The two goblins bowed to them and led them into a tall marble hall. Inside, about a hundred goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long row of counters. Some were using copper scales to weigh coins, while others examined gems with eyepieces, jotting hasty notes in large leather-bound ledgers.
Albert walked up to the nearest counter, pulled a stack of pounds from his pocket, and said, "Hello, I'd like to exchange these pounds for galleons."
An older goblin stepped forward and took the money. "The exchange rate between pounds and galleons is five to one. Are you certain you wish to convert all 200 pounds?"
"Yes," Albert nodded. "Then please exchange all the galleons for Sickles."
"One galleon is equal to seventeen Sickles," the old goblin explained. After a short moment, a younger goblin came over and handed Albert a heavy bag filled with jingling coins.
Next, Dumbledore led Albert to begin their shopping.
"First, you'll need a wand," he said. "Ollivanders makes the finest wands."
The wand shop was small and somewhat shabby. The gold lettering on the sign had faded and peeled, but still read: Ollivanders – Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC. In the dusty window sat a single wand on a faded purple cushion, solitary and mysterious.
"How are you, Ollivander, my old friend?" Dumbledore greeted warmly as they stepped inside.
From a corner of the shop, a wizened old man emerged and embraced Dumbledore.
"Ah, Albus," he said in a soft, slightly archaic tone. "What a surprise to see you. What brings you here today?"
"I've just picked up a student from the Muggle world," Dumbledore replied with a twinkle in his eye. "From Wu's Orphanage. This is him—Albert. Though he was born to Muggles, he already shows remarkable magical control."
"Hmm… no wonder," Ollivander muttered, stepping closer and staring intently at Albert. His sharp, pale eyes seemed to see through skin and bone. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a long silver tape measure.
"All right, Mr. Albert. Let's begin."
"Which arm do you use for your wand?" he asked.
"I'm right-handed," Albert replied.
"Raise your arm, please."
The tape measure flew to life, measuring everything from Albert's shoulder to the tips of his fingers, his elbow, wrist, and even the distance between his nostrils.
As the measurements continued automatically, Ollivander busied himself darting between shelves, climbing ladders, muttering to himself, and occasionally glancing at Albert.
"Every Ollivander wand contains a core of powerful magical substance," he explained. "This is what gives each wand its essence, Mr. Albert. We use unicorn hair, phoenix tail feathers, and dragon heartstrings. No two wands are alike, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are exactly the same."
He peered over his shoulder at Albert. "And you should never use another wizard's wand. It will never perform as well."
Ollivander kept talking in his soft, dreamy voice, and though the monologue could easily put someone to sleep, Albert listened closely. Though he had read about all this in the original books, being here in person—surrounded by the magic—was something else entirely.
"Now then," said Ollivander suddenly. The tape measure dropped to the floor and curled up like a sleeping snake. "Try this one. Twelve and a half inches, sycamore wood with a phoenix feather core. Let's see how it suits you."
Albert took the wand and immediately felt something wrong. The moment he gave it a wave, golden-red flames erupted from the tip, and the cabinet in front of him burst into fire. He even felt, for an instant, as if he'd almost summoned a real phoenix.
"Aguamenti!" Dumbledore acted quickly, and a gurgling stream of water poured from the tip of his wand, extinguishing the flames at once.
"Hmm… definitely not the right match," Ollivander muttered, shaking his head. "Try this next one—beechwood and snake nerve, nine inches."
This time, as Albert gave the wand a flick, a puff of black smoke burst out. The cabinet and boxes nearby began to corrode as if someone had thrown acid on them, leaving ugly holes before they quickly repaired themselves.
And so it went.
Wand after wand, Albert tried each one carefully, but the results were always the same—disaster after disaster. Fires, smoke, ice, crackling sparks, and even a minor explosion once that sent several wand boxes flying.
Oddly enough, Ollivander only seemed more thrilled with every failure. He became more animated with each attempt, running faster, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Dumbledore and Ollivander eventually learned their lesson, always keeping their own wands drawn, ready to counteract whatever surprise came next. Fortunately, the windows of the shop were so dirty that no one passing by could see the chaos unfolding inside.
Eventually, the pile of wand boxes nearly buried Albert, and even Ollivander had to admit defeat—temporarily.
"Oh, what a picky customer," he sighed dramatically. "Has some kind of magic been cast on him? His magic is even stronger than… him."
Albert stiffened. He knew who Ollivander meant—Voldemort. But he kept his expression blank and said, "What do you mean? I don't understand."
But Ollivander quickly waved the thought away, murmuring, "Nothing. You'll understand in time. Now, back to the matter at hand."
At last, he rummaged in a large purple box at the very back of the shop and pulled out a slender wand with a slight glow to its polished wood.
"This… this is the best I can think of for you," Ollivander said with great care.
He handed it to Albert with reverence.
Albert reached out and grasped it.
The moment his fingers closed around the wand, a warm feeling spread from his palm through his entire body. A gentle golden glow surrounded him, and for the first time, nothing exploded, burned, or froze. Instead, a faint musical hum filled the air.
Ollivander's pale eyes widened. "Fascinating… astonishing."
Albert gave the wand a small flick, and a soft shower of golden sparks cascaded through the air.
"Yes, yes! Wonderful!" Ollivander clapped his hands together. "Fourteen inches, elder wood, with a core of thunderbird tail feather. Very rare. Very rare indeed. That core comes all the way from America."
"Thunderbird?" Albert asked, curious.
Ollivander nodded solemnly. "A powerful magical creature that can create storms as it flies. A thunderbird feather is volatile, but when paired correctly... unmatched. Very sensitive to danger. It's said a wand with such a core chooses only those fated to greatness—or peril."
Albert looked down at the wand in his hand, feeling its power humming softly, like a living thing.
"How much is it?" he asked.
"Oh, no charge," said Dumbledore quickly, handing Ollivander a few galleons before Albert could protest. "This one's on me. Every great wizard must have a wand that's truly his own."
Albert nodded silently, touched but unsure of what to say.
As they left the shop, Ollivander watched them go, eyes thoughtful.
"Curious," he murmured. "Very curious indeed."