The Apprentice

The evening's celebrations had been Seamus' idea. He'd suggested it on the last morning of term, just before they were to take the carriages to Hogsmeade station for the last time.

"Three months after we all leave, that's when we should do it."

"Do what?" asked Ron, pre-occupied with moving his trunk.

"Have a re-union, that's what."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. Then we can catch up on what we're all doing - you know, how things are going now we're in the big wide world."

"That's not a bad idea," said Neville, tidying away the last of his things. "But since it's your idea, you organise it - okay?"

And, to everyone's surprise, he had. Seamus had booked a room for the evening at the Leaky Cauldron. It would be three months to the day since they'd all left Hogwarts.

'Grand Gryffindor Three Month Re-Union. The Leaky Cauldron - seven o'clock,' the note had said. Dean looked at the message, shrugged, and had scribbled 'Okay' before sending the owl back.

As it happened, Dean was a little late arriving, and he'd already had a small celebration earlier in the evening. He nodded a 'hello' to Tom the barmen, who jerked his thumb towards a door. There seemed to be a lot of noise coming from behind that door. He opened it and stood at the entrance. The small room seemed packed: he looked around - people didn't seem to have changed that much. Still, it was only three months. Seamus came up to him, a broad smile on his face. Dean suspected that he was already a few drinks down.

"The last one here. Glad you could make it, even if you are late!"

"Sorry," said Dean. "Bit delayed - you know how it is."

"Sure I do."

"So, then, what are you up to now?"

"Me? I've just been accepted by the Irish Ministry. Auror training!"

"Really? That sounds great."

"Yeah. Not much competition. I mean, Dondragh's not up to much as a school. That's why me mam sent me to Hogwarts instead. It's not a very big department, either. Still, more chance of promotion."

"And after all those wonderful Defence Against The Dark Arts teachers we had - Quirell, Lockhart, a mad Death Eater, Umbridge, Snape ..."

"Well, there was Lupin. He was alright."

"True."

"It was Harry's doing really - all those Defence meetings. When I produced a Patronus for them ... now, that did impress them."

"What's Harry doing these days?"

"Dunno. Don't think anyone knows."

"Right. Well, I'd better get a drink."

"Sure thing."

Some things hadn't changed. As he picked up a Butterbeer, he heard Ron behind him, and stopped to listen.

"What's Algemancy about then, Hermione?"

"Well, it's all about ..."

"Don't tell me, it uses imaginary numbers!"

From the sound of his voice, Dean could tell Ron had had quite a bit to drink.

"Well, it does, actually."

Ron scoffed. "They don't exist. That's why they're imaginary."

Dean turned round. "They do, actually, Ron."

Ron whirled round, spilling some of his drink. "What? Hi, Dean."

"Ron. Hermione. How're things?"

"Great."

"What are you doing now?"

"Gringott's. Security Department," said Ron, looking pleased with himself.

"Oh. And you, Hermione?"

"Gringotts too. But ..."

"Algemancy department." Dean finished her sentence for her.

"Well, it's a new department, you see. A lot has opened up over the last year or two. And I've had this idea for research ..."

"Don't start her on about it, Dean," said Ron loudly.

"Okay. Who else is here?"

"Well, there's Lavender ..."

"What's she doing now?"

"Husband hunting," said Hermione tartly.

Dean couldn't help it: he burst out laughing, as did Ron. Hermione looked rather pleased with the effect her remark had had.

"And you, Dean?"

He shrugged. "Ollivander's, you know."

"Of course. How's it going?"

"Not bad."

In fact, a good deal better than 'not bad'. Because that's why he'd been celebrating before he came to the re-union. Earlier that day ....

_____________

Dean had been vaguely interested in wands ever since he'd come to Hogwarts and found out what they could do. In their fifth year, Professor McGonagall had called them in for careers advice, and he hadn't a clue what sort of job he might get when he left Hogwarts. Then something popped into his head. Wands?

Professor McGonagall brightened as she realised she'd found something that interested him.

"Wands. Hmm. Ollivander. He does take apprentices, you know. Not many. But it might be worth a try."

"Really?"

"Yes, indeed. What I could do is write and ask if you could go along to work there for a few weeks in the summer - work experience, so to speak."

"That sounds good."

With her usual efficiency, McGonagall had sorted matters out for Dean, so that at the beginning of July, he was walking down Diagon Alley, heading for Ollivander's. He pushed the door open, and heard the ting of the bell. The shop was empty and silent. He stood, slightly apprehensive, waiting. After what seemed like an age, the old man appeared.

"Good morning. What can I do for you?" in a soft voice.

Dean cleared his throat. "Good morning, sir. I'm Dean Thomas."

The old man blinked, then suddenly smiled. "Yes, of course: Dean Thomas from Hogwarts. Gryffindor, isn't it?"

"That's right, sir."

Ollivander waved a hand. "Oh, no need to call me sir. We're not that formal."

"Yes, Mr Ollivander."

Ollivander frowned. "Now you say it like that, I'm not sure it's any better. Well, whichever you prefer."

"Yes, sir." Dean was a polite boy.

"Well, it's shorter, anyway. Now, Professor McGonagall tells me you're interested in wands. That right?" Dean nodded. "What do you know about wands?"

Dean smiled ruefully. "Not a lot, sir."

"Not a lot, eh? Well, we'll have to show you something then. Come along with me."

The old man beckoned to him. Dean hesitated a moment - Ollivander did seem a bit creepy, like everyone said, but he seemed harmless enough - then followed. Ollivander led him into a small office. On the walls were what seemed like dozens of small glass cases, each with a wand inside, and small labels fixed to the bottom of each. Dean would have liked to have had a look at them, but thought it better to pay attention to Ollivander, who was sitting down behind an old battered desk. Ollivander waved him towards a chair.

"Sit down. Things are quiet at the moment, so we can have a chat." Dean smiled and nodded. "Wands. Curious things, wands," he said in his soft voice. "We use them every day, yet few people pay any thought as to what they actually are - or how they do what they do." He smiled. "Not that we fully understand that. I have spent my life making wands, and I know how to make good wands, and I know which wand will suit which person - but why? Ah, that is still a mystery. I do it by feel, by instinct. And any good wandmaker must have that feeling, that instinct."

Ollivander reached down and opened a drawer, then pulled out a little bundle of white hairs.

"From a unicorn, you know. Now, you might think that all unicorn hairs are the same, but they're not. Not even those clipped from the same tail at the same time. They're all different, and some are better than others. Some are excellent, some are well nigh useless. Now, the first thing any wandmaker has to be able to do is distinguish between the good and the bad."

Dean realised he was about to get his first test. Would this be it? If he failed this now, would he be sent packing?

Ollivander spread about a dozen unicorn hairs across his desk.

"Now, Mr Thomas, what I'd like you to do is to try and sort these into some form of order - good ones, bad ones, indifferent ones. Take your time. No hurry. Just give me your opinion."

There might be no hurry, but there was a lot of pressure. Dean leaned forward, looked at the hairs spread across the desktop, then picked one up by the tip with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He closed his other thumb and forefinger around the hair, and slowly pulled it through. He did this again. He laid it down to his left. He had no idea why - it just seemed a good idea. He did this with one after the other, then looked back down. There were two or three on his left, two or three on his right, some in the middle. He looked up at Ollivander expectantly.

Smiling, Ollivander repeated Dean's actions, again picking the hairs up one by one. Dean watched his face, but it gave nothing away.

Finally: "That was really very good, Mr Thomas. Very good indeed. Tell me, how did you do it?"

Dean shrugged. "Dunno, really. I just went on - well, what they felt like, I suppose."

"Indeed. Well, you have some very good instincts, I must say." Ollivander smiled.

"Does this mean I'd make a good wandmaker?"

Ollivander smiled again. "Maybe. You see, there's more to it than that. There's the sorting of the core - which is what you've just been doing - the sorting of the sticks, then putting the two together to make a wand. You can't make a wand unless you can do the sorting."

"Like the Hat?" Dean asked.

Ollivander looked surprised. "Hat?"

"Sorting Hat. Y'know, when we first arrived at Hogwarts."

Yet another smile. "Dear me, that was a long time ago for me. No, not quite like the Hat. Like it in some ways, not in others."

"And what are sticks?"

"Sticks? Ah, well, they are the pieces of wood that your wand is made from. But again, no two sticks are alike. Now, some people are very good at sorting cores, but not sticks; and some can sort sticks but not cores. If you see what I mean."

Dean nodded. So he had another test to come.

Ollivander swept the hairs into the palm of his hand and then into the desk drawer. He rummaged again, and came up with a bundle of what looked like wands - except from what he had been saying, they were obviously not wands, but sticks. Sticks which would one day become wands. Ollivander spilled them across the desk - short stubby sticks, long thin sticks, light wood, dark wood. He looked up at Dean and smiled.

"Want to try your hand at these?"

Relax, thought Dean. Just do what you did before. And he picked the first one up. But this time he also rolled it back and forward in the palm of his hand before making his decision - a decision which again was purely instinctive.

Finally the last stick was sorted. Ollivander leaned forward and touched a finger to each in turn.

"Hmm ... not bad at all. I'd dispute one or two, but nothing vital. Well, if nothing else, Mr Thomas, you're a sorter. You can make a good living from that alone."

"But I want to make wands!" Dean burst out.

"All in good time. You've shown yourself capable enough so far."

They heard the ting of the doorbell. Someone had come into the shop. Ollivander rose to his feet.

"Do excuse me for one moment, Mr Thomas."

Left alone in the dusty little office, Dean began looking at the wands in the cases. Each was carefully described: 'Oak, eight inches, thick, unicorn mane'. Next to this was a name: presumably that of the wizard who had once owned the wand. Dean didn't really recognise any of them, although one or two rang very distant bells from Binns' lessons. But who had listened to Binns? And then he saw, with a thrill of horror, he saw on one label: 'Avada Kedavra curse used'. But before he could look further, he heard footsteps outside. Hastily he returned to his chair.

Ollivander came in, smiled, and went back behind the desk. He looked down at the sticks.

"Well, Mr Thomas, you certainly have an aptitude for sorting. As I said, there are people who make a living from nothing else. But I have the feeling you are more ambitious. Is that so?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose. I mean, I don't know that much about wands, but - well, I want to do it properly, if you see what I mean. Make wands. Good ones."

"Indeed. And ambition is to be commended. Usually. Without ambition, you will get nowhere. And without talent, you will get nowhere. And the third thing you need is hard work."

Ollivander raised his eyebrows at him.

"I'm prepared to work," said Dean slowly, "if I'm interested in something, or if it's worthwhile."

"Good. Because that brings me to another point. When I agreed to Professor McGonagall's request, I thought I'd be getting yet another youngster who I'd test out and find wanting. Now you - you have talent. As it happens, I need a sorter. You are going to need some more training, but you can do it, that's indisputable. Do you want to earn some money?"

Didn't he just! Ollivander must have seen the look in Dean's eyes, for he smiled slightly.

"Yeah," said Dean, thinking about it, "but I want to learn how to make wands as well."

"Oh, we can do that. But don't underestimate the experience. Making wands needs a feel for what you are doing, and developing that feel takes time. You will have to sort cores, and sort sticks, and then you might develop the feel for which core goes with which stick. Then you have to learn how best to marry them together."

"What you're saying," Dean said, "is that it's going to take a long time."

"Exactly. Time and patience. That's why I asked whether you were a hard worker. Without that time, patience, and experience, you will amount to nothing."

Dean nodded. "I'll do it if I need to."

"Good, good. Well, now, we've introduced ourselves, and discovered you do have some talent. What I suggest is that you come back at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and I'll begin to show you some of the techniques we use for sorting."

Dean stood up. "Thank you, Mr Ollivander. I'm really very grateful for this. You see, when Professor McGonagall first talked about careers, I'd no ideas at all. And even when I came here today, I still didn't have much idea. Now - well, it gives me something to set my sights on, if you see what I mean."

"I do indeed. Now, Mr Thomas, I'll see you out, and expect you in the morning."

"Thanks."

The next day was spent teaching Dean the most effective way of sorting cores, and by the end of the week Mr Ollivander was prepared to leave him doing the sorting unsupervised. And there was another surprise at the end of the week. Ollivander stopped him just as he was about to leave for the day.

"Now that you're working for me, I think it only right that I should pay you," he said.

Mr Ollivander handed Dean a small bag which clinked.

Dean stammered. "You really don't have to."

"But indeed I should. You have been of some use already, and I can see that you will be even more useful in the future."

"Right then. Thanks," said Dean with a smile, slipping the bag into a pocket of his robes.

Money. Being from a Muggle family, he hadn't any wizarding money. His parents didn't have much Muggle money either, so things were always difficult. Out in the street he took the bag from his pocket, looked inside, then whistled. Inside the bag was more money than he'd ever had before. He paused, uncertain. He knew he'd been useful during the week - but that useful? And Ollivander had had to spend time teaching him. Perhaps Ollivander had made a mistake - put in galleons when he'd meant sickles.

On the Monday morning he thought he should say something to Ollivander.

"Excuse me, sir ..."

"Yes, Mr Thomas?"

"That money you gave me on Friday - it was the right amount, wasn't it, sir?"

Ollivander smiled faintly. "You think it should have been more?"

Dean was horrified. "No, sir. I mean ... I thought it was too much."

Ollivander's eyebrows went up. "Too much? You want to work for less?"

Dean gave a weak smile. "No, sir. It's just that ... for what I'd done ... it seemed a lot, if you see what I mean, and I wondered if you'd given me too much by mistake."

"No, Dean. What I gave you was what I thought you were worth. All right?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Well, now - this week I think we look at sticks and how to sort them. Next week, how to match stick and core."

"When do we get round to making wands?"

Ollivander looked slightly amused. "All in good time, Mr Thomas. You will indeed make some wands, but not just yet."

"Right, sir."

There was a lot to learn about sticks. Which trees were best. Whereabouts in the tree the wand came from. Which core went with which wood and why.

"Where do you get your wood?" Dean asked one day.

"A friend of mine - he wanted to be an apprentice too, but, alas, he had no feeling for cores. Anyway, rather than just be a sorter of sticks, he decided to start his own ... arboretum was the word he used. Slightly pretentious name. But he proved very good at it. Grows seedlings, and has a good feeling for which will make good wand wood. Then he rears them. He has quite an exotic selection by now. I tend to go for the usual - oak, holly, and so on, but he had eucalyptus, jacaranda, and various others. I order some of those when I feel in the mood for something a little different."

"Sounds like a job for my friend Neville."

"Neville?"

"Neville Longbottom. He's good at herbology."

"Ah, yes. I do believe I sold him another wand not long ago. He'd been using his father's before that, but he'd broken it. Never a good idea, using someone else's wand. It will have got too set in its ways with its previous owner."

"And the cores? Where do you get those?"

"Ah, a variety of sources. There are, of course, many magical creatures that would be suitable. I have some regular suppliers, but every now and then something unusual crops up, and some one offers it to me. They know I will pay well."

Dean nodded, and they carried on; Ollivander showing him how best to shape a stick.

At the end of the week Dean received another bag of money, and he nodded his thanks as he took it. If things went on like this, he thought, he could open an account at Gringotts, and that would mean he wouldn't be asking his mother and father for money for books and robes.

The third week was taken up with matching core to stick, and then how the wand itself was created. At the start of the fourth week Ollivander turned to Dean.

"Perhaps now you'd like to try your hand at making a wand. A word of caution - don't get your hopes up too high. It can often take several attempts."

Dean carefully selected a unicorn hair, and found a stick which he thought would match it. Slowly and painstakingly he prepared his first wand. Finally he laid it on the table, looked at it, then took a step back.

"Very good," said Ollivander. "Now test it."

"Me?"

"Oh, very much so. A wand and its maker are a powerful combination. Now pick it up and try it."

Dean reached down. He felt a little tingle as his fingers closed on the wand. He picked it up, then held it over a spare stick lying on the work table. Swish and flick.

"Wingardium leviosa."

The stick rolled over a little, but stayed on the table. Dean took a deep breath and tried again. This time the stick rose a few inches before clattering back onto the table.

Ollivander clapped his hands. "Well done, Mr Thomas. Not a powerful wand, but a wand nonetheless. And on the first attempt. Well done indeed."

Dean felt - well, he couldn't describe how he felt. It was wonderful! Now he definitely knew what he wanted to do in the future. He would be a wandmaker!

Most of his work for the rest of that summer had been more mundane. He sorted sticks and cores, prepared materials for Ollivander. And the old man would show him how things were done, how to improve on his handiwork. The gold in his account began to accumulate. Oddly, he felt a disappointment when the September term began to loom.

"You need your NEWTs, Dean," Ollivander told him. They had become less formal, although Dean still called the wandmaker 'sir'. He wasn't even sure what his first name was.

"I suppose."

"To be more than a passable wandmaker you need a deep understanding of magic. Some of that will come with time, but you still have a lot to learn."

And at the end of his sixth year, he returned for another summer's work. By now, Ollivander would set him tasks and leave him to get on with them unsupervised. The bags of money at the end of each week grew heavier.

And with his NEWTs completed, the seventh year over, the dust of Hogwarts shaken form his feet, he presented himself once more at the shop in Diagon Alley.

"Mr Thomas! Fresh from Hogwarts!"

"Yes, sir."

"A good year?"

"Not bad."

"Such enthusiasm!"

"To be honest, sir, I'm glad I'm here again, and not writing another Potions essay for Snape."

Ollivander chuckled. "Fair enough." Then he became more serious. "We must have a talk. Come through." Dean followed him to the workshop, where various half finished wands lay on the table. Ollivander picked one up and twirled it in his fingers. "Now, Dean, we must put things on a formal basis. You want to be an apprentice?"

"Yes, sir."

"Nowadays," and Ollivander sighed, "nowadays wand makers often train up youngsters without going through the formalities. I, as you may have noticed, am somewhat old fashioned. I still cling to the old ways." He paused. "I would like you to go through the formal apprenticeship, although in your case, I foresee that it will be a very short one. You already have much of the skill and knowledge needed. You still lack experience; that can come only with time."

Dean nodded. "I know that, sir. I see you doing things, and you do them instinctively, so to speak. Me, I have to struggle with them."

"Exactly so, Dean. Now, if we are to do things properly, you will have to appear in front of the Guild Council. Don't look so worried - it is only a formality, and I am president of the Council, after all."

"What would I have to do?"

Ollivander shrugged. "The sort of things you have been doing for the last two years."

"And what happens then?"

"You take the oath of apprenticeship - which also gives you apprentice membership of the Guild, which you will find very useful."

By now, Dean had full trust in the old man. He nodded. "Sounds good to me."

"Very well then. The next meeting of the Council is not for another three months, I am afraid, but that gives us all the more time to prepare." Ollivander paused. "By the way, have you no other robes?"

Dean was still wearing his Hogwarts robes. "Sorry, sir, I meant to take the badge off."

"Even so, they will still be school robes."

"It's - well, I can't afford any more at the moment." Ollivander's eyebrows raised. Dean knew that he'd been paid more than generously for his work in the summer. "I know you've been paying me, but I've had to buy books and school clothes and all that sort of thing."

"Your parents are Muggles?"

"Yes, sir."

"Although I am pureblood, I take no great pride in it. So you have had no access to wizarding money."

"No, sir. The thing is - my parents don't have much Muggle money either, so things have been a bit tight."

"I see. Well, you will need some new robes in three month's time."

"Sir?"

Ollivander smiled. "Apprentice robes, Dean."

"Oh. You mean there are special ones?"

"There are indeed. And I am afraid that after you become a member of the Guild, you will need them."

"Right," said Dean, thinking that apprentice robes wouldn't be that fancy.

"Well now, there something I must show you. I've had delivery of some wood, and we must now decide how best it should be cut. Come with me ..."

The three months passed very quickly. Each evening, Dean took a book home with him. Reading textbooks had been a chore in the past, but not now. He hardly ever saw his parents these days, apart from the evening meal, but after seven years at boarding school they'd grown apart. He also began to realise that he was moving slowly but inevitably from the Muggle world to the magical: his parents' conversation meant less and less to him, and he'd answer questions with a "Really?", not knowing what they were talking about. One day he realised he neither knew nor cared where West Ham was in the championships.

But before Dean knew it, the days had slipped past, and the time had arrived for the Council meeting. He stood in Ollivander's office, nervous, whilst the wand maker get his papers ready for the meeting.

"I have the Apparating instructions here," Ollivander said, before passing a slip of parchment to Dean, who glanced at it, then looked at it more carefully.

"Exactly," Ollivander went on. "You cannot discern the location from those instructions. Not that our organisation is that secret, but there you are. Ready?"

Dean gulped then nodded.

"Then let's be off," said Ollivander briskly.

Dean scrutinised the parchment again, then worked out what he had to do. A few moments later he followed Ollivander - and found himself in a long dark hallway, lit only by the light of a few candles.

"I am afraid you will have something of a wait," Ollivander told him. "We have some business to get through first, but then you will be called in. Just answer any questions as best you can. You have those wands with you?" Dean nodded. In a pocket of his robes he had brought a half dozen wands he had made earlier in the week. "There is a chair there," Ollivander added, before going through a doorway into the room beyond.

Knowing he would have a long wait, Dean had brought a book with him, and moving the chair so as to get as much light as he could, he settled down to read. In fact, it was over an hour before the door opened, and Dean had become sufficiently engrossed in his book that his apprehension had almost disappeared. It re-emerged, however, as he heard his name being called.

He stood up and walked towards the door being held open for him. He saw a large dimly lit room, dominated by a large table; horse shoe shaped, with a dozen or so witches and wizards sitting behind it, all staring at Dean. He gulped.

Ollivander sat in the centre, and Dean concentrated his gaze on his mentor, grateful for a familiar face.

"Your name?" Ollivander asked gently.

"Um ... Dean Thomas."

"Speak up a little, will you?"

"Dean Thomas," he repeated in a louder voice.

"Thank you. Now, you are appearing in front of the Council as a prospective apprentice. Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Members of the Council may have some questions for you. Answer them as best you can. Ladies and gentlemen?"

A voice spoke to Dean's left and he turned to look at the wizard sitting there. From his voice and appearance he was probably African. He took a wand from his pocket.

"What wood would you say this is, Mr Thomas?"

He took the wand and twirled it in his fingers. Certainly not one of the more common woods. In fact, distinctly unusual. Then he caught a slight aroma. He lifted the wand to his nose. He'd smelt that before. Where? He remembered the visit to the arboretum the previous month, when Ollivander had taken him to see the trees from which all his wands came. And there had been some very unusual trees. Unusual for England, anyway. But there was one that had smelled like this.

"Jacaranda," he said confidently.

The dark wizard looked taken aback. Dean glanced over to Ollivander, who had the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

"Correct," said the wizard, and reached for it back.

"Tell me about this wand."

A voice from his right; a witch, French by the sound of her. He turned and took the wand from her, again turning it round and round in his fingers.

Then: "It's not a wand! It's just a stick," Dean said indignantly.

The witch smirked and handed him another. He put the stick down to concentrate on the wand. He turned in his fingers again. Definitely a wand. But ... he could get no feel for it. The wood was obviously holly, but as to the rest of it ... he had no idea. Baffled, still turning it round and round in his fingers, he looked at the witch, whose smirk widened.

"This wand tells me nothing," he said reluctantly.

"That is because there is a Masking charm on it."

Some of the other council members stirred restlessly.

Ollivander came in. "Very clever, Madame Maltemps, but that tells us little about Mr Thomas's abilities."

She shrugged and took her wand back.

An American accent this time. "You have brought some wands with you, Mr Thomas?"

Grateful for the change in subject, he nodded, and took a half dozen wands from his pocket. He handed them over. The witch spread them before her.

"Any preference?" she asked.

He shook his head. She picked one up and muttered: "Flammulae". A glow of flame flickered at the end of the wand. She twirled it gently, the flames still flickering. "Finite." Then: "Seems good enough to me."

Ollivander smiled. "Any more questions for Mr Thomas? No?" He reached for a parchment. "If you would then just read this out ..."

Dean took the parchment and began reading in as firm a voice as possible. "I, Dean Arnold Thomas, do ..."

Eventually he finished, and handed the parchment back.

"Thank you, Mr Thomas. I think that is all. You are now apprenticed to Ollivander and have made a binding magical declaration to that effect. Thank you."

Dean nodded to Ollivander then bowed left and right to the assembled company. He turned and made his way out, closing the door and leaning against it, letting out a great whoosh of breath. That was it. It was now formalised. He was an apprentice.

He realised that he still might have a long wait in front of him, and sat down on the chair, but was too excited to concentrate on his book. Eventually he heard noises from the chamber, and the door opened as the witches and wizards began to make their way out. Most smiled at him, and congratulated him. Finally Ollivander appeared.

"Congratulations, Mr Thomas. You are now my apprentice," and he smiled.

"Thank you, sir."

"Easy enough wasn't it? Even if Madame Maltemps did play those silly tricks on you. Well, let us be heading back. You can find your way to Diagon Alley?"

Dean nodded, and waited for Ollivander before Apparating back to the shop. When he arrived, Ollivander was rummaging in a cupboard.

"I think a celebration is called for. Now, let me see ..." He pulled out a bottle of something and two glasses. He poured a clear amber liquid into each glass.

"Careful with this," Ollivander warned. "It is a little strong." Dean sipped it and coughed. It was indeed strong. "Now," said Ollivander, "there are one or two matters I want to discuss with you. Sit down."

Dean pulled up a chair as Ollivander sat down behind his desk.

There was silence for a moment or two before Ollivander began again. "I am becoming an old man now." He held a hand. "Don't protest. I am all too aware of my mortality. I have a few years work left, but not that many. I have no children. I was happily married for many years, but my wife died some twenty five years ago. For whatever reason, we were not blessed with children." He paused. "I have nieces and nephews by the score. There is only one problem. They have no feel for wands. They have other magical strengths, but they could no more make a wand than I could do Geomancy or Divination."

Another pause. "So. I have to decide what do with this business," and he waved a hand to indicate the shop. "There are no more Ollivanders to follow me - at least, not in this generation. Maybe in the future. If this business is to keep going after I retire, then I shall need a partner."

Another longer pause. Ollivander sighed. "I suppose what I am working up to, Dean, is to ask you whether you would like to be that partner." Dean was too flabbergasted to give an immediate reply. "Something of a surprise to spring on you, I know."

"Certainly a surprise," Dean stammered. "I mean, well, that's a fantastic offer. But a partner - I haven't any money to put into the business, anything like that."

"It doesn't need it," said Ollivander. "This shop was paid for a good many centuries ago. The materials - well, they are really our only running cost. Good materials are expensive, but I price my wands accordingly. I have, I believe, the advantage of being the most reputable wandmaker in Britain, so I have something of a captive market. Wands and Ollivander have been synonymous for hundreds of years." He paused again. "No, what I need is a willing, bright and competent wizard who can make wands, and who I can trust to keep up our high standards when I am finally no longer here. And I think I've found him. You, Dean."

Dean took a swig from his glass, which turned out to be a bad idea. Finally, when he'd finished spluttering, "Thank you, sir. But, I mean ... I'm just an apprentice at the moment."

Ollivander waved his hand again. "A mere formality. Given your present skill level, you could join the Guild tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. Now, I wouldn't expect an answer from you tonight. You need to go away and think about it."

Dean gazed down into his glass. "I don't need to think about it, sir. Ever since I walked in here two years ago, I've known what I've wanted to do. And that's make wands. I can't say I expected an offer like this but ... thank you. I'd like to accept."

"Good." The old man smiled. "We can work out the details in the morning. I've had a long day, and I'm tired." He stood up, and Dean followed suit. "Have you anything planned for this evening?"

"Well, yes."

"What's that?"

"We're having a get together. People from Hogwarts. Those who left last summer. Three months on, so to speak."

"Really? Well, it'll do you good to be with people your own age. And you'll have plenty to tell them."

Dean shrugged. "Do you mind, sir ... if we keep it between ourselves for the time being?"

"Not at all. But why? I thought you'd want to celebrate."

"Well, it's as if it's not quite real yet. I'm sure it'll sink in. But just for the moment ... I'll tell my parents though."

"Will they be pleased?"

Dean shrugged again. "I don't think they'll really understand. That's one of the problems of being Muggle born - you gradually drift away from your parents."

"Yes, I can quite see that. Where are you holding your get together?"

"The Leaky Cauldron."

"Ah, not far then. Let me show you out."

As Ollivander opened the door, Dean turned and held his hand out. "Thank you again, sir. For everything."

Ollivander took Dean's hand. "My pleasure. Enjoy yourself tonight."

"Thanks. I will."

And Dean stepped out into the dark, quiet street.

_____________

Dean realised he'd been standing alone in the corner for some time, nursing his butterbeer, not joining in the festivities. He was brought from his reverie by Lavender, who came up to him and gushed: "Dean! Good to see you. How are you?"

He smiled to himself as he recalled Hermione's tart comment form earlier. Husband hunting. Not his type, Lavender. Too ... too flighty? Would that be a good description?

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"Really enjoying myself. This re-union's great. Fantastic of Seamus to organise it."

"Yeah - I know he talked about it as term ended, but I didn't really think it's get anywhere."

"He's done well. And training to be an Auror too! So - how's your day been then?"

He smiled again. "Oh, you know. Just the usual day at work."