DIAGON ALLEY
for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages.
Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots,
and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of
fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid
asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic po-
tion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself examined silver unicorn
horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-black
beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).
Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry’s list again.
“Just yer wand left — oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got yeh a birth-
day present.”
Harry felt himself go red.
“You don’t have to —”
“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer animal. Not a
toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh’d be laughed at — an’
I don’ like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. All the kids
want owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’ everythin’.”
Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which
had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes.
Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast
asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn’t stop stammering
his thanks, sounding just like Professor Quirrell.
“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect you’ve had
a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now —
only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best
wand.”
A magic wand . . . this was what Harry had been really looking
forward to.
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