A Surfeit of Wands

Prologue: Amid Smoke and Fire

November 5, 1980

It was a perfect night. The weather couldn't have been better for a November evening: clear and crisp, with just the faintest hint of winter chill in the air. Logs crackled and snapped on the bonfire as the flames rose high, and the acrid smell of woodsmoke mingled with the smells of roast chestnuts and baked potato. The food and drink stalls were doing a roaring trade.

Adults stood around chatting in small groups while children wove amongst them, chasing each other around the bonfire. Some of the older children were waving sparklers. Their parents watched them indulgently, gloved hands wrapped around cups of hot soup or shoved in pockets, stamping now and then on the dried leaves underfoot.

There was a whooshing sound and a bang from the other side of the park and everyone looked up expectantly, oohing and aahing as the rockets shot into the sky and exploded in graceful showers of red and gold. All along the river, the Roman candles had been lit, their elegant gold and silver sprays illuminating the black-clad figures moving among them to prepare the next stage of the display.

A perfect night.

--

His bare feet slapped against the cobbles as he ran, a sound so loud in the silent streets that it seemed inevitable that they would hear it and find him. His heart was a wild thing in his chest and he knew that he could not carry on much longer. The wound on his thigh had opened up again and he knew that it was bleeding, a slow, cool trickle down the inside of his right leg. Behind him, jets of red and green sliced through the night air.

His tears had long since dried and his eyes stung as the woodsmoke hit them. Not far now. He turned and headed towards the river, where he knew he would find people and safety. Suddenly his injured leg gave way beneath him and he stumbled and fell, knocking over a dustbin. The metal lid clanged horribly as it rolled down the street. Damn. Damn. Damn. He staggered back to his feet, choking back a sob, and then froze, staring behind him in horror at the tiny splashes of blood on the stones, which marked his path as brightly as signal flares.

He ripped at the stuff of his robes, tearing at it with his teeth when the strength in his shaking hands was not enough. Tearing off a long strip of fabric, he wrapped it tightly round the wound and tied it in a savage knot. It would have to do. Gasping for breath he set off towards the park in an unsteady run. Voices drifted towards him on the November breeze. Although he could not yet make out any words, he knew he must be nearing his destination. The musty river air was like wine on his fevered lips and he breathed in deeply, savouring the taste. Not far, he repeated. Not far now.

From out of the shadows ahead a cloaked figure appeared. He skidded to a halt, looking around in mounting panic. Two more figures closed in behind him. Their black robes brushed the cobbles as they strode towards him.

Terrified, he lunged forwards, trying to dive past the single masked figure blocking his path. It raised an arm, clubbing him almost casually to the ground in a blow that knocked the air from his lungs. As he lay there winded, he felt hot breath on his cheek and looked up, staring mesmerised into a pair of glittering eyes. His last conscious thought was how smooth, how cool the cobblestones had felt against the burned soles of his feet.

--

The firework show was coming to an end. People were beginning to drift towards the fringes of the crowd in readiness for the rush to the car park which would soon follow. Six rockets exploded into the air, then six more and finally six again, to a fanfare of percussion and brass from the sound system, flowering in the night sky and cascading down to earth. Then darkness. The show was over. The spectators began to clap - and then everyone fell silent, staring, as an enormous green skull exploded into view above the empty houses, its tongue a serpent that twisted and writhed against the cloudless sky.

There was a moment of stunned silence before the cheers began.

Chapter One: A Surfeit of Wands

August, 1996

'They never found the body.'

Hagrid stared across at the distant hills, hand shielding his eyes as the wind threw raindrops onto his face. The sky was an angry grey, flecked here and there with an ominous yellow to herald the approaching storm. Harry felt as if he hadn't seen the sun for days. Part of him wondered if he would ever see it again.

'What happened?' he asked. The wind ripped the words from his mouth and tossed them away down the hill, towards the sheep huddled miserably beneath an old yew tree. Around them sprawled the grassy headlands and rocky outcrops of North Wales. In the valley below, the redbrick houses with their slate roofs glistened in the rain.

'What?' Hagrid turned and peered at him.

Harry cupped his hands around his mouth. 'What happened?' he bellowed. Hagrid nodded to show that he had heard. Rising from the stone shepherd's seat, he lifted his arm and pointed, then started back towards the circle of standing stones. Harry followed, struggling to remain upright in the howling wind.

Inside the stone circle, the wind seemed strangely to drop and the rain lessen. Harry hunched his shoulders and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his robes, certain he would never be warm and dry again. Hagrid seemed oblivious to the weather, he noted sourly.

Hagrid sat down. Harry bent and ran an experimental finger through the bracken. It was soaking wet. Oh well, he thought. It's not as if I could be any wetter, anyway. And it's still better than Privet Drive. He joined Hagrid on the ground, drawing his knees up to his chin, and squeezed his hands between his thighs in an attempt to keep them warm, although he knew it was futile.

'What happened?' he asked again, and this time he did not need to raise his voice.

Hagrid produced an enormous handkerchief and dragged it across his brow. 'It was a long time ago, Harry.' He wrung the handkerchief out into the wet vegetation and wiped his forehead again. 'Back when yer parents were still alive.'

Harry nodded, waiting. Hagrid's huge hands twisted in the handkerchief as he began to speak.

'Yeh know about the Order? The first one?' Harry nodded. 'Caradoc was one of us, back then.' He fumbled in his pocket and produced a photograph. He peered at it for a moment, then passed it to Harry.

Harry started. He had seen this photograph before, back at Grimmauld Place, in the summer before his fifth year. Mad-Eye Moody had shown it to him at the party Molly Weasley had thrown for Ron and Hermione. The original members of the Order of the Phoenix smiled and waved at him again. He wondered if they remembered meeting him the first time, or if this was even the same photograph, or just another copy of it.

He looked again at Caradoc Dearborn.

He saw a short, wiry man with curling brown hair and laughing eyes, his face prematurely crinkled and worn. Caradoc was nudging Hagrid in the ribs and Hagrid was grinning down at him as the two of them shared some private joke.

'He was my best friend,' Hagrid said sadly. 'Oh, not disrespectin' yer parents, Harry. They were good people, great people. Head Boy and Girl. But Caradoc... he went missing just after they got Benjy Fenwick and Dorcas Meadowes. Voldemort killed Dorcas himself, yeh know.'

Harry knew.

'He went lookin' for her,' Hagrid continued, his voice low and distant. Harry glanced up from the photograph and was not surprised to find that Hagrid was no longer looking at him, but gazing once more across the rainstreaked valley. 'He jus' walked out one day, sayin' he wouldn' be back till he'd found her and brought her back with him. We all thought You-Know-Who musta got him too. But no-one ever knew.

'Until his wand turned up this mornin'.' Tears streamed down Hagrid's cheeks, mingling with the rain. On impulse, Harry moved closer and put an arm half around one enormous shoulder. Hagrid turned and crushed Harry against him in a suffocating hug.

'Sorry,' he sniffed. 'Just didn' expect it, Harry. Not out of the blue.'

'It's all right, Hagrid,' Harry said awkwardly, knowing it wasn't.

Across the valley, the sun was beginning to dip behind the hills, streaking the clouds with pink and gold. Harry fished a tissue from his pocket and used it to clean his glasses, and the two of them watched the sunset in silence until eventually Hagrid stirred. 'Dumbledore'd kill me if he knew I'd brought yeh here. 'S'not safe.'

'I don't care about Dumbledore.'

A calm voice behind them said, 'I thought you might be here.'

Harry twisted round. 'Professor Lupin?' He screwed up his eyes to peer into the darkness. A shadowy figure was walking towards them.

'Harry. Hagrid.' Lupin murmured a word Harry did not recognise. Pale flames flickered in his hand, throwing eerie shadows onto his face. He came forward and squatted beside Harry. 'It's time you were getting back.'

'Dumbledore'll kill me,' Hagrid mumbled, guilt warring with misery on his face. 'I've let him down. Shouldn' have brought yeh, Harry.'

'Ah,' said Lupin. 'Actually, it was Dumbledore who sent me.' He peered up into Hagrid's face. 'Don't worry about Dumbledore, Hagrid. He understands.' He got to his feet. 'I'll take you back, Harry.'

Harry shifted uncomfortably. 'Hagrid?'

'S'alright, Harry.' Hagrid stared past Harry to where the black motorbike stood, just outside the stone circle. 'You go home now with Professor Lupin. I'll see yeh later.'

Harry nodded. He let Lupin help him up, then reached out and squeezed Hagrid's shoulder tightly before allowing Lupin to lead him away.

Outside the circle Lupin halted and began fumbling in his robes. Finding a chipped ashtray he offered it to Harry. 'Hold on to this.'

Harry looked at the ashtray. It was brightly decorated in red and green with the words 'A Present From Blackpool!' neatly printed around the rim. 'Portkey?' he guessed.

'Since you can't Apparate yet. It'll take us both back to Hogwarts.'

Harry touched the ashtray and waited. After a few moments it grew warm beneath his fingers and he felt the familiar jerking sensation, as if a hook had been attached just behind his navel and pulled. His last sight was of Hagrid staring blankly into space as the evening dropped into night.

--

This far north the sun had not yet set and the balmy air was full of the scent of late summer flowers, rich and ripe and just on the edge of decay. The grass under Harry's feet was neatly mown and the light spilling out of the castle windows was warm and welcoming. They turned together towards the great front door, falling easily into step as they walked.

Harry swatted an insect away. 'Professor Lupin?'

'Harry?' Lupin's voice was encouraging and Harry decided to risk a question he would not have dared to ask Dumbledore. Not, he knew, that Dumbledore would have answered if he had.

'How did - ' He hesitated, wondering exactly how to phrase it. 'You know, the wand, how did it turn up?'

'What did Hagrid tell you?'

Harry felt himself flush. 'Not much. Just that - that the wand turned up today. This morning. He showed me a photograph.'

'Of Caradoc.' Lupin's voice was soft.

'Yes.' Harry twisted round to squint at his companion. 'Did you know him too?'

'I did. He was a good wizard.' Lupin paused. 'A good man. He and Hagrid were great friends, very close. It hit Hagrid hard when he died. Anyway. To answer your question. Hestia found the wand for sale this morning in a Muggle shop.'

Harry blinked. Hestia. He remembered the smiling, dark-haired witch he had met a year ago in the kitchen of number four, Privet Drive. The name came back to him. Hestia Jones. He had not seen her since the summer.

'What was - ' He hesitated again. Hestia. Miss Jones. He didn't even know if she was married. 'What was she doing in a Muggle shop?'

Even through the dwindling light, Harry knew Lupin was smiling. 'Hestia likes shops,' Lupin said lightly. 'She spends a lot of time in them. There aren't that many magical shops about, so she often browses on the High Street in her home village.'

'Where did she find it? The wand?'

'She was poking around in a Muggle charity shop and found it among the children's toys. She realised what it was immediately, so she bought it and brought it straight here. I don't think she had any idea whose wand it was. Dumbledore thought it looked familiar and sent for Ollivander.' Lupin smiled again. 'That man remembers every wand he's ever sold.'

They walked up the stone steps together and into the vaulted entrance hall. 'We could have Portkeyed to here,' Harry commented.

'We could.' Lupin's voice was neutral. 'But I had a feeling there were some questions you wanted to ask.'

'The Portkey,' Harry said, as something else struck him. 'You took me outside the stone circle to make it work.'

Lupin nodded again and there was approval in his voice as he answered. 'It wouldn't have worked at all inside the circle. Did you notice how weak the weak the flames were when I cast Lux?'

'Yes.'

'Good. There are lots of stone circles in Britain. Many of them, like the one Hagrid took you to today, are extremely ancient - so old that we don't have a clear idea of when, or why, they were built.' Lupin's voice was enthusiastic as he warmed to his subject. He's turned into a teacher again, Harry thought with wry amusement.

'What we do know,' Lupin continued, 'is that magic doesn't work very well inside the stone circles. Inside some of them it doesn't work at all.'

Despite himself, Harry was intrigued. 'Why not?'

'No-one knows. It's a fascinating subject, and quite a bit of research has been done on it. The countryside is littered with artefacts like that - remnants of the people who lived and worked the earth before we did. Each civilisation left its mark on the land. Many appear to have had their own brand of magic, but few records exist of how those magics worked.' Lupin turned to smile at Harry. 'That's why Dumbledore wasn't worried about you, by the way. Nobody could have used magic to find you while you were inside the circle. You were perfectly safe.'

Harry blinked. 'Did Hagrid know that?'

'Probably not. The place has sentimental associations for him... Caradoc was fascinated by the stone circles. He loved a challenge. If things had turned out differently, I think he would have been happy to spend his life studying them.'

'What was he like?'

Lupin hesitated. 'I suppose you might describe him as a typical Gryffindor. He was brave - even reckless at times. He was a few years older than us - I can't remember ever speaking to him while we were at school - but his exploits were legendary.' Lupin threw back his head suddenly and laughed. 'I'll never forget the time he enchanted McGonagall's knickers to march through the Great Hall and proposition the Sorting Hat. He very nearly got expelled for that. We were second years at the time. Yes, reckless certainly describes it. I got to know him better when we left Hogwarts and began working for the Order. He never seemed to be afraid of anything. He had black moods occasionally - really black; he would get very depressed. Hagrid was the only one who could pull him out of them. And he loved music. A true Welshman in that respect. He had one of the most beautiful singing voices I've ever heard.' He broke off. 'Time for bed,' he finished suddenly.

'It's only - '

'Nine 'o'clock. You've missed dinner. Get some food from the kitchens and take it up to the common room. I'll see you tomorrow.' Lupin's voice was light, but Harry knew he would brook no argument. He nodded, and headed for the kitchens.

--

Without Hermione's misshapen knitted hats, Harry thought the common room looked strangely bare, although he appreciated the fact that it was clean and tidy, in readiness for the new school year. He jumped feet first onto his favourite sofa, noticing that the cushions had been repaired so that no sign remained of the destruction he, Ron and Seamus had wrought during the cushion fight that had ended their fifth year. Curling up with his head on a cushion, he ate steak and kidney pie and treacle tart and mulled over the day's events.

He had seen Hagrid cry once before, in Harry's third year at Hogwarts. Today had been worse. Although he was glad that Hagrid had felt able to turn to him for company, Harry wondered awkwardly what on earth you were supposed to say to someone, what the magic words were which would bring comfort. He had not spoken to anyone about Sirius' death, except Dumbledore, who hardly counted, nor had any of his friends tried to discuss it with him. The owls they exchanged were confined to pleasantries and accounts of day-to-day activities. He wasn't sure whether not talking about it made things worse or better.

'I miss you,' he said aloud, into the empty air, and then again, more loudly, 'I miss you.' Stacking his dinner things in a neat pile for the house elves, he went to get ready for bed.

The dormitory felt very large and very deserted. On impulse, Harry crossed to the window and climbed up on to the high stone seat. He stared out in the direction of Hagrid's cottage, but no light met his expectant eyes. Was Hagrid still out there on his own, sitting on the wet bracken in the circle of standing stones, staring at nothing in the dark? Harry shivered and got hurriedly into bed, pulling the velvet curtains tightly closed around him. He was asleep within seconds.

--

Next morning he awoke bright and early. He drew back the curtains around his bed and hurried to the window. The morning mist lent the air a translucent quality and Harry pushed the casement open as far as it would go, revelling in the feel of the damp air striking his face. He looked eagerly in the direction of Hagrid's cottage. A thin trail of smoke drifted upwards from the chimney. As Harry watched, he saw the cottage door open and Hagrid himself appear and stride towards the pumpkin patch with a gigantic pail of water, Fang bounding joyously by his side.

--

Harry spent the morning in the library, hunched over Moste Potente Potions and trying to concentrate. He had opted to study for a NEWT in Potions, and was very aware that Snape had only allowed him to continue with the subject after McGonagall had intervened on his behalf. He was extremely grateful to his Head of House and determined not to let her down, and if that meant hours of studying in the library to prevent Snape catching him out in lessons, then that was the price Harry was willing to pay.

'Harry Potter!'

Harry looked up, and then down, from a discussion of the relative efficacy of powdered and crushed lacewing heads in restorative draughts. Dobby was standing next to him.

'Harry Potter!' the house-elf hissed again. 'Professor Dumbledore is wanting to see you in his office.'

'Oh, right. Thanks, Dobby.' Harry closed the book, frowning.

--

Lupin was already in the Headmaster's office, pacing backwards and forwards, his voice raised in argument. As Harry entered, Lupin broke off and greeted him with a half-smile, then flung himself down onto a chair.

'Ah, Harry. Do sit down.' Dumbledore pointed to a chair and Harry took it, wondering what was coming next.

'Harry. Remus and I have been wondering - ' There was a knock at the door and Dumbledore raised his voice. 'Come in.' The door opened and a dark-haired witch with rosy cheeks peered into the room. Harry recognised her immediately. Hestia Jones.

'Oh, I'm sorry, Albus. I didn't know you were busy.'

'Hestia?'

'Would it be possible to speak to you? About Caradoc?' She looked pointedly at Harry. Harry stared at the floor, trying to make himself invisible.

'I think we may as well speak freely in front of Harry,' Dumbledore said in a mild voice. Hestia Jones came in and sat down. Placing her satchel on her lap, she began to rummage through it, dumping small items seemingly at random onto a low table beside her.

'I thought I would go back and look in that shop,' she explained as she searched. 'I asked the shopkeeper there, Jones it was, for a description of the person who sold him the wand, but he couldn't remember.' Her eyes flashed grimly. 'Obliviated, I should say it was.' She dumped a few more items on the table, counted on her fingers for a moment and then looked up. 'So here we are then. I went back this morning, see, and I found that our friend had been busy again.' She selected two items from the table and brought them over to Dumbledore. 'This is Caradoc's ring. A Welsh Green, the engraving is. And here is this.' She handed over a photograph. 'And I cannot understand, for the life of me, how a photograph of Harry could have Caradoc's writing on the back. Because Harry was not born when Caradoc died.'