A Trip to Diagon Alley

The wizarding world's business seemed pretty easy to do.

Eliana stared at the short, dark, old, and grimy building squeezed between a bookstore and a record shop, utterly unable to figure out how this place could ever be paired with the word "marvelous."

She felt like she could run this business herself.

She silently noted this future career path.

While she was still covertly sizing things up, Dumbledore had already nimbly pushed open the door: "Come on in, Elia."

He called out.

The chattering inside abruptly stopped, and Eliana realized everyone here seemed to know Dumbledore.

Her suspicion was quickly confirmed—or rather, it fell short; Dumbledore appeared to be a man of considerable renown.

"Mr. Dumbledore!"

Eliana barely saw a blur before the bartender, who had been leisurely wiping the counter behind the bar, zipped right up to them.

"What brings you here—would you like a glass of mead? My treat!"

Eliana noticed the entire bar's attention had converged on them; those smoking, chatting, and drinking all froze mid-action, and many had already raised their hands in greeting.

She even spotted a pale young man with a turban in the farthest corner nearly topple over, then vanish with a whoosh.

Eliana figured he must be some troublemaker with bad grades—why else would he be so scared of seeing the headmaster?

"No, thank you for your generosity, but I still need to take this child to buy her school supplies."

Dumbledore declined with a smile, nodding and acknowledging the others one by one.

The bartender looked quite regretful: "Alright, I won't keep you then."

Dumbledore led Eliana to the trash bins in the back courtyard, counted three bricks up, then two across, and tapped them with a stick.

The bricks on the wall shifted and rearranged rapidly, like a stone door slowly opening, revealing a bustling street beyond. The sunlight was just right, turning even the dust in the air a golden hue.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Dumbledore said. "Stay close to me; first, we'll get you a wand."

A wand!

Eliana's excitement surged.

Dumbledore was tall with long legs, and little Eliana had to trot to keep up, grabbing the hem of his robe with one hand while craning her neck to curiously look around.

They turned into a small shop whose golden signboard had paint peeling off. As the door opened, a wind chime jingled.

Unlike the spacious window display holding just a single wand, the inside was packed with narrow boxes stacked to the ceiling—quiet, solemn, and dim.

Suddenly, a figure on a ladder glided out smoothly, his voice soft and gentle: "Good morning."

His large eyes floated in the dim shop like glowing bulbs.

Eliana nearly kicked him—what was the difference between this and a half-dead voice suddenly drifting out of a quiet graveyard, only to turn and see two ghostly flames?

"Mr. Dumbledore," Ollivander recognized him at a glance. "This doesn't seem to be a child from your family—are you personally guiding a new student?"

His silver-white eyes fixed on Eliana, as if trying to discern what made this little girl different.

Eliana stood a little straighter in silence.

Dumbledore said gently, "Before becoming the headmaster of Hogwarts, I was also a teacher, wasn't I? Pick out a wand for this child."

"Oh, of course." Ollivander muttered a correction, "But sir, it's the wand that chooses the wizard."

He snapped his fingers.

A measuring tape floated in midair, automatically taking measurements—elbow, fingertip, even the spacing between her facial features.

But Eliana felt it wasn't really necessary, because Ollivander seemed to have already turned his back to start rummaging before even looking at the detailed data.

"Since you were brought by Dumbledore... child, perhaps you could try this one."

He pulled out a box from the pile: "Ten inches, laurel wood, dragon heartstring. Very powerful, extremely powerful, but not good-tempered—picky, very picky—"

Eliana took it. The moment she held it, a somewhat dim spark burst from the wand tip.

Ollivander: Sangbiao, didn't you say you hated humans the most?

Another, brighter spark shot from the wand tip, transforming into a star shape in the air before vanishing.

Ollivander: Sangbiao, didn't you say wands would never be enslaved?

"Ah, this wand likes you very much." He reached out and took it back anyway. "But it's not the best fit for you."

"Every wand is unique, but only when the wood, the core, and the wizard himself are perfectly aligned can the wand truly bring out its best effect. Child, your wand is not this one."

The laurel wand in his hand spat a puff of black smoke at him. Ollivander looked a bit embarrassed: "Ah, every wand has its own little temper."

He stuffed the wand back into its box.

For some reason, Eliana felt that wand looked quite defiant.

Wand boxes were spread all over the floor; various wands were picked up and set down by her. Some shot out fireworks like the first one, some didn't move a muscle like dead turtles, but without exception—Ollivander said none of them were a perfect match.

Eliana had no idea what "perfect match" was even supposed to mean.

But inwardly, her tail was practically wagging—ha, she was just that special, even the wand liked her.

"An unusual guest, favored by a wand that appreciates strength and potential, but not enough, not yet—at Ollivander's, you'll find the most ideal, the most perfect, the most suitable wand for you." Ollivander grew more excited as he searched, "Let me think what I've forgotten—ah!"

He slapped his forehead, then dug out a long box from a dusty corner.

"Try this one!"

He handed over a wand that looked very much like a wand—smooth, straight, tapering evenly from handle to tip, the whole thing a light brown like a fresh branch.

Eliana gave it a light flick.

Like a surging flood channeled into a riverbed, a warm current flooded into her right hand. She instinctively raised it high, and dazzling golden flowers burst from the wand tip. The wand in her hand trembled, a thrill of excitement traveling up from her fingertips.

"A perfect match." Ollivander said smugly, "Eleven inches, willow, Dragon Heartstring. Generally speaking, willow prefers wizards with potential as its master, possessing excellent healing abilities, but their masters often tend to lack a sense of security."

At that, a flicker of pity crossed Dumbledore's face—probably thinking of her orphan background—but Eliana didn't mind much; she thought she was doing fine. What really caught her attention was what Ollivander said next: "But this one is a little different."

Eliana's eyes lit up—she loved that kind of different.

"Taken from the strongest branch of an ancient Whomping Willow. That was no easy feat to obtain," Ollivander shuddered as if recalling something terrifying, "A nasty temper, very nasty—"

Eliana's right hand jerked as if yanked by something, and she saw the wand whip across Ollivander's face like a lash.

"OW!!!"

Ollivander got whipped into Ollivander-the-winded.

"Sorry, sir! It wasn't me, the wand moved on its own!"

Eliana panicked—damn it all, she'd hit the shopkeeper while buying essentials, and this seemed to be the only shop around. Would he jack up the price on her?

Heaven knows, she really hadn't meant to hit him. Couldn't wand grudges stay between wands and not escalate to wizards?

Ollivander touched the red mark on his face, sucking in air between winces: "I know it wasn't you, it's this hot-tempered little thing."

He didn't look angry at all; in fact, he seemed quite pleased: "A marvelous experience—the wand chooses the wizard, young lady. You'll become a very powerful witch one day."

Eliana stared at him with an indescribable expression: Was this shopkeeper addled from making wands? Getting hit by his own creation—wasn't that the world upside down—and he could still smile?

She edged a cautious step away: wouldn't want that rubbing off on her clever little brain.

Paying seven Galleons, Dumbledore led Eliana out of the small shop.

"Next up are the textbooks and robes." He unfolded a piece of paper to check, then noticed Eliana craning her neck, and chuckled, "Look at my memory—did I forget to give you the letter?"

It was a letter written in emerald-green ink.

Eliana casually grabbed Dumbledore's robe with one hand, keeping pace with him, while unfolding the letter with the other:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

Her eyes stopped on the line below:

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot)

Eliana quickly glanced at the old man beside her. She didn't understand those organizations, but they sounded impressive.

The rest was nothing special—just a welcome letter and a list of required school supplies.

"I'm sorry, little Eliana," Dumbledore said apologetically, "Hogwarts' bursary isn't very generous, so we may have to buy some things secondhand."

"Okay!" Eliana nodded cheerfully, "I don't mind that!"

Free stuff, new or old—what you got in hand was what counted.

If she cared about that, she wouldn't have been rolling on the ground just now to extort—ah, no—to warmly discuss donation matters with Mrs. Smith.

Secondhand textbooks, secondhand cauldron and scales, secondhand robes—Eliana even asked for the ones with more patches, saving a bit more money.

By the time they came out with all their odds and ends, the sun was already slanting west.

Another familiar dizzying spin, and they were back in the alley beside the orphanage.

Dumbledore handed the paper bag to Eliana: "Little Eliana, remember to keep that letter safe. It has your ticket to Hogwarts for September first. Don't miss the train."

"Okay." Eliana patted her pockets, making sure everything was where it belonged.

The kindly old man pulled out another paper bag: "This is your enrollment gift. Congratulations on becoming a witch."

Eliana took it a bit dazedly: inside was a brand-new set of wizard robes.

"Then, see you at Hogwarts."

With a loud crack, Dumbledore vanished into thin air.

Eliana snapped her head up as if startled, staring at the empty street, then her gaze fell back to the new robes.

She thought, she would definitely become the most powerful witch ever. Maybe by then Dumbledore wouldn't remember her, but she would walk up to him slowly, wave her wand to conjure a mountain of gold, wrapped in all kinds of jewels:

"You helped me greatly when I was just an orphan. This is my thank-you gift to you."

—Forgive young Eliana for thinking a mountain of gold was the best thing she could imagine.

She got fired up, her blood boiling from her own little fantasy.

Eliana looked at the textbooks in her arms with fierce determination—then, she'd start by memorizing them ten times before school began!