CHAPTER EIGHTEEN small, twittering birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight. “Good,” said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. “Which leaves . . . Mr. Potter.” Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum to Mr. Ollivander. He handed over his wand. “Aaaah, yes,” said Mr. Ollivander, his pale eyes suddenly gleam- ing. “Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember.” Harry could remember too. He could remember it as though it had happened yesterday. . . . Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had entered Mr. Ollivander’s shop with Hagrid to buy a wand. Mr. Ollivander had taken his measurements and then started handing him wands to try. Harry had waved what felt like every wand in the shop, until at last he had found the one that suited him — this one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix. Mr. Ollivander had been very surprised that Harry had been so compatible with this wand. “Curious,” he had said, “curious,” and not until Harry asked what was curious had Mr. Ollivander explained that the phoenix feather in Harry’s wand had come from the same bird that had supplied the core of Lord Voldemort’s. Harry had never shared this piece of information with anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as he was concerned its re- lation to Voldemort’s wand was something it couldn’t help — rather as he couldn’t help being related to Aunt Petunia. However, he really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn’t about to tell the room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with excitement if he did. ‘310 ‘