DIAGON ALLEY
Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers.
He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down
through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from
the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the
walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried,
“Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well . . . how
curious . . . how very curious . . .”
He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown
paper, still muttering, “Curious . . . curious . . .”
“Sorry,” said Harry, “but what’s curious?”
Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.
“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single
wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your
wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious in-
deed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother —
why, its brother gave you that scar.”
Harry swallowed.
“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these
things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember. . . . I
think we must