Diagon Alley, the hidden thoroughfare where wizards and witches procure all manner of magical necessities. Concealed from Muggle eyes, the alley can only be accessed through the enchanted back garden of the Leaky Cauldron pub, its entrance masked by perception-blocking spells, unless one employs magical transportation. For wizards, reaching this haven is as simple as using Floo Powder through their home fireplaces.
Mirabelle Beresford, daughter of the noble pure-blood Beresford family, was no exception. She had traveled here directly from her ancestral home, arriving in a whirl of emerald flames.
Today, Mirabelle ventured through the cobblestone streets alone, tasked with purchasing her Hogwarts supplies. Without hesitation, her feet carried her toward Ollivander's Wand Shop, her golden eyes gleaming with anticipation.
For a shop selling what was arguably the most crucial tool in any wizard's arsenal, the interior struck her as surprisingly cramped and weathered. Dust motes danced in shafts of amber light filtering through grimy windows, and towering shelves groaned under the weight of countless narrow boxes.
A silver bell chimed from the depths of the shop as Mirabelle stepped inside. Moments later, an elderly man emerged from the shadows, his pale eyes reflecting an unsettling intensity.
"Welcome," he said, his voice carrying the weight of decades. "Have you come for a wand?"
"Indeed." Mirabelle's tone was crisp, authoritative. "I hear the wands crafted here are without equal."
"Quite so, quite so." Mr. Ollivander's weathered hands clasped together. "Many a wand has departed these premises to find its destined partner, living out its purpose in loyal service. Shall we begin with your measurements? Which is your dominant hand?"
"My right."
As Mirabelle extended her arm, the silver-eyed proprietor produced a measuring tape from his pocket. The enchanted ribbon began its work, stretching from shoulder to fingertips, elbow to wrist, even circling her head with methodical precision. When the tape grew overly bold, floating too close to her face, Mirabelle's fingers closed around it with crushing force. Ollivander appeared not to notice the magical instrument's sudden stillness.
"Each Ollivander wand contains a core of formidable power," he explained, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality. "No two are identical—dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, phoenix feather, the core must resonate with its wielder's very essence. Even the most skilled wizard will find another's wand lacks the potency of their own true match."
The shopkeeper selected a wand from the endless rows, placing it before Mirabelle with ceremonial care.
"Red pine with phoenix feather core, twenty-three centimeters. Exceptionally durable."
Mirabelle lifted the wand, feeling its polished surface against her palm. A gentle wave produced a faint luminescence, but the connection felt hollow, incomplete. The magic flowed like water through a cracked vessel.
Ollivander swiftly reclaimed the wand and offered another.
"Japanese cedar with unicorn hair, twenty-one centimeters. Light and responsive."
This time, Mirabelle didn't even need to test it. The moment her fingers closed around the handle, she knew. This wand felt lifeless in her grasp, utterly incompatible with her magical signature.
"Disappointing," she murmured, returning it immediately.
The old man's eyebrows rose slightly, but he retrieved yet another wand without complaint.
"Holly with hellhound hair, eighteen centimeters. Exceptional for fire magic."
The instant Mirabelle waved this wand, the air erupted with scorching heat. Waves of intense warmth rolled through the shop, transforming the dusty interior into a furnace. Sweat beaded on both their brows as magical fire danced around the wand's tip.
"Wonderful!" Ollivander exclaimed, nodding approvingly. Yet Mirabelle remained unsatisfied. The raw power was there, but something essential was missing—a spark of true compatibility that would elevate the wand from mere tool to extension of her will.
"It won't suffice," she declared. "Give me the next one."
"But surely this wand demonstrated—"
"Perfect compatibility? Hardly." Mirabelle's lips curved in a dismissive smile. To illustrate her point, she raised her bare hand and conjured flames from her fingertips without any wand at all. The old man's eyes widened in astonishment. Wandless magic from an eleven-year-old who hadn't even begun her magical education was virtually unheard of.
The flames vanished with a casual gesture.
"Do you understand now?" Mirabelle's golden gaze fixed on the shopkeeper. "Ordinary wands are merely ornamental to someone of my abilities. If I'm to carry one, it must serve a purpose beyond the mundane."
"I... well..." Ollivander stammered, clearly flustered. "There is one other option, though I hesitate to—"
"You have something or you don't. Which is it?"
"There is... something. But..."
With visible reluctance, the proprietor retreated to the darkest corner of his shop. When he returned, he carried what could generously be called a wand, though it resembled a walking stick more than a delicate magical instrument. The thing was massive—easily twice the length of any normal wand—and looked sturdy enough to serve as a club.
Ollivander brushed away layers of accumulated dust with reverent care before presenting it to Mirabelle.
"Kimiko wood with vampire hair core, seventy-two centimeters." His voice dropped to an ominous whisper. "It's rigid, heavy, utterly inflexible, and above all else, violent. This troublesome wand has never accepted a master since the day I crafted it."
"Fascinating."
Despite its intimidating size compared to her slight frame, Mirabelle grasped the oversized wand without hesitation. The moment she channeled her magical energy into it, the wand erupted with hostile resistance. A surge of destructive intent crashed against her consciousness like a tidal wave, attempting to overwhelm her control and force an explosive release of raw power.
The wand bucked and writhed in her grip, desperate to break free and unleash chaos. Sparks flew from its tip as it fought against her dominance, filling the shop with the acrid smell of burning ozone.
Mirabelle's mouth twisted into a delighted grin.
"Perfect," she breathed, her voice filled with dark satisfaction. "If it's to be my wand, it should possess exactly this kind of spirit. I appreciate a challenge."
The wand's rebellion only seemed to fuel her excitement. This was no docile tool waiting to be wielded—this was a force of nature that demanded respect and strength to master. It was absolutely worthy of the Beresford name.
With joy blazing in her golden eyes, Mirabelle gathered her considerable magical power and began the process of bending the wand to her will. Lightning crackled through the air, sending sparks cascading across the shop's dusty shelves. Ancient boxes rattled and the very walls seemed to tremble under the assault of clashing magical energies.
What followed was the first true battle between witch and wand ever witnessed within Ollivander's hallowed walls—a contest of pure dominance that would determine master and servant.
The struggle was brief but intense. Gradually, the lightning subsided and the chaotic surge of magical power calmed. When the dust settled, the outcome was clear.
"Shopkeeper," Mirabelle said calmly, the now-docile wand resting peacefully in her grip, "I'll take this one. Name your price."
The victor stood before him—a slip of a girl who had successfully dominated a wand that had resisted every wizard for decades.
Ollivander adjusted his spectacles with trembling fingers, clearly shaken by what he'd witnessed. Still, business was business, and a sale was a sale.
"Ten Galleons," he managed.
"An excellent purchase indeed."
After placing the payment on the counter, Mirabelle shouldered the massive wand and strode from the shop. As he watched her disappear into the bustling alley, the old wandmaker couldn't shake a growing sense of foreboding. In all his years of matching wizards with their destined wands—even when he'd selected "that particular person's" wand years agor, he'd never felt such an ominous premonition.
Please, he thought desperately, let that wand never be turned toward evil purposes...
Even as he offered this silent prayer, Ollivander felt a cold certainty in his bones that his hopes would prove futile. Still, he continued to pray.
With her wand secured, Mirabelle's next destination was Flourish and Blotts to gather her required textbooks. The musty scent of aged parchment and binding glue welcomed her as she efficiently selected each title from her Hogwarts list. From there, she proceeded to the apothecary for cauldrons and potion ingredients, wrinkling her nose at the shop's pungent mixture of preserved specimens and exotic herbs.
The shopping expedition proved tedious but necessary—such were the mundane requirements of formal education. She passed the gleaming window of Quality Quidditch Supplies without so much as a glance, knowing that first-year students were prohibited from owning broomsticks.
However, she did pause at Gambol and Japes Joke Shop, intrigued by their collection of magical pranking devices. The shopkeeper enthusiastically demonstrated several products, including Dungbombs and Hiccoughing Sweets, which Mirabelle filed away for potential future use.
Her final stop was the Magical Menagerie, where she intended to select a suitable pet. The shop's interior buzzed with the sounds of various creatures, hooting owls, croaking toads, and chittering insects created a symphony of animal voices.