The airy chime of a bell sounded above her as Isla pushed the glass door of Ollivander's open. She stepped into the small, crammed shop as the door swung back into place behind her and, thankfully, isolated her from the bothersome chatter oh-so-common along Diagon Alley. Although it appeared small, Isla quickly realized that this was due to the shop teeming with wands. Hundreds of cases, any size or colour, lined the walls of the shop. The stacks of wand cases seemed to reach as tall as the sky, and they might have if it weren't for a roof. A large rounded lamp sat on a wooden desk, giving the illusion of a cosy Winter's night. Isla had always associated warm lighting with the stormy Winter holidays spent huddled by the fireplace, watching the flames dance like orange silk in the wind. Ollivander's counter had an array of wand cases sloppily stacked--disorderly, much like the rest of the store. Wands were scattered across the wooden surface, much like the cases, as if the owner intended to set it down only for a moment. A wooden staircase cut through the towering shelves of wands, curving around the corner of the room and ending on a landing leading to a dark doorway, where a man emerged.

When one thinks of Mr Ollivander, the first image that comes to their mind is his feral, thick hair which had turned a pale silver. It stuck up in tufts like a lion's mane, yet not a single frizzy strand seemed to have fallen out with age. His eyes are a sharp silver, which seemed to pierce your mind and pin down the concentrated essence of yourself to match the perfect wand. Wrinkles seemed to be carved into his face, speaking decades of wisdom in the Wandmaking art. He had a knowledgeable air about him which fit well with his eccentric atmosphere.

"Hmm.. Miss Ainsley, if I am correct? You have your father's face," The elderly man picked his way down the stairs to greet her.
Isla's eyebrows furrowed skeptically, she found herself a bit unnerved by the educated guess, ill at ease with the imbalance of knowledge. How did he know her? Had they met before? No, not that she could recall. She turned to face the odd man, attempting to play up to her bolder nature, but Mr Ollivander had already caught on to her unease.
"You need not worry, I remember every wand ever sold, and you are a spitting image of your father, Miss Ainsley, did you not know that? He found his wand in no time, I have no doubt you will find yours swiftly as well. Now," As he talked, the frizzy-haired wandmaker had walked past Isla and into a neighbouring room. Peering inside, the first year could see several shelves lined up against the wall, brimming with jumbled wand cases of every size, shape and colour. Despite their disorderly appearance, Mr Ollivander seemed to have no trouble navigating the shelves, scanning them as if he had memorised the place of every single case, all placed exactly as they should.

Within no time, the wrinkled wandmaker had slid a case out from the shelves and strode back to the counter. Mr Ollivander carefully plucked the grey-ish wand from the case and held it from end to end between his fingers as he turned back to Isla, who felt a bit lost in the dark.
"Hawthorn wood, dragon heartstring. Passionate wand. Here, give it a wave," Isla gently took the wand from his fingers, weighing it in her hand. It was quite long to her, but she guessed she would have to grow into it. She held the sanded handle and waved it about in the air expectantly. Alas, nothing came to be, much to Isla's confusion. Was she doing it wrong? Before she could try again, Ollivander had already snatched it from her grasp and slotted it back in its case before disappearing into the second room in pursuit of another wand.

It wasn't long before the wandmaker appeared once more, discarding a black case on the counter and handing Isla a blonde, twisted wand. This wand was very long indeed, with detailing on the handle.
"Well? Let's see," He urged her expectantly.
Isla twirled the tip in the air, drawing nonsensical patterns, when all of a sudden a vicious gust of wind erupted from the tip of the wand, making the young Scot stumble backwards. Ollivander was quick to retrieve his wand from her hands, placing it back in the case. Soon enough another wand had been selected for her, wompus hair aspen wood this time, but the only result of Isla giving it a wave was a shower of blue sparks flaring up into the air. This went on once more, and with every failed wand Isla's heart sunk lower and lower. Mr Ollivander, on the other hand, seemed to get more elated for every wand gone wrong, as if he enjoyed a difficult customer.

"Curious.. I wonder.." The wandmaker pondered aloud, disappearing once more into the labyrinth of shelves before emerging with a deep red case. He set the case down on the counter and lifted the wand gracefully, granting it to Isla.
"Cherry wood and unicorn hair, reasonably springy. Picky one, that is."
The wand was a twisted red-ish blonde, with sparse spikes sprouting from every angle. Isla's brow furrowed in confusion as to why he would give a difficult customer a picky wand, but she decided to just give it a wave, as she had done with the rest. Just as she braced herself for a raging explosion, a warm feeling fell over her, and a sense of belonging surged through her arm. She and the wand seemed to share a moment of connection, as if it had been as much a part of her as her own hand. Her heart surged with relief that a wand had finally chosen her, and she turned her gaze to Mr Ollivander, eyes gleaming.
"I think this is it," She spoke up, and Mr Ollivander gave a smile to the young girl. "Ah, I thought so. That's a powerful one there, I trust you to take good care of it."
Isla dipped her head gratefully and reached into her pocket with her free hand, fishing out two shiny galleons and dropping them onto the wand-littered counter. "Thank you," The first year piped up as she headed for the exit of the odd store, admiring the wand in her hand. She and this wand would do great things together some day, she just knew it.