The dusty little shop had stood there longer than anything. Before the shops, before the glittering marble bank with its polished golden doors, before Diagon Alley, the wand shop was there. The wandmaker had been there, too, as permanent as his shop.
He pursued his craft with single-minded devotion. Some whispered that he was mad, obsessed. Whenever someone worked up the courage to say it outright, he merely smiled.
And as they turned away, Mr. Ollivander would reach into his left pocket.
The ribbon there had frayed to black threads from the countless times his fingers had caressed it.