"Are you here to buy your Hogwarts uniform, dear?" a short, plump witch asked with a warm smile as Albert and Herbert stepped into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The shop was cozy, filled with rolls of shimmering fabrics and the soft hum of magic in the air.
"Yes, madam," Albert replied politely, nodding. "Sorry to trouble you."
"What a courteous young man! Come, let's get your measurements," Madam Malkin said, her eyes twinkling. With a flick of her finger, a tape measure, a pin cushion, and a pair of scissors floated over, dancing around Albert to measure his frame. Herbert watched, dumbfounded, as the tools moved with a life of their own, weaving through the air with precision.
The process of tailoring Albert's Hogwarts uniform was meticulous, taking nearly half an hour. Madam Malkin worked with practiced ease, her enchanted tools stitching and cutting as she chatted about the durability of dragonhide gloves. Herbert, still adjusting to the magical world, sat quietly, his eyes darting between the floating scissors and his son.
As Albert smoothed his slightly rumpled shirt, he added, "Madam, in addition to the standard school uniform, I'd like to order a black pointed hat and a plain black cloak, sized to my measurements, but without a name tag. Please package them separately."
"A black pointed hat and a plain cloak?" Madam Malkin echoed, her brow furrowing in curiosity.
"Yes," Herbert confirmed, catching on. He knew the extra items were a gift for Nia, who had been enthralled by the idea of magic.
"Very well," Madam Malkin said, nodding without further question. She scribbled a note, and the enchanted quill beside her began tallying the order.
After paying a handful of Galleons, Albert and Herbert left the robe shop and headed to Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment nearby. Albert handed the shopkeeper the Hogwarts supply list, requesting the brass scales, telescope, and glass phials listed.
The shop was a treasure trove of curious instruments, from glowing crystal orbs to self-calibrating compasses. The total came to 13 Galleons, but Albert, intrigued by a gleaming hourglass that promised to track time with uncanny accuracy, added it to the purchase for an extra 2 Galleons.
With the shopkeeper's enthusiastic directions, they found Potage's Cauldron Shop next. The air inside was thick with the metallic tang of tin and pewter.
Albert selected a standard tin cauldron for 15 Galleons, its surface etched with faint runes that shimmered under the shop's dim lighting. The shopkeeper, a wiry man named Potage, pointed them toward the apothecary for potion ingredients, warning them to brace for the smell.
The apothecary was an assault on the senses. Even before they crossed the threshold, a pungent odor—rotten eggs mixed with damp earth—wafted out, as if designed to repel customers. Inside, shelves groaned under the weight of jars filled with herbs, dried roots, and vibrant powders.
Bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and disturbingly lifelike claws dangled from the ceiling. Albert's eyes widened at a jar labeled "Slug Essence, 1 Galleon," its contents glistening unsettlingly.
Herbert paled, his expression a mix of horror and disbelief. "How do they… drink this stuff?" he muttered, eyeing a vial of murky green liquid.
Albert, suppressing a grimace, purchased the required potion ingredients and a set of basic brewing tools, including a mortar and pestle charmed to grind ingredients evenly. As they paid, Herbert's face grew more troubled, and he tugged Albert aside once they stepped outside.
"Albert, are you sure about this?" Herbert asked, his voice heavy with concern. "Let's go to Eton instead. This world… it's starting to feel like a mistake."
Albert's lips twitched, but he shook his head. "Dad, we need to understand this world before we judge it. We still have books, a wand, and an owl to get."
Herbert sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Fine, but I'm not convinced."
At Flourish and Blotts, Albert purchased the required textbooks, their covers embossed with titles like The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 and A History of Magic.
Drawn to the shop's towering shelves, he also picked up a few extra books on magical history, including Hogwarts: A History and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. He lingered, tempted to browse longer, but time was short. Instead, he requested a catalog from the shopkeeper to order more books by owl post later.
Next, they visited the stationery shop beside the Quidditch Boutique, where Albert stocked up on parchment, quills, and bottles of ink. The shopkeeper, a cheerful witch with ink-stained fingers, recommended a self-inking quill, but Albert stuck to the basics, mindful of their budget.
With the help of another shopkeeper, they located Eeylops Owl Emporium on the north side of Diagon Alley. The shop was alive with hoots and rustling feathers, owls of every size and color perched on branches or in cages.
Albert chose a sturdy tawny owl with keen amber eyes, naming it Hermes on a whim. Herbert, warming slightly to the magical world, bought a bag of owl feed and a tin of owl treats, muttering about the practicality of magical post.
Herbert checked off the items on their list as they pushed their cart through the bustling alley. Only one thing remained: the wand.
A witch at the owl shop directed them to Ollivander's, a small, dilapidated shop on the south side of Diagon Alley. Its faded sign read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC, and the windows were clouded with age.
Inside, the shop was cramped, with nothing but a single bench and stacks of wand boxes lining the walls. A bell tinkled as Albert pushed open the door.
Herbert, maneuvering the cart inside, felt the space shrink further. He sat on the bench, nibbling a pumpkin pasty from a street vendor—a treat for Nia alongside other desserts they'd picked up.
Albert, holding a pasty of his own, took a bite to quell his hunger. "Is anyone here?" he called.
"Good afternoon," came a soft voice. An elderly man with silvery eyes emerged from the back—Garrick Ollivander himself. "Here for a wand, I presume? A new Hogwarts student?"
"Yes, sir," Albert said, setting down his pasty.
"Your name?" Ollivander asked, peering at him curiously. "The Ministry of Magic requires a record of all wand purchases."
"Albert Andersson."
"Very well, Mr. Andersson," Ollivander said, producing a measuring tape from his pocket. "Which is your dominant arm?"
"My right," Albert replied, raising it.
Ollivander began measuring, first from shoulder to fingertip, then wrist to elbow. The process was oddly intricate, and Herbert exchanged a glance with Albert, both wondering if they'd stumbled into a tailor's shop by mistake.
The tape measure moved on its own, darting to measure the distance between Albert's nostrils, much to his annoyance. He swatted it away and stepped toward the counter.
"Every wand I craft is unique," Ollivander said, retrieving a box from the shelves. "Try this: holly and phoenix feather, seven inches, very pliable."
Albert reached for it, but Ollivander snatched it back. "No, no, try this instead. Ash and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, excellent flexibility."
Albert waved the wand, but nothing happened.
"Not quite right," Ollivander murmured, undeterred. "Let's try another…"
One wand after another proved unsuitable. Some produced sparks or faint glows, but others were disastrous—one shattered a vase on the counter, startling Herbert.
Ollivander, however, seemed delighted by the challenge. "I love a picky customer," he said, pulling out another box. "Redwood and phoenix feather, nine inches, nicely flexible."
Albert took the wand, and a warm tingle spread through his fingers. He gave it a gentle flick, and red sparks burst from the tip, dancing like miniature fireworks. The shop seemed to hum with approval.
"That's the one," Ollivander said, beaming as he boxed the wand. "Redwood wands are said to bring luck to their wielders."
"Do you believe that?" Albert asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ollivander's eyes twinkled. "Not quite. Redwood wands are drawn to wizards with a knack for turning danger into opportunity. The luck lies in the wizard, not the wood."
"So, the wand's reputation comes from its owner's skill?" Albert mused.
"Precisely," Ollivander replied, handing him the box. "Use it well, Mr. Andersson."