Sixteen Inches Of Oak

You know the story of the ugly duckling? That was my life.

Year after year, as new students came in I would sit up at attention—as much as one can when tucked away inside a skinny box-- believing yet again that there had to be someone I was suited for. And year after year, my hopes were crushed, yet again.

I watched all my neighbors go: that nine-inch elm on my left, the ten-and-three-quarter-inch pine on my right, the beautiful eight-inch willow below me, only recently made. That one went to a first-year student. A young wand for an equally young girl. That was just as well though; I was far too big to properly suit her needs. I was okay with that. But the problem was that nobody chose me.

Once a stray cat came in and spoke to me. Me! He must have sensed my loneliness; after all, who else—animate, anyway—would have paid attention to me? He told me that he used to live in the Magical Menagerie and watch all the kittens go to good homes, but never get more than a passing glance himself.

"It’s the way witches and wizards are," he said. "They want ‘em young. And they want ‘em small." Now that he had escaped to the freedom of the streets, he was much happier. If only I could escape myself. But no wand is good without someone to use it.

There were days when I wondered why Ollivander even made me. Sometimes I swore he felt sorry for me. He would pick me up and say, "The wand chooses the wizard, remember. The wand chooses the wizard. Every wand has its purpose." This used to reassure me, but eventually I scoffed. If I was the one doing the choosing, why did I feel so powerless to change my situation?

Maybe I was a mistake, something Ollivander made after having just a bit too much mead… too big, too ungainly, not especially powerful for my size. Certainly not as powerful as that thirteen-inch yew, the belligerent one, the one the wand-seller seemed to be just a little frightened of as he passed it to its chosen student. That was it. I was too big for a student, and not quite powerful enough for an adult. I would be stuck here forever, unless…

Another year came and one by one, the new students came into the shop, and I sat back, resigned, hopeless. Another year, another failure. Still… I couldn’t help feeling curious. This year there seemed to be an even larger number of difficult customers than usual. A lot more trying, a lot more errors, a lot longer time taken choosing. It was interesting to see the wands I knew go to people I least expected.

And at one point, Ollivander reached out and picked up me. I braced myself for another disappointment as I heard him say, "Try this one."

He passed me into a big hand. This was larger than an adult’s hand… but the face I looked into was a child’s. Odd. He got a light in his beetle-black eyes that seemed almost… loving.

And then… the rush of air, the glow that lit me up from the inside out, the sensation of warmth. I caught the boy’s eyes again… and stiffened in disbelief, as much as I could stiffen. I had found the right one.

"I think the wand is ideal for your purposes, Mister Hagrid," said Ollivander. "It’s unique… as a matter of fact it hasn’t left these shelves in almost four hundred years. Remember, the wand chooses the wizard."

Mister Hagrid. So, that was his name. "Thank you, Mr. Ollivander," he said as he left with his… father? The man with him was evidently an adult, but about three heads shorter than the boy.

What kind of owner do I have anyway? I wondered.

But no matter. I had finally found a home. A purpose.

* * * * *

Hagrid proved to be an excellent owner. He was very fond of me from the beginning, holding me in his big, warm hands as he practiced spells. Things were a bit rusty at first— I thought that I was out of practice from being unused for so long, but later I came to see that any results came from the owner’s level of skill. Sometimes I would catch snippets of conversation from other students, the younger ones saying they weren’t too pleased with their results either, the older ones saying don’t worry, it’s because you’re just starting.

The first time Hagrid successfully cast a Levitation Charm, he was so proud and I got a real thrill out of seeing the light in his eyes. I felt different, too… like I would go on to do great things.

He always kept me under his pillow, a place I enjoyed even though he often kept food under there as well, and I had to deal with crumbs. But luckily I can’t smell, otherwise I most certainly would not have enjoyed being stored there.

I remember well the day his father died. It was the most heartbreaking display I’d ever seen. I hadn’t thought I’d feel so deeply for my owner, used as I was to not having one to be attached to. He spent much of that day sobbing into his pillow. That kid could cry a lot of tears; things were soaked. But from time to time he would take me out and hold me close to his chest. Rather like a "security blanket", a term I had overheard once from one of the older students. It was strange to be treated like this, almost as if I was a teddy bear rather than a tool. Strange, but… it made me feel good to know that I was able to offer just a little bit of comfort. I missed his father too. He was such a kindly man; I could tell where Hagrid got it.

There was only one major drawback to having him as an owner: his penchant for strange and dangerous animals. The spiders gave me the creeps with their legs, the thought of those legs crawling all over me. Likewise with the snakes, I didn’t fancy being squeezed either. The worst was this huge dog that liked to… chew on things. Like the bedposts. Like Hagrid’s books. Like me. After that episode, I had so many bite marks that he had to take me back to Ollivander’s for repairs.

But still… he was a great owner. Big-hearted, too. I noticed that he treated everyone he met with kindness, if he was a little gruff. Everyone except a few students, who all wore green badges on their robes. I overheard him say many times that the green badges meant a bad group, a mean-spirited group. And I did notice that those people seemed to be a bit more… unpleasant than others. He was still kind to them, as best as he could be. But I could tell he disliked those people, and eventually I came to dislike them too.

Things went on like this for nearly the next three years. Then, one day, from underneath the pillow, I thought I heard Hagrid crying again. Instinctively… or as instinctively as a wand can get… I thought of the worst. Had Hagrid also lost his mother? No, that couldn’t be; his mother had already died before his father had. At least that’s what I thought he’d said. I heard him moving furniture and shuffling around. Finally he reached under, pulled me out, and clutched me to his chest, as he had when his father died. His belongings were all packed, and he was dressed to go outside.

What followed was the worst, all right, and it had nothing to do with losing another of the family. It was the worst day of my life for sure. First, I listened to the headmaster and the deputy headmaster, reprimanding Hagrid, telling him he was expelled for unseemly behavior. You could cut the disappointment in their voices with a knife. Then… the excruciating pain as the headmaster picked me up and broke me in two over his desk.

I winced. Not just from the physical pain… from the sorrow I saw in Hagrid’s eyes. He didn’t cry.  He didn’t speak at all. He just stared, with those big black eyes.

I was tucked away inside a satchel, and heard no words from Hagrid for a long time.

My days of usefulness were over. Completely over.

It would have been better if I had shattered to pieces…

* * * * *

Some time later I felt myself being pulled out of the satchel. Hagrid grasped me, making sure both my pieces were in hand, gave a few furtive glances around him and sneaked me into his pocket. I was wedged between a pouch of something soft and leafy—snuff, I thought—and something wiggling. It was dark—but I guessed it had to be a mouse.

No speech, but more footsteps and train rumbling followed. Another round of heavy footfalls, and a door opening.  An older man’s voice saying, "Come in, Hagrid." Hagrid sitting in a chair. The mouse squeaked as I pushed against it.

"I really appreciate your accepting my offer, Hagrid," said the older man.

"No, I thank you, Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid. "Thank you for taking this chance on me."

"I have just taken the position as Headmaster here, and I have met some resistance at my choice regarding you. You know that this offense in your history is rather serious, Hagrid."

"Yes."

"And while I don’t completely agree with them, I also do not have the evidence to make a case on your behalf just yet. So until then… you are not to use magic."

Not to use magic. The little hope I’d had that I’d be used again, that I’d make objects levitate and scallions turn into pencils and wine flow again, dissolved with that sentence.

"Not ever?"

"Well… not, conspicuously, anyway."

I felt a rush of hope renewed. Hagrid surely could find a way to use me in secret.

"Keep in mind, Hagrid, that I am taking a great chance in allowing you that liberty. Please do not abuse it. If the Ministry gets wind of this, I will have no choice but to send you back to the Muggle world permanently."

"I realize that, Headmaster."

"Good. Welcome back to Hogwarts. It’s good to have you around again."

"Thank you." Hagrid got up from the chair and moved over—perhaps shaking the hand of the man called Dumbledore—and then I heard his heavy footsteps as he left the room.

* * * * *

I know, it’s silly. But in the circumstances it will have to do.

Hagrid has since been made the gamekeeper of Hogwarts. He lives just outside the boundaries of the school, in his own little hut, and he seems happier than any other time I’ve seen him. He still has his weakness for dangerous animals, but thankfully, this new black boarhound of his is uninterested in chewing… umbrellas.

That’s right. Hagrid has repaired me, and still found me to be in relatively good working order. However, remembering his promise to Headmaster Dumbledore, he has agreed to keep me inconspicuous, so he found the perfect place to conceal me—unfortunately, it’s pink.

But it’s a lot better than being broken and unused.

"Now then," says Hagrid, "let’s see about making preparations for the Halloween feast…"

He picks me up and carries me outside, to his garden. There are several bushy pumpkin plants in that little strip of earth, and already some small, pale green pumpkins. He points me, umbrella and all, to one of them and holds me there for a moment. I see the pumpkin swell to the size of a beach ball, and then to the size of a pickle barrel.

Yes, it is good to feel useful again.