Mr. Ollivander is experienced; he knows his wands and what they're looking for, so when a new customer walks in he already has half a dozen wands waiting to be introduced.
He walks down the dusty shelves; towards the wand he believes a most likely fit. Even from within the box, he can feel the thrumming that means he's right. The wandmaker returns to the storefront, opening the dusty box and gently lifting the wand from its cushion. A restraining stroke to the wood he once shaped, gave form all those years ago, and he turns to the customer. She is nervous and excited, with that hopeful disbelief of newbloods, born and raised where magic was fantasy instead of reality.
Ollivander rests the wand on the flat of his palms, offering it to her as a knight would their sword. He's gratified when she looks to him for permission, and when the excitement settles closer to a solemn gravity as she meets his eyes, he is certain.
A moment's pause. Then an exhale, and she's reaching for the handle of the wand, lightly tracing over the engraving before wrapping her fingers round its hilt. Her small fingers brush warmly against Ollivander's palms, and she's lifting the wand. Not pointing it towards either person standing in the shop, he notes with pride.
She gazes at it reverently, a small smile beginning to curl her lips. With a half-turn, a lazy roll of her wrist produces a shimmering, smoke-like ribbon that corkscrews from the wandtip, dancing about for several seconds, before dissipating like the morning fog.
Ollivander's eyes glint at the delighted grin on her face, even as he recites the wand's lore in his standard drawl. Another match, and a customer more than satisfied.