The last stop in Avorra's journey through a snow-covered Diagon Alley: the famous wand-shop known as Ollivander's. While shopping and sight-seeing through the alley, Avorra and her father Theron purposely saved the wandmaker for last. It was an exciting prospect and one well worth waiting for. Today was the day after Avorra's 11th birthday, the same day she received her Hogwart's acceptance letter. She was overfilled with joy when she received her letter, and her father had promised to take her out to Diagon Alley the day after. Other than the letter, the wand was perhaps the best birthday present she could ever ask for, given the circumstances.

It wasn't hard finding all the needed supplies for the school. The most difficult part of today was tolerating the cold, as daughter and father waded through heaps of snow that crunched under their heavy boots. Once they found themselves in front of Ollivander's, Avorra could hardly wait to get inside. She was jubilant and steadily impatient.

"Are you ready, Avorra?" Her father asked.

"Why, I thought you'd never ask." Avorra smirked with excitement.

"Go on inside, then. I'll be waiting for you out here."

"You're not coming?"

"This is your journey, and soon to be your wand, my dearest Avorra." Her father spoke gently, reassuring her with a pat on the shoulder. "This is your moment to seize. I shan't take the spotlight from you."

"Thank you, papa." Avorra smiled, turning to walk inside.

As soon as she opened the door and crossed the threshold, a doorbell rang to announce her presence. Immediately, she was taken aback by the sheer amount of boxes and shelves inside the store. Each and every box contained a wand, one of which would soon be hers. She couldn't wait a moment longer. She approached the old wooden desk in front of her, but nobody had yet to answer.

"One moment!" An elderly voice called from the back, the source unseen. In a moment's notice, an aging man stepped from the shadows with a beaming smile that matched Avorra's. His face look weathered, but nonetheless warmly receptive. "Ah! Miss Vaylen, I presume?"

"How did you know?" Avorra asked, awed.

"I've known your father since he was a wee lad, and perhaps his father before that. Everyone who attends Hogwarts has to start somewhere. Just as you stand here today, your father stood here decades ago. Are you ready to receive your wand, miss?"

"Undoubtedly so!"

"Then let's begin, shall we?" Mr. Ollivander went straight to a shelf to Avorra's left, boxes lining each cubicle as far as the wall extended. He pulled out a small box, observing it. Taking the wand out, he analyzed it with unrelenting scrutiny. He muttered under his breath, but Avorra couldn't make out what he was saying.
"Not this one. Perhaps..." He finally said, putting the wand back and retrieving another. His reaction was much more enthusiastic, as he retrieved the wand from the box and began twisting it in his hands. "Try this one. Twenty-four-point-three centimeters, Aspen wood, with the core of a Thestral's tail hair - unyielding. Go on, give it a flick."

Avorra took the wand from the maker's hands. She was nervous, but she did as asked. Pointing it at a stack of papers, she flicked the wand. The stack erupted into thousands of shredded pieces, decorating the floor with a swarm of paper confetti.

"Well, then. There goes this week's inventory. No matter, another!" Ollivander returned the wand to its resting place and retrieved another from the shelf. "How about this? Thirty centimeters even, Ebony wood, with the core of a dragon's heartstring - whippy. Give it a whirl."

Once again, Avorra took the wand, albeit with more caution. Once she mustered the courage, she flicked the wand at nothing in particular. The wand violently sparked at its tip, then flung out of her hand, disarming itself. It clattered to the floor, the tip still smoking. Avorra retrieved it, handing it back to the wandmaker.

"Not to worry, dear. Third time's the charm, I'm sure of it." Rather than search the same shelf, Ollivander went to the opposite side of the store, then to the back. He returned a moment later with a black box. The moment he opened the box and took the wand, she could feel it calling for her. It was an almost indescribable feeling - the wand called out to her, not by voice, but by sheer presence. She felt it in her soul. This was the one.

"By the look in your eyes, I see that this one in particular has caught your attention." Ollivander twisted the medium reddish-brown wand in his hands, before offering it to Avorra. "Twenty-seven-point-two centimeters, Chestnut Wood, with the core of a Phoenix's feather. Rare indeed."

Avorra took the wand, and the connection she felt was instantaneous. This wand belonged to her, there was no doubt. It was as though it had been made specifically for her. The calling was strong, and now it was sealed. She smiled at the wandmaker, awaiting confirmation.

"Pliable, gifted with defensive powers and likes witches who go on dangerous quests." Ollivander returned the smile as he described the wand she held. "I wasn't expecting that wand in particular to work, though now that I think about it, it does make sense. You must have a lot of your father in you, for your wand to fancy adventuring and quest-taking."

"How does the wand know this, Mr. Ollivander?" Avorra asked, her curiosity peaked.

"Because the wand chose you, Miss Vaylen." The elderly man winked.

"Thank you." Avorra said, paying for her new wand at the counter. Within moments she was outside again, a smile beaming from her face as she looked her father in the eyes.

"Well, how'd it go?" Her father asked, returning the smile.

"It's absolutely perfect."