"I'm not a cleric, sir," he spluttered, holding the ruddy-colored wand in his thin fingers with an incredulous look. "I don't even know the first thing about healing." And I don't want to. the child's expression said, as clear as day.

The shop was uncrowded on the drizzling afternoon at Diagon Alley. The cloudy day was distant from the start of the school year, and most people would rather be inside spending the last of their summer happily than wandering about in the rain. But it seemed that Isaac was not so fortunate.

His father had seized him by the arm, right before dinner the previous day. Concern creased the lines of his face, and his hazel eyes glowed like a cat's in the dim light. "Isaac, you have to buy your materials, tomorrow. You can't wait until the last day like last year, or your mother will want to accompany you and become suspicious when she can't."

Isaac stared back into those eyes unflinchingly, his lips pressed into a thin, tense line. "I don't want to, father. Katie and I are going riding tomorrow."

His best friend had waited ages for this day, gushing about the horses and ponies and the excitement of the stables. Isaac himself was excited to ride a horse for the first time, and perhaps even race the other people there. He had already imagined his horse: a jet black stallion with a glimmering coat, silver armor and flint-sharp hooves. If they had a horse like that, he would rename it something cool, like Conqueror or Thunder, and the two of them would ride faster than the wind.

But the word of a parent was absolute. He hated it. In a soft voice, his father pressed, "You can push the riding to another day. You have to go to Diagon Alley."

Richard pressed coins into his son's palms, the gold flash of them catching the light. "I have just enough for you to buy everything for your first year, but no more. If I catch that you've bought gobstones, or extra books, or heavens forbid, a pet, I will-"

"I know," Isaac sighed, looking at the floor wearily. His wrists still smarted from the last time they had gotten hit and he'd done something wrong. He didn't want to experience anything like that ever again.

Ollivander's shop was a small niche on the side of the sprawling alley. With his head bowed in a vain effort to stop the irritating drizzle from getting into his eyes, Isaac wholly regretted his choice of clothing. He forgot to bring a jacket, and only wore a white poloshirt and denim jeans.

Coming upon the small shop, he pulled the doorknob. A small jingle rang out and filled the room as he walked in.

Ring. Ring.

No one seemed to be there.

Isaac appraised the shop with fresh eyes. It was small and overstuffed with boxes, haphazardly placed on ebony shelves. The store was lit with sparse amber candle-light, and walking past the shelves, a thin coating of dust covered the wood he could see. In irritation, he sneezed, clouds of dust swirling around his face. Whoever owns this place does an awful job at cleaning it.

Clocks lined the walls here and there, ticking to tell the time. Looking backwards, the only open glass he could see was the door behind him. The whole shop was eerie, full of silence and dust. Perhaps the wandmaker had already gone mad. Perhaps he was dead, and nobody knew since he locked himself up alone.

A shiver coursed down his spine as he got closer and closer to the front desk. Placing his hands on the narrow and shabby thing, his heartbeat sped up. Isaac somehow felt as if something were watching him, or someone.

He peered over the edge of the desk and saw a set of milky grey eyes. And with a cry of terror, he fell to the ground.

The boy got himself up from the floor, his fear rapidly changing into annoyance. Just who was this wandmaker to think he could hide and scare his customers? He was going to give the man a piece of his mind for sure for scaring him. If a classmate had seen his reaction, Isaac would already be the laughing-stock of the entire school. Just wait until he hears this.

Ollivander himself had bumped his head while reaching for a box of wands, and was quite surprised to see he had a customer already. Most of them come much later, but then, no time is too early for a wand to choose it's owner I'd say. the elderly wandermaker pondered good-naturedly.

Isaac gave Ollivander a look over. He was a thin, old man with wispy white hair, pale skin and silvery eyes. He was thin in a way that was unhealthy, rail-thin and stick-like, and his orb-like eyes were sunken into the fragile skin of his face. The way Ollivander's white brow furrowed on his forehead, Isaac knew that he too was being scrutinized by the man. Well, good riddance.

"Don't you know better than to come up from behind places, you old windbag. No one's going to buy wands from you if you do that!" he declared with a stamp of his foot.

Ollivander looked unruffled by the insult. "Ollivander's is the best wandmaker in Britain," he explained to Isaac as if he were a particularly stupid child, "and has been renowned for its quality service for centuries, ever since the times of Rome."

"So?"

"This is the one of the finest wandmaking shops on Earth."

"So?"

"There's nothing more to ask about."

Isaac gave up the argument. With a hopeless sigh, he deposited his galleons on the table. The gold coins winked in the candlelight, and Ollivander pocketed them steadily.

"I need a wand." Isaac muttered unhappily, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Like it or not, I'm a wizard."

Ollivander made a gesture, and Isaac followed. The man took a ladder and clambered up and down it like a spider, grabbing boxes and placing them on the ground before going up again. Eventually, there was a large stack on the dusty wooden floor, and the elderly wandmaker clapped his hands together to free them from dust. Ollivander reached into a box and pulled out a wand, placing it into Isaac's fingers.

"A wand is more than something you select or purchase. Each wand has its own spirit in a sense, changed by its core, material and length, and so, the wand must choose the wizard. It will be your partner for all the rest of your years. Go ahead and try this one out. Give it a hearty swish."

"Oh goody," Isaac murmured beneath his breath. "I get to swing a stick around."
Bracing himself, he swung the wand with all his might like a baseball bat, the momentum knocking his hand right into the shelf beside it. "Oww!" he yelped, dropping it to the ground. Peering at his hand, he saw that his knuckles were bright red and hurt terribly.

"Not that hard." Ollivander admonished, picking the wand up from the floor. He looked at it closely before placing it back into the box. "That one wouldn't have worked anyway. Too springy."

Every time that he thought it was the one, something was wrong with it.

Isaac was sure that he had spent at least an hour in the old man's company, as the wandmaker struggled to find a wand that matched him. Or as Ollivander would say, the wand was having trouble finding its owner.

Isaac lightly swished a wand made of redwood with a catawampus hair core. Ollivander told him that it was perfect for adventurers. But the second he finished the arc of his swing, it fired off a random burst of energy, knocking him into the shelf. Isaac groaned as his head ached terribly, and he dizzily handed the wand back to the old wandmaker. Ollivander placed it back in the box quickly.

It didn't matter what they tried out. Wands perfect for adventurers, for courageous people, inventors, quick of mind and heart, wizards who were great duelists...wands made of snallygaster and unicorn hair...it was hopeless.

With each and every failure, isaac felt more and more awful about himself. Maybe father was wrong, and I'm not supposed to be a wizard after all. No wand even wants to choose me, not even the adventurous ones.

Ollivander didn't look tired in the slightest. The man seemed to gain more energy as the minutes passed, and his muttering grew more frantic. The elderly wandmaker's silvery eyes peered at each and every shelf, and he scuttled to grab more and more boxes of wands for Isaac to try.

Finally, he handed him a wand. A bead of sweat ran down the old man's temple past his white hair, but his face was triumphant. "This one." he said with certainty.

Isaac took the wand into his hand tiredly. The deep mahogany wood shone with red highlights in the candlelight, and spiraled heavily at the tip.

"25,2 centimeters, maple wood and dragon heartstring. Try it."

Almost vengefully, Isaac swung the wand with more force than needed, but there was no explosion. No random energy sparked free, it didn't fall from his hand, and instead it felt peculiarly warm, as if it had been lying out in the sun. Slowly, a soft white glow emanated from its tip, illuminating his grey eyes and pale face.

Ollivander's expression sparkled, and his chiming voice announced with pride, "This is your wand. An inflexible wand, gifted with healing properties, and perfect for wizards suffering from insecurities."

Isaac's entire face went blank with shock. "What?!"

"What's the matter?" Ollivander questioned patiently.

"I'm not a cleric, sir," he said, a certain amount of annoyance in his voice. "I don't need a wand perfect for healing and all that garbage. I need a wand for spells, and dueling, and adventure!"

"This is your wand. It's final." The old wandmaker said in a tone that reminded Isaac of his father.

Isaac gave the wand an accusing stare. Healing properties, bloody hell, who needs that! And insecurities... Fury simmered beneath the surface as he looked at the wand, and he had a passing thought of snapping it in half. He wanted a wand that represented strength, and power, not something for weak people, telling every wizard that he had 'insecurities' and 'problems' he couldn't fix.

Isaac was a boy of action, and this wand, was not meant for action. This wand was not meant for him.

Spitefully, he stuffed the wand into the pocket of his jeans, trying to keep his anger from showing on his face. Carefully controlling his tone, he addressed Ollivander, "Thank you sir, for the wand."

"You're welcome," the man with the silvery eyes replied, a mysterious smile on his face. Who needed him anyway.

Isaac walked back into the drizzling storm, moving onto the next item on his list. This was about to be a very long day.