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You walk into a narrow and shabby shop. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand was laying on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. A tinkling bell rings somewhere in the depths of the shop as you step inside. A tiny place, empty escept for a single, spindly chair that customers could sit in, comes into the image on your eyes. You see a thousand of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. The very dust and silence in the room seems to tingle with some secret magic as you wait for Mr. Ollivander. " Good afternoon," says a soft voice. An old man stands before you, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop. " Here to get your first wand? Well... let's hope it stays the first.. now let's see.... here we are...." The man says as he takes down a box from one of the shelves.
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