Hermione Granger and the Philosopher's stone

Harry Potter and the Philosopher's stone written from the perspective of Hermione Granger.

Hermione Granger is an extraordinary little girl. Ever since she was a toddler she's been making things happen that would cause the other boys and girls in the playground turn their heads, not to mention the looks of horror from their parents. Not only is there something strange about Hermione, but she also happens to be the cleverest little girl her primary school has ever had.

A week into the summer holidays, Hermione receives a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
She's always known she was different, but now Hermione has found a place where she truly belongs.

Follow her along her journey, making new friends, learning new things and exceeding tremendously in her school work, but what will happen when she learns the secrets of the Wizarding world?

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7. Ollivander's

"This way!" Madam Douglas cries, hurrying up the street. We follow her until we reach a shabby, dusty-windowed shop bearing a large sign - 'Ollivanders'. Beneath it a smaller sign reads "Makers of fine wands since 382 BC". I stumble in after Mum and Dad, a bell rings somewhere in the depths of the shop, and take in the vast surroundings. Much like Flourish and Blotts, the shop is stacked high to the ceiling, but rather than books, thousands of long rectangular boxes lie un-tidily upon one another making the room seem crowded, even though there are only four of us here. I am corrected, however by the loud entrance of an old man, with wide, pale eyes and a mysterious grin on his face.

"Ollivander." He says, by way of introduction. "Hogwarts, I presume?" He asks, facing me.

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, how lovely to hear the girl has manners," He says, pulling out a tape measure. He lets it slip out of his hand and it starts to measure my arms. "It's such a pity when young wizards and witches don't understand respect." He climbs a ladder leaning against the shelves and comes to an abrupt halt half way up. He picks a box at what seems to be random and slides back down the ladder.

"That will do." He says, the tape flying back to his hand. Walking over to me, he places the long, slim box on the counter. "Now, don't be discouraged if the first wand you try isn't the right one for you. Which is your wand arm?" He asks.

"I'm right-handed." I say, as he pulls my right arm up and inspects it.

"Ah, wonderful." His gaze settles on my palm, before he lets go and allows my arm to swing back to my side. "Miss Granger, as a muggle-born I suspect that you have little knowledge of the Wizarding world. Am I correct?"

I look up at him in amazement. "But, how-" I start, but he cuts me off.

"Therefore I will educate you a little further in the art of wandlore." He beckons me over to the small counter he has moved behind and I walk towards him. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance; either unicorn hair, pheonix tail feather or dragon heartstring. No two of our wands are the same and you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

I listen intently as he informs me about the type of wood Ollivander wands can be made from and how he believes his family to have arrived with the Romans. In my head I question this theory, as the Romans came to Britain in AD 43, whereas the sign outside says that the family have been in business since 382 BC.

After a while I can hear Mum and Dad getting restless so I interrupt the fascinating tale about Mr Ollivander's most recent outing wherein he plucked 3 hairs from a unicorn, and ask as politely as I can if I can try out the wand in front of us.

"Of course, my dear - I do like to ramble on, don't I!?" He chuckles, carefully lifting out the wand. "Beechwood and unicorn hair, ten inches, extremely springy." I reach for the wand, but before my fingers close around the beech he whisks it away and slips it back into its box. Shutting the lid and walking away he mutters "Not the one, not the one." to himself.

He returns with another box and holds it out to me. I grab the wand quickly before he can take it away from me.

"Maple and Pheonix feather, seven inches. Quite whippy." He says, as I look down at it. I lift up the wand and point it at a spindly chair in the corner of the dark room. Nothing happens. I twirl it around a bit, before Mr Ollivander takes it back.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, m'dear - the wand chooses the wizard. We must be patient." Placing the second wand back on its shelf, Ollivander travels around the room for a while, until he comes to a halt, his eyes gazing upwards. With a certain amount of determination, he pulls the ladder to a different set of shelves and climbs up to the very top. His feet balance on the last rung of the ladder as he stretches to the very top of the highest shelf and grabs the box sat above all the others. As he carefully clambours down I breath out with relief, and my right hand starts to tingle.

He opens the box and carefully removes the wand. "Vine and Dragon heartstring. Nine and three-quarter inches. Light and swishy - perfect for flamboyant and difficult spells." He hands me the wand and my hand closes around it, feeling as though it has always been lacking something and has found its missing piece. My fingers tingle and as I lift it up, Ollivander gasps delightedly.

This is my wand.

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