In 1970 the Wizarding world lay in ruins, evil wizards frequented the streets-- many of them Lord Voldemort's supporters (Not the streets-- the evil wizards. However, most people wouldn't have been surprised, however, if the streets had been Lord Voldemort's supporters as well... It was a time when everyone seemed to be a secret follower of the Dark Lord, from your aunt to your aunt’s dog to your dog’s aunt). Anyway, this story is not set in 1970, nor does it have to do with Lord Voldemort or his multi-specied supporters, so we don't really have to bother with that.

When this story is set in, is the year 2000-- thirty years after 1970, thirty-one years after 1969, thirty-two years after 1968, thirty-three years after 1967, thirty-four-- oh, what? You can do the maths yourself? All right then, kill me for trying to be helpful. No, no, not literally! Honestly, the art of sarcasm is dying... And no, not literally, again.

What I was trying to say is that this story is set in the year 2000, in a narrow, cramped street named Diagon Alley. People of all kinds bustled about, in and out of shops, holding large bags, cages, and in one very singular case, a stake in a heart that seemed to be glittering.

One particular shop, apparently named Oll vand rs: Ma ers of Fi e Wa ds Since 382 B, had a mystical, slightly creepy feel about it. It had a desolate, dark look-- at least, as much of a desolate and dark look something could have surrounded by homely old ladies smiling at kids, teenagers walking about sullenly, and all other manners of people.

A man walked into the shop. He wasn't very remarkable-- he didn't seem to have tentacles or antennae or any other pieces jutting out where they shouldn't. He was a normal middle-aged man. As he walked into the shop, a bell very consciously didn't tinkle-- its tongue had been stolen a long time ago.

'I'm Marty Pyttin, and I wish to register a complaint,' he announced grandly to no one in particular. To no one at all, it seemed-- the shop was empty.

A young man came out of some room at the back, muttering something to himself. 'I'm saarry, Ollivander's is nearly out for lunch,' he said, looking irritatedly at Marty.

'I wish to complain about this wand that I bought not half a century ago from this very shop,' said Marty.

'I taald you, we're nearly out for lunch,' said the other man curtly.

'I don't give a darn, young man-- what's your name, Ollivander?'

'Yes, I am Ollivander the second. And a halfth. All right, tell me, what's your complaint?' said Ollivander.

'I wish to complain about this wand that I bought not hal--'

'Yes, I heard you the first time, go on.' Ollivander cut in. 'A mahogany wand, seven inches laang-- springy, good faar Transfiguration? What's the matter with it?'

'Actually, it's an oak wand, twelve inches, phoenix feather, and I managed to fail Transfiguration every year at Hogwarts. And I'll tell you what's the matter with it... It's not working, that's what's wrong with it!' declared Marty, in what he hoped was an incredibly grand and solemn manner.

'That can't happen, naat to an Ollivander's wand!' said Ollivander. 'Here, let me see it.' He looked it carefully.

'It's naat naat working, it's just taking a hiatus,' declared Ollivander.

'Look, my lad, I know a wand that's not working when I see one-- or try to use a Contraceptive Spell with one and end up with three screaming triplets with red hair and orange eyes-- and I'm looking at one right now!'

'Actually, you're looking at me...' said Ollivander.

'That doesn't matter, this wand is definitely not working!' exclaimed Marty.

'Naa, it's going on a hiatus! A hiatus, like a platypus!'

'It's not on hiatu-- wait, what does a platypus have to do with this? This is irrelevant, isn't it?'

'Well, it's naat easy to--' started Ollivander.

'Forget I asked that! This wand is on hiatus, is it? Well, let me bring it out of its hiatus! Stupefy! Lumos! Expelliarmus! Avada Kedavra!' Ollivander ducked.

'There's naa need to be so violent!' said Ollivander. 'Here, let me take a look at it.'

‘Nah, it’s just stunned.’

‘Look, my lad, I’ve had just about enough of this. This wand is meant to stun people, not be stunned. It’s broken—’

‘Nay, nay, it’s naat broken, it’s just pining for the Fords.’

‘For the fjords, you mean? Ach, why am I even correcting you on that, matey? I took the liberty of examining this wand, and the only reason it even stood upright is because it had been stuck together with Muggle glue and twenty three centimetres of rope.’

‘Of course it had to be tied, otherwise it would have gone boom Boom BOOM all around and broken everything, wouldn’t it? Beautiful capacity, this mahogany wand.’

‘This oak wand wouldn’t go boom Boom BOOM if I stuck it into a troll’s left nostril and asked him to sneeze!’ exclaimed Marty. ‘This wand has ceased to be.This wand is no more. It’s expired and gone to meet its maker—’

‘Oh, thaat’s me,’ said Ollivander, smiling.

‘Aargh! It’s standing up straight and stiff only because you used Muggle glue! It’s weak, it’s powerless, and it doesn’t please me any more!’

Ollivander snickered. Marty glowered at him.

‘This,’ he exclaimed with an air of the histrionics around him, ‘is an EX-WAND.’

'Well, maybe it isn’t working. I better replace it, then!’

'Ah, finally. Do you have a wand that's oak, twelve inches, phoenix feather?'

'Erm... naa. But--' said Ollivander.

'No matter,' said Marty, evidently happy that the shopkeeper had finally accepted that the wand was, indeed, not working. 'What about... a willow wand, twelve inches, phoenix feather?'

'Never at the end of midday, however--' replied Ollivander.

'Okay, okay. How about a... mahogany wand, unicorn hair, seven inches?'

'Normally, yes. But today we're all saald out. But--'

‘Fine, I don’t mind. Do you have… a teak wand, about twelve and a half inches, with the tail feather of a phoenix?’

‘We would, on any other day. But we just saald the last two phoenix feather wands that we haad to a megalomaniac Dark Lord and to a disturbed little boy,’ said Ollivander.

‘That’s not a problem at all! Do you, perhaps have a ram’s horn wand, seven inches, with a polar bear’s nose hair core?’

‘It’s just sold out, sir,’ said Ollivander regretfully.

‘Let me see, then.. Bavarian banyan wood, nine inches, with a praline centre?’

‘We do, sir!’ Ollivander walked over to the back of the shop, and Marty sighed. Finally… Ollivander came back, holding a box.

‘Oh, sir, the Norwegian Nipple-Nicking Nudists stole this one as well! I really need to complain to the Minster of Magic about this, they’re going too far!’

'Norwegian Nipp—what? Tell me, this is a wand shop, isn't it?' asked Marty.

'Yes, the best in Britain!' said Ollivander.

'And what makes you think that?' asked Marty.

Ollivander took a second to reply. 'Well, it's certainly very clean, isn't it?'

'Yes, it's certainly uncontaminated by--'

'Sir, the wand you asked for-- mahogany, unicaarn hair, seven inches!' exclaimed Ollivander.

Marty's eyes started to flash dangerously. 'Did you have to go and ruin the punchline? I’m going to ask you the question once more. And if you answer in the negative, I’m going to have to use the killing curse on you. Understand?’

‘Not entirely, sir,’ said Ollivander unsurely.

Marty’s eyebrows dove together. Raising his wand, in a cold, sharp voice, in a tone that commanded power and demanded finality, he said, ‘Avada Kedavra.’

‘Sir, you do realise the reason you came in here is because your wand stopped working?’