Wand Memories

The man with the wide pale eyes sat calmly on the stool enjoying the peace. It was the middle of August and the man was aware that he was about to embark on the busiest two weeks of his entire year. His shop was tiny and unpretentious, the sort of place one would ordinarily walk past without giving it a second look - from the outside it looked shabby, with it's peeling gold lettering; and the window display could hardly be described as enticing - just a fading cushion and a single sample of his wares. Not the best way to go about getting trade, or so one might think. However, this particular shop isn't the type to require any fancy show; it flourishes on reputation, necessity and the magic it exudes. For this shop is no ordinary one but Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC and the man seated inside is Mr Ollivander himself.

Outside the heat of the unusually hot summer was baking down on the crowded street; Hogwarts students and their parents had evidently received their letters and had converged on Diagon Alley to buy their supplies. Soon the new cohort of first years would be entering the cool of his shop, nervous about getting the ultimate symbol of magic (or what they viewed as the ultimate symbol of magic) - a wand. Often they were overwhelmed by the atmosphere of the shop. He could see them swallowing a thousand questions as the magic that the shop exuded overwhelmed them, making the tiny hairs on the back of their necks rise and their arms come out in goose pimples.

He knows all this and remembers the first time that he experienced that feeling, when he got his first wand. Yes, it's true, he was young once, although probably most of the young people who enter through his doors find that impossible to conceive, the young never believe that they will become old. He had never been allowed in the shop before the day he got his first wand, on his 11^th birthday, three weeks before he embarked the Hogwarts Express. It was a rite of passage within the Ollivander family, just as the eldest son would automatically inherit the shop, Ollivander children weren't allowed in the place until they were getting their equipment for Hogwarts. He recalled several times when he had remained outside in the pouring rain while his mother popped into the shop to speak to his father.

He remembered being so excited in the build up to that birthday - finally the shroud of mystery would be lifted. On the day he kept badgering his father until finally the pot of Floo Powder was lifted down from the fireplace and he and his father stepped into the flames and came tumbling out in the back of the shop. His father had led him into the front of the shop. He remembered being shocked at how shabby the place appeared, the lack of furniture and the walls being covered floor to ceiling in narrow boxes. The questions had swelled within him but for some reason they couldn't escape him, his awe was greater. His hands had shaken as his father had pulled out the first box and handed him the wand inside - holly and veela hair, twelve and a quarter inches, swishy. That hadn't worked and neither had the others that his father kept pressing into his hand for the following half an hour. He enjoyed that time, even though if near the end he had begun to worry whether he would ever find a wand to choose him, watching his father work and seeing the pleasure he obtained from it was exciting. Finally his father darted up the ladder in the depths of the shop and pressed into his hand an ash and dragon heartstring, eight and a half inches, pliable wand. He recalled the warmth that spread through him from head to toe and his thrill at seeing sparks explode from the wand and shoot around the room.

He was a lot older now, he thought fingering his wand. His wand had endured well, but it was well looked after; a wand could last a lifetime if properly cared for, though nowadays few witches and wizards could be bothered to spend the few minutes each day required for this. Of course though, it had been known for the wand to survive its owner and at this his piercing eyes filled with a deep sadness. He remembered a son gazing up expectantly at his father and the excitement filling the son's face when the yew and unicorn hair, 10 and three quarter inches wand choose him. His son. Then there was that dreadful night, where he had remained at the shop crafting some more wands, knowing that he had sold several that day and they needed replacing. At the time he had thought that he wasn't known as the best wandmaker in Britain for nothing and had put his work before his family. He had finally finished just before midnight and had apparated to the front of his house. Oh the horror that had awaited him, the acrid, burning smell and the Dark Mark blazing in the air above the house. All that remained of his family was their wands. A cruel twist of fate, as if this was what he deserved, he had put his wands before his family and their wands were all he merited now they were dead.

Just then the bell above the door tinkled and Ollivander was brought back to the present. He rose wearily as a round, expectant young boy poked his face around the door, about to begin the most exciting adventure of his short life.