Four Wands and a Wizard

Four Wands and a Wizard

"The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

"A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside....The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic."

--Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Ch. 5.

~*~*~*~

August, 1936

The shop door opened and shut, letting the noise of the street beyond in through the narrowing gap. He heard someone speaking in a low mutter, too soft to be intelligible, but tinged with nerves. The father, perhaps? he wondered as he put the finishing twist of silk around the unicorn tail hair core he was preparing. It was delicate work and his deft fingers, already practised, made a quick finish of it. He set down his project and hurried out to meet the customer.

'Good morning,' he said pleasantly as he came out from the narrow rows of shelves.

The pair before him were unmistakably Muggle-born: a man in his late forties, his fedora cocked on his head and a double-breasted blazer over a sombre shirt and tie, and the customer. The boy had a quiet intensity about him. He looked around the shop, not furtively like many the witch and wizard on their first trip here, but ever so slowly, as if he would memorise every detail. He had dark hair in a severe, unflattering cut, and eyes that were much older than they had a right to be. He was a bit on the underfed side, and his clothes were not nearly as natty as his chaperone's. Ollivander decided they were not father and son.

'Good morning,' the man returned evenly. He looked ill at ease, but had the air of one who thought he should not appear out of his element. 'We need a... a wand.'

'Of course,' Ollivander smiled encouragingly. It was always best, with Muggles, not to push them too fast.

'Fellow in that pub said this was the place.' His voice betrayed his doubts. He glanced around the dusty shop disdainfully.

'Indeed, indeed,' he assured the man with a crinkle of his eyes. He fixed his gaze on the boy, who was still studying the shop row by row. 'Are you right-handed, then? Or left?'

'L--'

'He's right-handed,' the man interrupted.

Ollivander lifted pale, moon-like eyes to look at the man coolly. 'I find that one gets the best results with the naturally dominant hand. May I ask, are you his father?'

'No,' he replied stiffly. 'My name is John Wellington, Mr...Ollivander?' he continued at Ollivander's slightly bowed head. 'I am one of the proctors at St. Jude's Children's Refuge. Tom is one of our charges.'

'I see,' Ollivander said, hiding his satisfaction. 'Mr Wellington, please, why don't you have a seat?' He indicated a spindly chair in one corner of the shop, wedged between two high cases and the window. 'We'll take some measurements for the right length...and sometimes, with wizards like yourself who have no... family background, it can take--'

'My mother was a witch,' Tom blurted out. He sounded half-ashamed, half proud to be able to claim heritage.

'Really?' Ollivander said with a raised eyebrow. He looked to Wellington. 'Is this true?'

'Yes,' Wellington answered in clipped tones. He looked quite uncomfortable, and rose from his gingery perch on the caned chair. 'Could we speak privately, for a moment?' he asked pointedly.

Ollivander nodded gravely, and gestured to one of the narrow rows. He led the way toward the back, not all the way to the workshop, but far enough down the aisle to spare the youngster Wellington's revelation, whatever it might be. The boy watched them go with a feverish expression and quick intelligence. Ollivander got the impression the boy's heritage was rather a bone of contention for his caretakers.

Wellington's next words confirmed it. 'His mother left him a letter, when she came to us. She dictated it to one of our matrons just after he was born. Then she gave confession and passed out. She died within hours of delivering.'

'I see,' Ollivander dropped his gaze a bit, more out of respect for Wellington's discomfort than shock from the information itself. 'Did she give you her name?'

'...No, we never knew her name,' Wellington admitted, somewhat dodgily. "But she named Tom. She said his middle name was for her family, and the rest for the boy's father: Tom Marvolo Riddle.'

Ollivander's eyes widened even more than usual. Wellington looked up at his sharp and involuntary intake of breath. 'Does that mean anything?' Wellington asked, suddenly anxious. Despite the gravity of the revelation, Ollivander suppressed a chuckle. The man clearly feared he had revealed some occult secret. And in a way, he had.

'Yes,' Ollivander replied with a raised eyebrow and an appraising pucker of his mouth. 'Yes, it does shed some light, rather. Thank you. Shall we?' He gestured once more, palm up and open, to the front of the shop, where Tom waited, patiently. Ollivander saw him straighten up, and he was sure the boy had been straining to listen. Now he stood absolutely still, as if accustomed to being told not to touch anything, but his eyes continued their wandering through the shop, hungrily devouring each thin, narrow wand box. Wellington didn't seem pleased, but that was far from Ollivander's greatest concern now.

The two men picked their way forward and Ollivander pulled out his measuring tape. In no time he estimated the length - between ten and fourteen inches, he thought - and if Marvolo blood had anything to do with Tom's, then yew would be the wood, he was certain. But the core...dragon heartstring would be a natural fit, given the Marvolo history. He explained the merits of the wand and the properties of his wands in a comfortable patter, already honed by years as apprentice and journeyman in the shop, under his grandfather and father. All the while, he pulled possibilities from dusty, over-stacked shelves. It seemed to put Tom Riddle more at ease, but he could tell it unsettled Wellington.

'Try this: twelve inches, yew, dragon heartstring. Very flexible; good for healing spells.'

Tom picked up the wand with reverence, reaching automatically with his left hand. As soon as it entered his grip, he seemed to know what to do. But nothing happened immediately, so Ollivander aborted Tom's experimental wave and replaced the wand with another. 'Hm, how about this one: thirteen inches, a bit less springy.' Still, nothing, though Tom allowed himself a shy smile this time. A third wand yielded no better results. Perhaps, Ollivander thought, the core was off indeed? After all, the boy's father was undoubtedly Muggle. He held up one finger and sidled into one of the far aisles, where he pulled himself onto the ladder.

'This is one of my newer wands,' he commented as he searched the stack for it. 'A little different: thirteen and a half inches, still yew, but with a phoenix feather core.' He found the box he was looking for and pulled it delicately off the top of the pile. The box had barely had time to collect any dust.

This time, when Tom brushed his fingers over the smooth and polished wand, Ollivander could feel the energy crackle across the room. Fawkes' feather, no doubt, provided much of the atmospheric rise, but somehow... somehow he could sense that this young boy...this Tom Riddle, who bore the name of one of the oldest wizarding families, was just as responsible as the creature whose tailfeather rested in the wand. After all, he would expect no less from a boy whose great, great, many times great-grandmother had been none other than Slytherin's granddaughter.

~*~*~*~

July, 1938

'Now, Rubeus, remember what we talked about," the voice wafted through the door, along with a wave of heat. Ollivander glanced down from the top of the ladder where he was stocking shelves. He had to rub his eyes, afraid at first that dust had affected his vision, for the 'boy' of this odd couple was holding the door open quite calmly, while the 'man' with him fairly skipped into the shop.

'All right, Da,' the larger and much taller one said. And then, of course, Ollivander knew.

'Mr Hagrid,' he said warmly, climbing down the ladder. 'It can't be time for young Rubeus already, can it?' he asked with a smile.

'That it is,' Hagrid Sr. said proudly. 'Young Rubeus 'ere is startin' at 'Ogwarts come September. Got 'is letter 'n all, 'e did, jus' yesterday. An' I says, "Rubeus, wot say you 'n' me go down to Diagon Alley, then, an' get yer things an' all."'

'An excellent suggestion,' Ollivander's eyes wrinkled with unspoken bemusement.

'I were afraid I wouldn't be magic enough,' young Hagrid volunteered, a blush reddening his meaty face.

'Oh, I always knew you'd be fine, son,' his father reassured him. For the briefest of moments, it seemed, a look passed from man to child, both anxious and quelling, but then it was supplanted with pride once more.

Ollivander pulled out his tape measure and went to work sizing up Hagrid the younger. He was impressively large already. If the rumours were true, it wasn't surprising. But then, Ollivander seldom listened to rumours. He turned to the stacks of wands, selecting some of the larger ones. Nothing smaller than fourteen inches would do.

'Here,' he said, returning with the lot. 'Beech, fifteen inches, good for dark arts defence,' he explained as he opened the first box.

Rubeus reached for the wand. He lifted it delicately between thumb and forefinger, as if afraid he might break it.

'No,' Ollivander pursed his lips. 'Something less tapered.... Here. Sixteen inches. Oak, with a unicorn tail hair.'

Rubeus's black eyes widened in appreciative wonder at the rich sheen on the slim and bendy shaft of wood. He licked his lips as he grasped the wand, and Ollivander smiled. 'Five Galleons,' he told Mr Hagrid. 'Use it in good health, young Hagrid.'

~*~*~*~

August, 1969

The Potters were late. Ollivander consulted the owl post again. There was no mistaking the note: Cyrus Potter would bring his son, James, to purchase his wand, at one o'clock on the 13^th of August. In preparation for the Potters' visit, he had sent his young nephew and apprentice to lunch only a few minutes before one o'clock, hoping to conduct the fitting with as little fuss as possible. While he showed promise, and his skills would develop over time, Ollivander thought his nephew was too excitable at the moment. Prometheus was in school himself, working his apprenticeship over the summers, and had not yet learned to be still and calm around the customers. The Head of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was a busy man, and one Ollivander did not wish to annoy with the presence of his gangling, somewhat overanxious apprentice.

But it was nearly quarter past, and Ollivander didn't dare go back to his workshop. He had just taken delivery of a new shipment of exotic woods, and he itched to run his fingers over the grains. But they were hidden in the cosy little room behind its grass green curtain, and if he lost himself in the boxes of untreated limbs, he would not be ready for the Potters.

He drummed his fingers against the box held in his hands. Eleven inches of pliable mahogany, with the heartstring of an Hungarian Horntail. It would be an excellent wand for transfiguration, he thought. One of the finest wands he had made in the past ten years, for that matter. Young Potter would need a good wand, he told himself, if Albus's feelings were at all to be trusted. Ollivander had known Albus Dumbledore for nearly ninety years. He trusted his friend implicitly.

At last, they appeared in the window of the shop, and a moment later, the bell tinkled and they came through the door.

'Good afternoon, Mr Potter,' Ollivander said with a bow. He glanced at James, who hovered in the shelter of his fathers' robes. Yes, this was the wand. The last time he had seen James, last year, he had taken careful note of the boy's size, his manner, and his quiet reserve. Underneath that reserve - somewhat necessary, one should think, around the austere Cyrus Potter - there lurked a mischief, too. Ollivander didn't even bother with the measurements.

'I think you'll find this to your liking,' he said, flipping the box open and extending it to Mr Potter.

Potter Sr. accepted the box efficiently. He peered at the wand in its case, first sideways, then length-wise, and then lifted the wand out and hefted it. He sighted down its length, pointing expertly away from either Ollivander or James. With a final assessing twist of his wrist, he nodded curtly and handed it to his son.

James swallowed and took it. The crackling feeling of a prime fit instantly filled the empty shop, and both men nodded appreciatively. Mr Potter clapped a hand on James' shoulder and whisked the wand away and back in its box. 'You'll have to take care of it,' he said sternly. James nodded, eyes wide behind his glasses. 'Polish it regularly, keep it clean?' Another nod. Ollivander looked away tactfully. 'Never break it,' Potter said in a lower tone.

'Yes, Father,' James said gravely.

With a frown and a nod, Cyrus Potter relinquished the box to the boy. They paid and left not a moment too soon for Ollivander's taste. Moreover, they had been gone only a few minutes when his nephew burst through the back, flushed and out of breath. 'Potter's on Diagon Alley! He's brought his son for school supplies! Uncle--'

Ollivander held up both hands to stay his nephew's enthusiasm. 'Yes, I know, Prometheus. Calm yourself, boy, they've just gone.' He reached out and caught the lad by his robe collar before Prometheus could rush out the front for a glimpse. 'Come in the back, now, and see the new wand wood....'

~*~*~*~

July, 1970

'It's not fair,' a girl's petulant voice pierced the air over the soft bell. 'How come she gets a wand and I don't?'

'Petunia, we have been over this,' said the mother, in a voice that cracked with some strain. 'Your sister is a witch, dear, and - Lily, please, don't stick your tongue out - and it's an adjustment we all have to make.... Lily! Please, wait for Mummy--'

Ollivander cursed the accident of timing that put him in the middle of the most delicate phase of a wand when the family walked in. Threading the wand with its magical core could not be interrupted under any circumstances lest both core and wand be rendered useless. Unfortunately, he was also not alone.

'Customers!' his nephew looked up from polishing a finished wand. 'I'll go, Uncle.' He launched himself through the thin grass-green curtain before Ollivander could stay him. Stifling a curse, Ollivander concentrated on finishing his task quickly.

'Good afternoon,' he heard his nephew say cheerily. The conversation in the shop faded as he focused on placing the core. After what seemed an eternity, but was only, he knew from long experience, about sixty seconds, he felt the core snap into place along the inside of the tapered wooden shaft. Just in time to hear a banging sound and a crash outside. Sighing, he got to his feet and went to control the damage.

'...No trouble at all, madam, Uncle can put that right in a moment. As I was saying, all our wands are made with dragon heartstrings, phoenix tailfeathers, or unicorn tail hairs,' Prometheus was explaining to the mother as Ollivander came out.

'There's no such thing,' said one of two girls with her. She was dark-haired and sullen, and she perched on the spindled chair in the corner with her arms crossed and swinging her legs in their stockings and patent leather shoes. She seemed offended by the fine dust that settled over everything, as if afraid it might rub off onto her. The smaller girl had a red hair in braided pigtails, and she pulled faces around her mother at her sister.

'But of course there are,' Prometheus stammered, looking his scant sixteen years. 'Ahem. Yes. Well, anyway, we take precise measurements... Oh! Goodness,' Prometheus' eyes widened behind his bottle-thick glasses. The measuring tape was measuring the bridge of the red-head's nose.

'That will do,' Ollivander said absently to the measuring tape. 'So sorry to keep you waiting. I hope my nephew has been answering your questions, Mrs...' he continued smoothly, sizing up the young witch who stood for fitting. Muggles, ruled by fear of the unknown, always needed a delicate touch, and from the little he overheard, this family was more complicated than usual.

'Evans,' Mrs Evans supplied. 'This is our Lily,' she continued proudly. 'I'm so sorry,' she added, pointing to a shelf worth of wand boxes. 'Lily's very excited. I'm afraid she tried to pull a box out for herself....'

'Yes,' Ollivander said, his pale eyes flashing only for a moment. 'It's no trouble, Prometheus can restock them this afternoon.' He felt, more than heard, his young apprentice groan. 'Shall we proceed?' He loomed over Lily, but she gazed back up at him before he could become too severe. And while part of him desired nothing better than to get the fractious Muggles out before they did more harm than his nephew alone, the girl's open affection and abject wonder softened him in an instant. He found himself smiling at her, and she smiled back. For no particular reason he could think of, she reminded him of his daughter-in-law.

'I did rather have some questions....' Mrs Evans spoke up hesitantly. Ollivander looked at her, but said nothing. At last, she cleared her throat and continued. 'Well...' she said nervously. 'What...what does the wand do, precisely?'

'The wand is a focus,' Ollivander explained patiently, shooing Prometheus over to the pile of boxes, where he rooted for one or two, and then to the stacks. 'A witch or wizard's wand concentrates the magical energy. No two wands are the same - no, two over, three down,' he corrected his nephew's choice - 'and each one attunes to the wielder. The holly, nephew, try that,' he recommended, crossing the narrow shop and pulling an additional box from one of the far shelves.

'Excuse me,' Mrs Evans asked in an undertone as Ollivander whisked wand after wand through Lily's hands. 'Do you think, perhaps, our Petunia might try one?'

'Hm?' Ollivander looked up. Prometheus dropped a box in surprise. It fell open and the wand rolled across the floor; he hastened to pick it up and put it away.

'Petunia,' Mrs Evans repeated in a hushed whisper. She indicated the sulking older girl. She was poking around near the window, reading the boxes, but not touching them. 'She's a bit jealous, you see, and....'

'Madam,' Ollivander said with an air of mystery, 'I do sympathise. Even the best of wizarding families sometimes produce a child who is,' he tried not to glance sidelong at his nephew, 'not gifted in magic. It can be a difficult blow. But believe me, holding a wand will make no difference.' He paused to hand Prometheus another box, instructing him to add it to the pile for Lily. 'No, in fact, it might only make things worse. I do assure you. The wand chooses the witch, do you see?' His eyes crinkled with just a hint of menace as he pressed his point. 'It's quite pointless. Ah,' he exclaimed as Prometheus handed Lily the right wand. Immediately the air crackled and Lily laughed as a jet of sparks shot from the wand. 'Let me see, child,' he commanded, holding out his hand for the source of the spark stream, which she aimed at her sister. Petunia screeched and Prometheus rushed over to calm her down, which only made her cry more. Ollivander ignored the scene as Mrs Evans rushed over to scold the girl. Lily, equally oblivious, watched him with rapt attention. 'Oh, yes...ten and a quarter inches long. Swishy. Nice for charm work.' He gave it an absent swipe with his polishing cloth, noting that the girl's hands had left a tiny spot of grime already. 'Prometheus, leave it, there's a lad...take the sale, please,' he told his apprentice. Lily had tested about ten wands. They would have to check them all and clean them up before restocking.

'Lily, thank Mr Ollivander,' Mrs Evans said absently from a crouch beside Petunia.

'No fair! We're not leaving already?' Petunia asked, her agitation completely forgotten in the face of being left out again. 'I thought I was to get one, too,' she whined.

'Er - no, dear, but I tell you what. I saw an ice cream parlour down the street. Shall we all get some?'

Mother and daughter began to argue. Petunia said 'All day we've bought things just for her, and why? It's not her birthday,' and 'It's not fair,' and 'Being a witch isn't so special.' Her mother said things like, 'We'll buy all your school things next week,' and 'Really, no one thinks any less of you, darling,' and 'You're her older sister, dear, and you just have to accept that Lily is different.' Ollivander's thoughts wandered back to the core he had just placed as he watched Lily admire her new wand, and confide in Prometheus.

'Petunia's upset because I can hex her,' Lily looked up at Prometheus seriously. She was holding up her wand, still firing off an occasional starry sparkle. She behaved as if arguments between her mother and sister were commonplace. Ollivander suspected they probably were.

'Have you learned any hexes yet?' the lad fired back with a presence of mind that surprised Ollivander. It surprised Lily, too.

'Oh. No.' She grinned wickedly, and turned her gaze at Ollivander while her mother was still placating her sister with the promise of ice creams. 'Charms?'

'Yes, that's right.' Ollivander nodded. 'Here, you'll want to keep it clean.' He handed her a spare polishing cloth from his apron pocket. Abashed, she wiped off her paws and then the wand. More sparks flew.

'How do you know what they're good for?' She worried her lip as she pondered the question. Mrs Evans and Petunia were still arguing as they inched closer to the door.

'Ah,' Ollivander's eyes grew wide with wonder and he smiled crookedly, but kindly. 'It's all in the wand. You will know, too, young lady. Off you go, now.'

'Lily, we're ready,' Mrs Evans called distractedly from the door. Apparently she had only just realised that Lily was still talking to the shopkeeper.

'Good-bye,' Lily said brightly, and she waved her wand a little, shooting sparks as she skipped out.

~*~*~*~

July, 1991

Ollivander bowed Harry Potter and Rubeus Hagrid out of his shop. He was extremely glad to have given Prometheus the day to visit his sister in Crewe. Sensitive business like Harry Potter and Harry Potter's wand should not be discussed in front of the lad. Not so much of a lad, now, Ollivander remarked to himself as he locked the door and turned the sign to 'Closed.' Prometheus was a journeyman now, and well over 30. He still seemed boyish, particularly in a certain lack of responsibility...and certain views. Yes. Views about purity of blood that Ollivander did not share. Friends that Ollivander did not care for. But, there was no denying that Prometheus was a man grown and could make his own way.

Ollivander missed his son. Older than Prometheus by years, he had learned the trade and gone to help an American set up shop years ago. He promised he would return, but Ollivander knew that with Prometheus about, his son saw no need to rush back. He didn't understand - well, how could he? - that he had more ability in his baby finger than Prometheus had in his whole being. Not that the boy hadn't learned, and learned well. But there was something to be said for raw talent, and Prometheus, while growing skilled, did not have the intuition of his forefathers. Still, there was no use dwelling on what was.

With a sigh, Ollivander pushed back the curtain that hid his workshop and went to the antique secretary in the back. Ignoring the long list of tasks that never seemed to shrink (replace the gold lettering outside, get the windows cleaned, etc.), he sank heavily into a swivelling oak chair, pulled a fresh piece of parchment onto the blotter, and selected a quill from the quillstand. He trimmed the nib as he composed his letter. Then, with a precise dip into the blue inkwell, he began:

31 July, 1991

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Albus:

It is with a heavy heart I write you, old friend. As you know, your man, Hagrid, brought young Mr Potter to see me today, an honour for which I have been waiting some time.

You should know that the possibility we feared might come to pass has indeed occurred: Harry Potter's wand contains Fawkes's feather as its core. I trust you know what this means and I need not say more. One can never be too careful. He knows - I could not keep from him the peculiar and curious coincidence that he should choose the brother wand (holly, eleven inches) to the one sold in 1937. Let us hope that no more need be done, but I knew you would want to be told.

Keep him well, Albus.

Your servant,

P. Ollivander

Great and terrible things, he had told the boy. His shop still thrummed with the latent energy of Harry and his wand, that whiff of magic that lingered with every melding of wizard and wand, stronger for this boy than many he had seen in some time. Great and terrible, indeed, he thought. Assuredly, there were interesting times ahead. If the rest of their fears were true... if Riddle still lurked, waiting, biding his time, then it would be curious indeed to learn what those wands might have to say to one another...when the time came for it.

~*~Fin~*~