This was the Ollivander Wand Shop.
There was a smell of oily smoke that worked its way into one's hair, liquid resembling a mixture of ginger and celery juice spilled all over the floor, and a wand counter covered in several layers of translucent fabric. Everything looked gray, as though in the aftermath of a fire.
And, of course, there was a highly respected old gentleman slumped on the floor, holding a half-length poker-Mr. Ollivander, one of Britain's foremost wandmakers.
"What do you think the meaning of life really is?" Mr. Ollivander puffed out a mouthful of black smoke and stared blankly at Brian, who was working hard to control the breeze carrying away the burnt smell.
"I don't know, Mr. Ollivander. That question is too big and too distant.
"Rather than that, why don't you satisfy my curiosity first-why have you made yourself look like a human-shaped coal sculpture? And what exactly happened here?"
As Brian spoke, he felt grateful that he had recently learned the Breeze Charm.
He had hurried straight to Diagon Alley after work without a moment's delay. He had even taken only a quick sip of the low-alcohol wheat juice Tom offered him before heading for the Ollivander Wand Shop.
At the entrance, he had smelled something burnt wafting through the gap in the door.
When he pushed it open, he thought he had walked into the scene of an arson and robbery. Fortunately, both the wands and Ollivander himself were unharmed-apart from all appearing to have undergone a thorough antiquing treatment. Otherwise, he would have called the police.
Guided by his wand, the stagnant air in the room finally began to circulate. Passing pedestrians turned to look, then covered their noses and moved away from the shop entrance.
By the time Brian's vision recovered