Ollivanders Wand Shop.
Sherlock had tried wand after wand, yet none seemed to suit him.
Oddly enough, Ollivander showed no sign of frustration. On the contrary, he seemed only more delighted with each failed match.
Sherlock, as always, remained composed, quietly cooperating with the shopkeeper's selections, appearing calm and patient.
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, however, exchanged confused glances.
They simply couldn't understand what Ollivander was looking for. From their perspective, Sherlock barely had time to grip a wand—much less wave it—before the eccentric old man would snatch it back.
This scene had already repeated several times.
Finally, Mrs. Holmes couldn't hold back and whispered to her husband, "Tannen, maybe we should try somewhere else?"
Mr. Holmes hesitated. "But I heard… this is the only wand shop."
"Pardon?"
Ollivander's hearing, it turned out, was sharper than expected. Though his attention had seemed solely fixed on Sherlock, he suddenly looked up and asked,
"Is Madam questioning the Ollivander family's craftsmanship?"
His piercing gaze made Mrs. Holmes falter. "No, I just—"
"No need to worry," Ollivander said, smiling faintly. "The Ollivanders have been making wands since 382 B.C. No matter how particular the customer, they always find their match here."
"Including the one who left earlier?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
Ollivander paused—then chuckled. "A sharp young wizard, aren't you? Quite right. There was a rather discerning customer earlier… and quite a well-known one, at that. Ha…"
But halfway through, he seemed to catch himself and changed course.
"Though to be precise, it's not the wizard who chooses the wand—but the wand that chooses the wizard.
Remember this: no one ever leaves Ollivanders disappointed. Ah, that's right!"
He gave a small clap of realization, then walked over to the shelf where one of the previous test wands had sent nearby items flying. From a shadowy corner, he retrieved a plain-looking black wand.
"Beechwood with basilisk nerve, twelve inches. Supple and resilient. Try this one."
Sherlock, of course, noticed that Ollivander was trying to redirect the conversation.
But he didn't push the matter and took the wand as instructed.
The moment he gripped it, a chill shot through him.
A mysterious sensation surged—strange and vivid—as if something unseen was connecting him to the wand in his hand.
He gave it a small wave. A delicate white ring of smoke spiraled into the air and drifted away.
At the same time, he could almost hear the sound of a ship's horn in the distance, followed by the laughter of sailors.
It felt like the wand had resonated with him.
It was… magical in the truest sense of the word.
Even Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, unfamiliar with magic though they were, could tell—this wand was meant for Sherlock.
"Did the wand choose me?" Sherlock asked as Ollivander placed it carefully into its box.
"Yes. That's the proper answer," Ollivander confirmed with a contented smile.
Now that Sherlock—the most demanding customer of the day—had finally found his match, the wandmaker looked utterly pleased.
"For a beechwood wand," he explained, "if the wizard is fully grown, it typically signifies someone reasonable and experienced.
"But in a young wizard…"
He glanced at Sherlock with a thoughtful, almost cryptic look.
"It means wisdom beyond their years."
Wisdom beyond their years…?
Sherlock mulled over the words in silence.
At that moment, Mrs. Holmes stepped forward to inquire about the self-measuring tape from earlier.
Unfortunately, she was told it could only be used by magical folk.
The response left her visibly disappointed.
After paying 8 Galleons, Mr. Ollivander bowed deeply and escorted them to the door.
"Two fussy customers in a single day… Looks like Hogwarts will be lively this year," he murmured to himself as the trio departed.
With the wand acquired, Sherlock and his parents had finally finished their Diagon Alley shopping trip.
Even with careful spending, they had burned through nearly 80 Galleons to fulfill the school supply list.
After adding the cost of a few extra books, Sherlock was left with just under 20 Galleons to spare.
Mrs. Holmes remained quietly frustrated. She saw the restricted exchange policy as blatant discrimination against Muggle families and brooded over it for a while.
Eventually, Mr. Holmes talked her down from lodging a formal complaint, and the family returned to the Leaky Cauldron without further incident.
Just as they were about to drive home, Sherlock paused mid-step.
He had spotted a couple with their young daughter lingering between a bookstore and a record shop, looking somewhat lost.
With just a glance, Sherlock had deduced the truth:
A pair of parents and their child—clearly trying to find the Leaky Cauldron, just as his family had earlier that day.
His sudden halt caught his parents' attention.
Following his gaze, they too noticed the well-dressed, bookish-looking couple and the animated girl chatting beside them.
Even without Sherlock's knack for observation, it was obvious—they were searching for the same hidden entrance.
Mrs. Holmes, ever warm-hearted, felt an instant sense of kinship.
Remembering how bewildered they had been earlier that morning, she took her husband's hand and approached the family, clearly intent on helping.
Sherlock understood what was happening.
Given the young girl among them, this family would have found the Leaky Cauldron eventually. But still—he hadn't expected that a simple glance would prompt his mother to get involved.
Now that his parents were already chatting with them, he had no choice but to walk over as well.
"So you're looking for Diagon Alley too?" Mrs. Holmes beamed, her earlier experience filling her with confidence. She quickly took the lead in the conversation, speaking with the authority of someone "in the know":
"Oh, I bet you anything—the goblins at the bank have the worst customer service. Honestly, they're ruder than Aunt Susan's apple pie is dry."
"Holy Mary, they only let us exchange 128 Galleons! Can you believe it? Turning down good money like that—it's madness!"
"If I ever see them again, I swear I'll boot one of them right in the backside!"
Her lively complaints immediately helped close the distance between the two families.
After introductions, they learned the couple's surname was Granger, and just like the Holmeses, they were Muggles.
Mrs. Holmes, now visibly excited, pulled Sherlock forward.
"Sherlock, this young lady here—Hermione Granger—she's starting at Hogwarts too! You two should look out for each other."