"It's time to get a new wand," Snape said, looking down at the parchment in his hand. He shook a shining silver badge embossed with the letters "HB" from its envelope and placed it carefully on the table. "Professor Dumbledore's endorsement carries some weight…"
Ten minutes earlier, an owl had arrived at the school bearing the seventh-year book list—and this small badge.
"What's that?" Eileen, wiping her hands on her apron, came over curiously and picked up the badge. "Oh! Head Boy! How wonderful, Severus!"
"Indeed, indeed," Snape dragged the syllables out, rising slowly to his feet and bowing dramatically before seizing Eileen's hand. "My dear mother, seeing you truly lifts my spirits."
"Oh, come on," Eileen laughed, eyes crinkling, trying to pin the badge onto Snape's black robes. "Why don't you wear it, and we'll take a trip to the Burrow?"
"Absolutely not," Snape recoiled, stepping back. "I have no desire to parade around wearing a badge proclaiming 'Most Overinflated Ego.'"
Lily, sitting nearby with a matching envelope, suddenly burst into laughter.
As she opened hers, a "HG" badge—the Head Girl—fell onto her lap.
"Oh!" Eileen's eyes lit up. "Lily, you have one too! Perfect! You're the heads of the student councils for both boys and girls. Here, let me pin yours on…"
Lily didn't smile.
"But are you really heading to Diagon Alley this early?" Eileen asked, fixing Lily's badge and glancing at Snape. "Shall we go together?"
"No need," Snape replied, pulling from his robe the wand once owned by that Albanian crone. "That wand's not very cooperative—I want to replace it as soon as possible."
"Won't that affect your Apparition?" Lily asked, subtly trying to remove her badge unnoticed by Eileen.
"It will," Snape admitted, "so I plan to take the Knight Bus. The Daily Prophet said it resumed service last month."
He moved toward the cupboard and pulled out a handful of brightly colored toys—extras bought for Percy's last gift.
"See you later," Snape said, opening the front door.
With a bang and screech, the vivid purple Knight Bus materialized on the country road outside St. Catchpole village.
Snape waited some moments before the doors creaked open.
The driver, Ernie Prang, hurriedly hopped down. His gray-white hair plastered to his forehead, thick spectacles fogged up.
"Welcome aboard the Knight Bus… I'm Ernie Prang, your driver and conductor—"
"Ernie," Snape interrupted. "Long time no see. Just you alone?"
"Oh, it's you." Ernie pushed his slipping glasses up his nose. "Nobody wants this job, just me… Someone's got to do it, right? Where to?"
"Diagon Alley," Snape counted out eleven Sickles. "Same price?"
"Yes." Ernie nodded, but didn't take the coins, glancing nervously at the empty carriage.
The daytime Knight Bus wasn't decked with brass-framed beds this time. Instead, mismatched chairs filled the space, oddly disjointed.
"Oh, just one passenger; shouldn't be a problem," Ernie muttered, stepping aside for Snape.
"Ernie," Snape boarded, pulling out the toys from his robes. "These are for little Stan."
A flush crept onto Ernie's ashen face. His large, rough hands awkwardly twisted the hem of his uniform.
"It's not like that…" he said in a low voice. "I don't blame you… If you hadn't been around last time, things might've been worse…"
"No matter," Snape said, settling into a seat. "I understand. Shadows remain after such things."
Ernie nodded and took his seat at the wheel, then suddenly jumped up as if recalling something.
He dashed to the back, pulling from a storage box a large slab of chocolate.
"For free," he said, nervously pressing it into Snape's hand. "Want some?"
Snape took it. "Thank you, Ernie."
With a roar, the Knight Bus lurched forward, buildings, bins, phone booths, and trees all seeming to leap aside in startled haste.
After a blur of speed, Ernie slammed the brakes, and the bus lurched awkwardly to a stop before the Leaky Cauldron.
"We're here," Ernie panted, jumping down to open the door. "Diagon Alley."
"Goodbye, Ernie," Snape said, descending the steps.
Pushing open the grimy, cramped pub door, Snape entered.
It was near noon, and the place was quiet. A few old witches sat in corners sipping sherry, puffing long pipes, playing a biting card game; a stout man chatted with the nearly bald, walnut-faced landlord.
"Something to drink?" Tom asked, wiping a glass with a gray rag. "Beer? Brandy? Or perhaps something stronger—Dragon's Blood Whiskey?"
"Tea and some bread, please," Snape said.
He'd planned to go straight to Ollivander's but didn't mind a brief stop. Of course, he wasn't interested in alcohol—it wasn't exactly a fine potion.
After a while, Tom brought a tray over with tea and toasted bread.
"Tom," Snape called as the landlord started heading back to the bar, "how long have you been running this place?"
"Since the twenties," Tom replied proudly. "What's this, young sir? Thinking of buying the Leaky Cauldron?"
"No," Snape sipped his tea. "I just like the name Tom. Have you ever met anyone else named Tom here?"
"Too many Toms," Tom winked. "But if you buy old Tom a bottle of rum, I could reminisce properly."
"Then one bottle of rum it is," Snape agreed.
"Rum it is," Tom sat down, clearly not planning to get any. "Talking about my name—many years ago, I met a lad with the same name."
"Tom's common among Muggles, but rare in wizarding families," he said. "So that little wizard made an impression.
"Especially since he came alone from a Muggle family—no Hogwarts teachers to accompany him. Not sure which professor was so careless."
Snape chuckled softly, wondering what Dumbledore would think of Tom's assessment.
"A handsome lad, just like I was in my youth," Tom grinned, showing a few crooked yellow teeth. "He didn't even have a wand then—just politely standing at the bar, asking if I could open the entrance to Diagon Alley."
Snape's fingers drummed absentmindedly on the teacup.
"And after that? Did you see him again?" Snape asked, mentally tracing the known Horcrux locations.
As Riddle's entry point to the magical world, the Leaky Cauldron seemed an unlikely place to hide Horcruxes. Before Voldemort entrusted the "Lestrange couple's unimaginable reward," where else might the Horcruxes have been concealed?
"Let me think…" Tom smeared butter on a slice of toast. "He must've come back a few times… but I can't recall exactly when. You know, so many people."
"All right, young sir, here's your bill." Tom spread his hands. "Seventy Galleons, rum included—rounded down for you."
Snape paid and walked past the bar into the small courtyard, tapping the bricks with his wand to open the passage to Diagon Alley.
A winding, cobbled street stretched before him, disappearing around corners.
Pushing through the bustling crowd, Snape arrived at a small, shabby shop.
The golden sign above, peeling with age, read: Ollivander, Wandmaker Since 382 BC. The dusty window displayed a single wand resting on a faded purple cushion.
The tinkling bell sounded as an elderly man appeared.
"Good afternoon," Mr. Ollivander said. "How may I assist you?"
"I need a new wand, sir," Snape replied. "The old one… well… broke."
"A new wand?" Ollivander grumbled. "Lately, I've had quite a few customers with the same excuse."
"Many, huh?" Snape thought of the wands he'd snapped. Unwittingly, he'd become a strategic partner of Ollivander's.
"Yes." Ollivander's silver eyes fixed on Snape. "I remember you, Severus Snape—ebony wood with dragon heartstring core, quite a powerful combination."
"Hmm." Ollivander gave Snape a sharp once-over. "You should cherish your wand; it's no consumable. Now, Mr. Snape, let's see…"
He pulled a long silver-measured tape from his pocket. "You're right-handed…"
The tape automatically measured Snape—from shoulder to fingertip, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, finishing with head circumference.
Snape wondered the point; young wizards grew, and every wand's length varied anyway.
He settled on attributing it to the Ollivander family's two-thousand-year-old wandmaking rituals.
While moving between shelves, Ollivander recited the usual lines every young wizard had heard: "Every Ollivander wand is made with the finest magical substances…"
"All right," he said, "Mr. Snape, try this one. Same core and wood as your old one but slightly longer—fourteen and a half inches. Usually, wand material preference doesn't change. Give it a wave."
Snape took the wand, flicking it; it emitted a faint glow.
Ollivander quickly snatched it back.
"Strange, very strange…" he muttered. "Though adequate, it pales compared to the one you had the first time—back then it shone brighter."
"Perhaps try a different wood?" Snape shrugged.
"No, no," Ollivander shook his head stubbornly. "It's probably subtle differences in the material. Let's try other wands of the same wood."
Over the next half hour, Snape tested every ebony wand in the shop.
Finally, Ollivander grudgingly conceded they might try a different wood.
"Take this one," he wiped sweat from his brow. "Beechwood with unicorn hair core, fifteen inches."
"Maybe we could skip beechwood entirely," Snape said, taking the wand.
Before he could wave, Ollivander grabbed it back.
A dozen common wood and core combinations failed to perform as expected in Snape's hand.
"A discerning old customer!" Ollivander grumbled. "Next combo… let me see—oh, here we go—Acacia wood, phoenix feather core, thirteen inches—an extremely rare pairing."
The moment Snape took it, a warmth spread to his fingertips. A silver bird burst from the tip, darting joyfully between shelves, scattering sparkling light.
He felt an unprecedented harmony between wand and magic—a smooth, effortless flow.
"Oh, perfect!" Ollivander sighed in relief. "Finally, a wand fit for you.
"Acacia wands are highly sensitive; they refuse use by anyone other than their owner and only reveal their full potential to the most gifted. Once bonded, they adapt to any style—from precise Transfiguration to powerful combat spells."
"Congratulations, Mr. Snape," he said. "I believe you're destined for greatness!"
"Thank you—that's the second time I've heard that." Snape produced seven Galleons. "For you."
"That won't do," Ollivander waved his wand, tidying the scattered wand boxes on the counter. "Seventy Galleons."
"Seven is the discounted price for young wizards," Ollivander added. "Subsidized by the Ministry and Hogwarts."
"Is that so?" Snape suddenly felt a pang. Though money wasn't an issue, he realized he'd destroyed wands worth thousands of Galleons. "Sir, can I have a discount?"
"No," Ollivander said firmly. "Ollivander never discounts—two thousand years and counting."