well, I’m right-handed,” said Harry.
“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry from shoul-
der to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit
and round his head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander
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