Slytherin stood in front of the small, shabby shop, staring hesitantly at the faded gold sign above it:
"Ollivander's: Fine Wands Since 382 B.C."
Professor McGonagall had dropped him off and hurried away, leaving him alone to contemplate the wand resting on a purple cushion in the dusty display window.
Was this really the best wand shop in all of England, as Professor McGonagall claimed?
Slytherin didn't think she would lie to him. Perhaps this was simply a different aesthetic? A uniquely magical sense of design?
He gently pushed open the door, careful not to use too much force—afraid the wooden door, looking older than him by centuries, might crumble under pressure.
As soon as he stepped across the threshold, a clear bell chimed from the back of the shop, followed by a soft, dreamy voice.
"Good morning, young wizard."
An old man shuffled out from the rear of the shop, still polishing something on a wand in his hand. His pale eyes gleamed with a curious light as he looked up at Slytherin.
"Hello, I'm Slynt Page, a new student enrolling at Hogwarts this year. I'd like to find a wand."
Ollivander stared at him intently. The gaze was so focused that Slytherin had to blink when his eyes began to dry. Only then did Ollivander look away. A silver-marked tape measure slithered out of his pocket and began winding around his hand like a snake.
"Of course, a wand... A wand suited just for you... Mr. Page, which is your dominant hand?"
His tone was soft—almost hypnotic.
"My right hand, Mr. Ollivander."
There was something about the quiet, dust-filled shop and its towering shelves of wand boxes that made the space feel sacred, like a library or a cathedral. Slytherin's voice dropped to a whisper, not wanting to disturb the calm.
Ollivander gently lifted Slytherin's arm, measuring from shoulder to fingertip, then continued down to other parts of his body.
As he worked, he spoke words that seemed both familiar and deeply rehearsed.
"Every Ollivander wand contains powerful magical cores, Mr. Page. We use unicorn hair, phoenix tail feathers, and dragon heartstrings. Each wand is unique—just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are the same. If you use another wizard's wand, you'll never achieve the same results."
He spoke it in one breath—clearly a speech he had given to countless young witches and wizards.
Ollivander glided between the towering shelves as if floating, pulling out boxes, occasionally nodding or shaking his head.
"Alright, let's see which wand chooses you."
The tape measure was now wrapping around Slytherin's nose. Ollivander grabbed it mid-air, crumpled it into a ball, and stuffed it back into his coat pocket.
"Remember, the wand chooses the wizard. Never forget that."
He emphasized the phrase before handing over the first wand.
The moment Slytherin grasped it, a sour tingling sensation crawled up his arm. Ollivander swiftly retrieved the wand and placed it gently back into its box.
"Cherry wood and dragon heartstring. Not quite right."
He selected another wand and passed it to Slytherin. This time, he felt nothing unpleasant. A few orange sparks flickered from its tip when he gave it a casual wave.
"Hawthorn and unicorn hair… Closer. They suit you—but not perfectly. You deserve your perfect match. Still, hawthorn has shown us the path."
Taking the hawthorn wand back, Ollivander fetched three more. Slytherin noticed their shafts had similar hues—possibly the same wood.
The first wand transformed a piece of cloth on a nearby bench into a ceramic cup.
"Black walnut and phoenix feather… Very close. We're getting warmer, aren't we?"
The second wand emitted a small puff of mist.
"Black walnut and unicorn hair. Hmm. Stability is not your strong suit, is it? Still, I do admire the loyalty of unicorn hair."
As soon as Slytherin touched the third wand, it was like an electric current surged down his spine. He felt an odd expansion in his hand, as though something greater had connected with him.
He waved it earnestly, and a small wisp of dark green flame floated from the tip.
"Excellent! Without a doubt, the best match!" Ollivander clapped his hands, clearly delighted. He returned the wand to its box and wrapped it in deep blue paper.
"Thirteen inches, black walnut with dragon heartstring. An extraordinary combination. Black walnut favors young wizards who are sincere and committed to their chosen path. Dragon heartstring… Well, it has a fondness for warriors. It will be your most powerful and loyal supporter—as long as you remain resolute and don't lose your way. More loyal even than unicorn hair."
Slytherin took the box solemnly and paid Ollivander seven Galleons. Professor McGonagall had told him earlier that no matter the wand's core or wood, a young wizard's first wand always cost seven Galleons.
As he walked out, Ollivander raised his voice:
"You will surely achieve great things in the future!"
He always said that line, but he meant it. A single sentence could inspire a wizard for a lifetime.
Back in the shop, he resumed polishing the wand he'd been working on before Slytherin had arrived.
Outside, Slytherin opened the box again and held the wand in his hand, adjusting to its thickness and weight. He ran his fingers over its straight shaft and elegant patterns.
Professor McGonagall had said that wands were a wizard's true companions. Maleficent and the Fairy Godmother had said the same. He hadn't believed it—until now.
Looking at the wand, he felt a surge of inspiration. The most powerful magician in his next story would surely wield a wand like this.
"It seems you've found a worthy companion. Ollivander still has an excellent eye," said Professor McGonagall, who had returned with a floating bag beside her.
"Cauldron, gloves, parchment, telescope, scales—all complete. Your robes have been ordered and will be delivered by owl once tailored."
She handed him three Sickles and seven Knuts—the change from the money she'd taken earlier to purchase the remaining school supplies on his list.
Though robes typically required fittings, McGonagall—being a master of Transfiguration—had little difficulty gauging a student's measurements.
"Professor, you're surprisingly skilled at shopping. You even gave me exact change."
"Mr. Page, I've guided many new students through their first year. Of course I'm skilled. These lists haven't changed in decades."
With that, she led him in another direction—toward the place he was most excited to see:
Flourish and Blotts.
A magical bookstore!
Slytherin had never encountered anything like it before. In the Dream World, magic was powerful and dramatic, but books? Never. Grand magicians like Maleficent preferred master-to-apprentice instruction. Magic books were rare treasures, never sold publicly.
As they neared the store, his steps quickened.
Professor McGonagall smiled to herself, pleased by his enthusiasm.
She could have bought the textbooks herself—there was no need for him to be there. But knowing Slytherin, he wouldn't be satisfied with just the required list. And besides, letting him experience a magic bookstore firsthand was part of the journey.
She quietly wondered how many books he'd end up buying. If it was too many, she might offer a gentle reminder—after all, Hogwarts had the largest magical library in England.
But for now, she simply followed him, watching the curiosity and wonder light up his face.