Their first stop was Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. The shop was narrow, dusty, and smelled of old wood and something Rowan couldn't quite identify. Magic, perhaps, concentrated and aged.
"The Ollivander family has been making wands for more than twenty-two centuries," Professor Weasley explained as they entered. A bell tinkled somewhere in the depths. "Gerbold Ollivander is the current master. Eccentric like all wandmakers, but with an uncanny gift for matching wizard to wand."
"Ah, Professor Weasley!" A man emerged from the back of the shop, younger than Rowan had expected. Perhaps in his forties, with dark hair going gray at the temples and pale, penetrating eyes. "And a new student. First wand?"
"Mr. Gerbold Ollivander, this is Rowan Ashcroft."
"Muggleborn!" Gerbold's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Even better. No family wand traditions muddying the water. You and the wand get to meet fresh." He circled Rowan slowly, studying him from every angle with an intensity that would have been rude in any other context. "Clever hands. You've done manual work, haven't you? And those eyes. Always calculating." He stopped circling. "You've seen hard things, Mr. Ashcroft. The wand will know that. They always do."
He produced a tape measure that immediately began measuring Rowan of its own accord. Arm length, shoulder to wrist, even the distance between his eyes.
"I worked in a cotton mill," Rowan said carefully. "People died regularly."
"You don't have to explain yourself to me." Gerbold was already drifting toward the shelves, his fingers trailing along the boxes. "That's between you and the wand."
He pulled down a box and extracted a wand. Dark wood, slender, about ten inches long. "Let's start simple. Ebony and dragon heartstring, nine and three-quarter inches, quite rigid."
Rowan took the wand. It felt wrong in his hand. Too heavy, too cold, as though it were actively rejecting him. He gave it a hesitant wave, and the nearest lamp exploded in a shower of glass.
"No, absolutely not." Gerbold snatched the wand back, completely unbothered by the destruction. With a casual flick of his own wand, the glass reassembled itself. "Ebony's too unforgiving for you. You need something that can bend."
He selected another box. "Hawthorn and phoenix feather, eleven inches, reasonably supple. Hawthorn's a conflicted wood. Does wonderful things for healers and terrible things for the spiteful."
This wand was lighter but still wrong. Rowan waved it and the nearest shelf tilted dangerously, boxes sliding toward the floor before Gerbold caught them with magic.
"Getting closer, though. Interesting reaction."
They went through twelve more wands. Each proved unsuitable, though some came closer than others. The shop was beginning to look distinctly disheveled, and Professor Weasley's expression had grown concerned.
Then Gerbold paused, his eyes distant, as though listening to something only he could hear. "Wait."
He disappeared into the back of the shop. Rowan could hear him rummaging, muttering to himself. Professor Weasley leaned against the counter, clearly used to this process taking time.
"I've been wondering about this one for years." Gerbold emerged carrying a single box, handling it with something close to reverence. "Every wizard I've offered it to, nothing. It just sat there and refused them all."
He opened the box, revealing a wand of pale wood with a faintly lustrous grain.
"Yew and thestral tail hair. Twelve and a quarter inches. Surprisingly swishy for what it's made of."
The moment Rowan's fingers touched the smooth wood, warmth flooded through him. Not uncomfortable heat, but a welcoming warmth, like coming home to a fire after a long day in the cold. The wand seemed to pulse in his hand, its magic recognizing his own and binding to it.
He raised it instinctively, and a shower of silver sparks erupted from the tip, swirling through the air in intricate spirals before dissipating.
Gerbold exhaled. "There it is." He watched the last sparks fade with an expression that sat somewhere between satisfaction and awe. "Forty-three years."
He looked at Rowan with a new gravity. "Do you know what yew is, Mr. Ashcroft?"
"Graveyard wood."
Gerbold nodded. "It feeds on the dead and shelters the living. Death and rebirth, wrapped up in the same tree. Most wizards can't handle that kind of contradiction. The ones who can tend to leave a mark on the world, one way or another." He paused. "And thestral hair only answers to someone who's seen death firsthand. Which you have."
It wasn't a question.
"Seven Galleons," Gerbold said, turning to Professor Weasley. His tone had shifted, the eccentric showmanship giving way to something quieter. "A bargain for a match like this."
As Professor Weasley counted out the coins, Gerbold wrapped the wand carefully in soft cloth before placing it in a narrow box. He handed it over and held Rowan's gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable.
"Be careful with that one, Mr. Ashcroft. Yew grants its master the power of life and death in equal measure. It's never an ordinary wand, and it never chooses an ordinary wizard."
The words hung in the air as they left the shop. Rowan tucked the wand box carefully into his jacket pocket.
He had a wand. He was really, truly a wizard.
They moved methodically through the rest of the shopping. Flourish and Blotts for textbooks. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by Tiberius Simpkins, A History of Magic by Josiah Blackthorn, Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore, Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger, A Compendium of Dangerous Creatures by Augustus Worme, and The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble.
Rowan also selected several additional books that caught his attention. Counter-Curses and Defensive Magic by Vindictus Viridian, A Comprehensive Guide to Magical Creatures by Gulliver Pokeby, Occlumency: The Mind as Fortress by Erasmus Moonstone, Ancient Runes Made Easy by Laurenzoo, and Moste Potente Potions by Phineas Bourne.
The clerk eyed that last one with suspicion. "Rather advanced for a first year, isn't it?"
"I like to be prepared," Rowan said simply.
Professor Weasley raised an eyebrow at the pile of books but said nothing as Rowan counted out fifteen Galleons and eight Sickles.
At Grimalkin's Robes, the witch who ran the shop had a sharp face and a sharper voice. She measured Rowan with what looked like deliberate roughness, her tape measure snapping against his shoulders and pulling tight around his chest.
"Muggleborn, is he?" she asked Professor Weasley, as though Rowan wasn't standing right there.
"He is," Professor Weasley said coolly. "And I expect you to provide the same quality of service you would to any student."
The witch's lips thinned, but she completed the fitting without further comment. Three sets of plain black work robes, one plain black winter cloak. The standard uniform.
Next, a trunk. Professor Weasley led him to Thornton's Trunks and Cases, where a portly wizard demonstrated various models.
"The Student model is basic but serviceable," he explained. "The Scholar adds expansion charms. Holds twice as much as it should. The Fortress model includes security wards. Only you can open it once it's keyed to your magical signature."
"The Fortress," Rowan decided. His journal was in there. His savings. Everything worth protecting.
While the wizard transferred his belongings from the old battered trunk to the new one, Rowan purchased the rest of his supplies. Telescope, brass scales, generous supplies of parchment and quills and ink.
By the time they'd collected his robes from Grimalkin's, the witch handing them over with barely concealed resentment, Rowan had spent thirty-two Galleons.