Dearest Mother;

Today I was taken to a little shopping street known as 'Diagon Alley', packed to bursting with anything magical, with potions, wands, clothing, toys, and books. Oh the books! I could've spend the rest of my life in the book shop, if not for being dragged away to buy my wand.

'Ollivander's', the sign read, 'Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC'. An old man came out to help me select, his eyes as clear as that of a newborn child. He was interesting, and I was curious, but questioned nothing, not even when his tape measure decided to mark the distance between my glasses and eyes.

The first wand he brought out was a black colour, curved slightly before reaching the tip. Immediately he announced it wasn't the one, and took it from me again.

The second nor third was much better, both barely touching my fingertips before being whisked back into their boxes.

"A wand chooses its Witch or Wizard." He said, and I did not doubt it for a second.

I was having doubts, however, though not of his words. Would I get a wand? Was it a mistake to say I was magical? What if I wasn't good enough? What if he went through every wand in this musty, cramped shop and didn't find the one?

He gave me a smoothly polished wand eventually. Willow, twelve and a half inches, with a unicorn hair for the core. The moment it came to me I knew. The man smiled, taking it gently from me to wrap up, though my fingers ached for its presence once more.

If only you were here to see this mother, you'd be so proud.

I was told you weren't a witch. You were a muggle, and father is as well. But sometimes I wonder about my childhood. Even without having a wand or any abilities, you filled it with magic. That duty has passed to me.

Your Loving Daughter Forever,
Janine