Things at the shop had been slow going since Alexander had been given charge of it, not because he was a poor salesmen, or even because he lacked in people skills, no, in truth both these things were great traits of his. The fact was however, that fear ruled. Ever since the fall of Dumbledore, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Voldemort, Alex wasn't scared to say it, Voldemort, and the collapse of Hogwarts no one has been able to trust anyone. Spies were everywhere, and Half-Bloods and Muggle-Bloods alike weren't being taught magic for fear of their lives, and if they weren't being taught magic, why would they have need for wands?
Many had advised him to quit, close up shop and essentially abandon hope, "Become a healer, you're adept at it!" would say one, "Join the Aurors, I know you can fight." would call another. But they just didn't understand, accompanied by his acacia and kneazle whisker 13 1/4 inch, and oddly paired wand, Alexander wasn't a healer, and he wasn't a fighter, he wasn't homebody nor was he an explorer, and he most certainly wasn't a craftsmen either. What he was, and always would be, was an artist. Besides, the shop had been in their family for generations, and Givinses never gave up.
Only last week had he heard in passing that Hogwarts was reopening its doors, and that the letters had been sent. Even now as the young shop-keep flitted about the store like a nervous humming bird, heart a hammer and wand at work to tidy the place he couldn't quite believe his ears which rang with the stranger's words. Then when there was not else to do he stood waiting, patently as an inner panic rose in his belly, his mop of brown hair a mess and simlarly hued eyes shinning, while his fingers drummed endlessly on the counter positioned before the door.
