"Here for your Hogwarts robes, dear?" a short, squat, and smiling witch greeted Albert the moment he walked into the shop.
"Yes, ma'am," Albert nodded. "Thank you."
"Such a polite young man. Come now, let's get your measurements." With a flick of Madam Malkin's wrist, a tape measure, pins, and scissors flew over and began to measure Albert's body on their own. The sight left Herb completely dumbfounded.
Getting the robes tailored was a complex process that took a full half-hour. Madam Malkin told them to finish their shopping and come back for the parcel later.
"Ma'am," Albert said, straightening his slightly rumpled clothes, "in addition to the required school list, I'd like to order a black pointed hat and a plain black cloak. Same size, but with no name tag. And please wrap them separately."
"A black pointed hat and a plain cloak?" Madam Malkin repeated, looking at Herb for confirmation.
"That's right," Herb nodded, knowing they were a gift for Nia.
"Very well," Madam Malkin said, not dwelling on the odd request.
After paying a deposit in Galleons, the two left Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
They went to Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment nearby, where they purchased the brass scales, brass telescope, and glass phials from the list. In truth, Albert just handed the list to Mr. Wiseacre, who, in only a few minutes, had gathered, packed, and boxed everything.
The shopkeeper then directed them to Potage's Cauldron Shop, where they bought a standard pewter cauldron. Mr. Potage, in turn, pointed them toward the Apothecary to get the starting set of potion ingredients.
The Apothecary was not a pleasant place. The moment they got close, they were hit by a nauseating smell, as if it were designed specifically to drive customers away.
The shop was filled with bizarre items. Jars of herbs, dried roots, and brightly colored powders lined the shelves. Bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and shaggy claws hung from the ceiling.
My god, Herb thought, how can wizards possibly brew these things into potions and actually drink them?
He couldn't bear to think about it, especially after he spotted a jar of slugs. It was too disgusting.
Albert's father was beginning to have an existential crisis. Maybe, just maybe, letting his son go to this Hogwarts place was not a wise decision.
In addition to the ingredients, Albert also bought a set of tools used for brewing.
After paying, he practically had to drag Herb, whose face was a mask of complex emotions, out of the shop.
"Albert, let's just... give up," Herb said, pulling his son a safe distance away from the Apothecary. His face was serious. "Let's go to Eton."
Albert's eye twitched, but he shook his head.
"But... the more I see, the less reliable this all seems. Maybe Daisy was right," Herb said, his expression troubled.
"We still need books, a wand, and an owl," Albert said, meeting his father's gaze. "Let's not jump to conclusions before we actually understand this world."
"Alright," Herb conceded, still looking depressed.
At Flourish and Blotts, they bought all the books on the list. Albert also added several books on wizarding history. He would have loved to browse for hours, but considering the time, he settled for getting a book catalogue from the manager for future owl orders.
Then, at Scribbulus Writing Implements next to Quality Quidditch Supplies, he bought a large supply of parchment, quills, and ink.
With help from the shopkeeper, they found Eeylops Owl Emporium. It was on the north side of Diagon Alley and easy to find, with dozens of owls visible from the street.
The owl was a mandatory purchase; otherwise, he'd have no way to contact his family. Herb also bought a bag of owl food and some owl treats.
Herb pushed the trolley, checking the remaining items off the list. Only the wand was left.
The witch at the emporium told them Ollivanders was on the south side of the Alley.
It was a narrow and shabby-looking shop.
As Albert pushed the door open, a bell tinkled somewhere in the back. The shop was tiny, containing nothing but a single, long bench.
When Herb wheeled the trolley in, the small space felt instantly cramped. He sat on the bench and started eating a Pumpkin Pasty they had just bought from a street stall. The trolley also held several other sweets, more gifts for Nia.
Albert had a pasty in his hand, too. He was also hungry.
"Hello? Is anyone here?"
"Good afternoon," a soft voice replied. Ollivander emerged from the back.
"Hello, sir. I'm here to buy..." Albert said, putting his pasty down.
"A wand. Oh, yes. A new Hogwarts student, I presume."
"Yes, sir."
"And your name?" Ollivander asked, likely noticing Albert's confusion. "The Ministry of Magic requires a record of every wand I sell."
"Albert Anderson," Albert introduced himself.
"Right, Mr. Anderson." Ollivander pulled a tape measure from his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"
"I'm right-handed," Albert said, raising his arm.
Ollivander began to take measurements—from shoulder to fingertip, then wrist to elbow. The process was so complex that both father and son began to wonder if Ollivander sold robes, not wands.
"Every wand I make is unique. A wizard will always find their perfect match here," Ollivander murmured, mostly to himself, as he measured. The tape measure then zipped over and began measuring the distance between Albert's nostrils.
Albert swatted the tape measure away and walked to the counter.
Ollivander was already taking down a box. "Holly and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite supple."
Albert had barely touched it when Ollivander snatched it back.
"Try this. Ash and unicorn hair. Eight and a half inches. A fine combination, quite springy."
Albert waved it. Nothing happened.
"No, not suitable," Ollivander muttered. "Try this one..."
Albert tried wand after wand. One of them had a rather destructive effect, causing a vase on the counter to explode, which made Herb jump.
"A picky customer, I see," Ollivander said, looking pleased as he returned with another pile. "Redwood and phoenix feather. Nine inches. Springy."
The moment Albert took the wand, he felt a slight warmth in his fingertips. He gave it a small tap, and a spray of red sparks shot from the tip, blooming like fireworks in the dusty shop.
"That's the one," Ollivander said happily, placing the wand in a box. "It is said, Mr. Anderson, that wands made of redwood bring their owners good luck."
"Do you believe that?" Albert asked.
"No. It is my belief that redwood wands are attracted to wizards who already possess the ability to land on their feet, to get themselves out of trouble."
"So, it's not the redwood that brings luck," Albert said, raising an eyebrow. "It's that its owner builds its lucky reputation?"
"You could put it that way." Ollivander nodded. "That will be 10 Galleons. Thank you."