Harry Potter and the Death of Fear

Chapter 3 - The Room Under Ollivander’s

By now, the busy Diagon Alley was lifeless (which seemed very odd to Harry as it was the middle of summer at a peak time of quarter-past six) apart from an old wizard hobbling down the cobbled street in the opposite direction to Harry.

Stepping into the wand shop, he found that it too was dead. And Ollivander was nowhere to be found. Harry was afraid that the old wand-maker might decide to close his shop early. The dark, dingy shop still smelled that musty smell that reminded him of his first time in Diagon Alley.

He quickly draped his Invisibility Cloak over Hedwig’s cage and his trunk, which he had safely but hurriedly put in the far left corner of the shop, hidden behind large, rickety shelves packed full of wand boxes. He knew that when he had to take the Invisibility Cloak for himself, that they wouldn’t be seen anyway. He hoped.

Just then the old beady-eyed wand-maker came shuffling out of a back door, and a look of surprise crossed his face when he saw Harry standing at the counter.

“Harry Potter,” he said slyly, with a wry smile, “never thought I’d see you here again.”

“Yes, well,” Harry mumbled, now wishing he wasn’t the only one in shop, “I need a new wand.”

Ollivander was now behind the counter, staring at Harry intently. “What? Why, boy?”

“My old one broke.” Harry frowned, thinking of Uncle Vernon.

Ollivander chuckled. Harry scowled. He didn’t like being laughed at.

“Oh, boy,” he said, still snickering, “you still have a lot to learn.”

He slowly bent down, behind the counter, with a worrying creak in his joints. He shuffled with what sounded like dusty wand boxes, and suddenly sprang back up to face Harry, holding a wand box.

“This, Harry Potter, may look very familiar to you, am I right?” Harry nodded, still frowning. “Well,” he said, pulling the wand out of the box, “that is because this is, in fact, your very wand.”

Harry gasped. How? How could that be his? He voiced his surprise.

“Because, dear boy, imagine what would happen to my shop if I had to replace every broken wand with a new, different wand? I would go out of stock! And of course you cannot simply pick and choose any wand you want. The wand chooses you. You know that.” Harry nodded, aghast.

“Well, when your wand broke,”--he raised an eyebrow knowingly--“did you notice that it just burnt into thin air, with no trace of ash or anything?” Harry nodded again, speechless. “Well when it burns, it, shall we say 'Disapparates' back to where it was originally bought, therefore, allowing the owner to easily return and get it back.”

Harry was dumbfounded. Six years in the wizarding world and he knew nothing of these 'Disapparating' wands. Shakily, he took his wand back from Ollivander, and felt immediately comforted and relieved, like finally finding something that had been lost for years.

Thinking of when Ron’s wand broke in second year, Harry recalled that it hadn’t burnt with a ferocious flame like his had.

Just about to question this concern to Ollivander, the wrinkled and sly wand-maker whispered, as if reading his mind, “They only burn when they have been snapped out of spite and hatred.”

With this, he suddenly disappeared back into the back room, leaving Harry standing bewildered in the dusty old shop.

With no sign of Ollivander coming back out, Harry quietly slipped to the far left, dark corner of the shop, and felt about blindly for his trunk covered by the Invisibility Cloak.

When he found it, he draped it over himself as a precaution, and thought hard, remembering Dumbledore’s instructions, his heart beating furiously with anticipation.

Several wand boxes, all grouped together protruded from the rest surrounding them quite a distance. Harry looked around him and soon found the group of boxes just at eye level. If you push in the centre box... Harry pushed it in, dust gathering on his fingertips. Then turn the one to its immediate right clockwise three times, an opening will appear at your feet. Doing this, Harry was astounded to realise that it had worked, and a dark hole about three feet high opened up in the wall at his feet.

Kneeling down, his heart hammering against his chest, he peered into the blackness, just able to make out a small wooden platform, about as big as the cupboard under the Dursleys’ stairs. Crawling in a small way, he soon saw some wooden steps leading steeply downwards into the dark.

Harry dragged his trunk and Hedwig’s cage onto the wooden platform, and once he and his possessions were in, the wall closed up behind him, leaving him in the pitch black.

He sat there for several minutes, letting his eyes adjust, then pulled of the Invisibility Cloak and felt his way onto the first step. There was absolutely no room for him to stand up, so he manoeuvred his way downwards, sitting down, pulling the trunk and cage behind him.

The stairs seemed to go on forever, deeper and deeper into the shadowy depths under the wand shop. He stopped for countless rests, which undoubtedly slowed down his journey.

Hedwig hooted from inside her cage when Harry suddenly realised there were no more steps. He reached above him to feel how high the ceiling was, and stood up, relieved when he couldn’t feel it.

He seemed to be in a narrow, dark corridor, and relying on his hands to feel the way, he proceeded, cautiously, with Hedwig hooting impatiently behind him, from her cage on top of the trunk.

As he walked on, he felt the stone walls of the corridor twist and turn, meandering onwards. Then, out of nowhere, he thought he could feel what seemed like a large wooden door. He felt the cold, metal hinges, then moved his hands to the opposite side where he could feel the twisted and curved shapes of the door handle. Suddenly, a bright flare of light burst from, what Harry could now see, was a flame torch, hanging on the dank, grey stone wall.

Unused to the sudden light, his eyes focused, and he looked up, in awe at the door, intricately carved with delicate designs of magical beasts. There was a writhing snake, stretched down the edge of door to the floor, a beautiful, graceful unicorn, its head raised majestically, tail swishing. There was a giant spider, and Harry grinned, imagining Ron’s face. A large, fierce hippogriff, stared menacingly at him, its talons ready to rip shreds out of any invader. Harry shivered, averting his eyes from its wooden gaze, and found the cold wrought-iron handle and turned it slowly.

The door was, surprisingly, unlocked. Harry gasped as the door swung open with ease.

Small? Dumbledore thought this was small? Liveable? This was more than liveable. Harry’s mouth fell open at the sight of the room. He was astounded. The room was magnificent. Harry just stood there in the doorway, mouth hanging open, a drop of shiny drool sneaking it’s way out of his mouth.

It was huge. The floor was made of dark wood, polished and shiny. A four poster bed to rival his at Hogwarts stood in the middle of the room, against the right-hand wall. The bed covers were made from plush, dark green velvet, with lighter, silvery green tassels hanging from the corners of the bouncy, feather duvet, and the plump pillows. Next to the bed was a dark wood wardrobe. Harry swung the doors open and the space inside was glorious. He thought he could have fitted all his possessions in the world in this wardrobe, including the contents of his Gringotts vault. Next to the wardrobe was a large, dark wooden desk with a large ink well, as well as a large pot of charcoal-coloured ink. A few grand, dark green quills lay gently on the desk next to three fresh rolls of parchment. Hermione would be so jealous, Harry thought. A perfect place for homework.

On the opposite wall was another magnificent, carved door. This led to the most exquisite bathroom, Harry had ever seen. The prefects' bathroom was like a Muggle public toilet compared to this. The smooth, dark green, creamy tiles on the floor exuded luxury and riches, plump, soft cotton towels hung on a shiny silver rack next to an emerald-encrusted basin, with real silver taps. And the bath! The bath was perfectly round, a dark, rich green colour, and like the bath in the prefects' bathroom, had many jewelled taps all around it, giving you a choice of what kind of bubbles you would like, but this one, Harry thought, had probably a hundred more.

Another door, right next to the one that led to the bathroom, Harry found, led into another room, a much, much smaller room with the same dark wooden floors. In this room, which Harry found very odd, was a small metal compartment set into the opposite wall, with a metal shutter that Harry found opened and closed very noisily. In the centre of the room sat a small dark wooden table with a hard, single solitary chair. Harry left that room, puzzled.

Opposite the door that he had entered the breathtaking room, was yet another, identical door. Harry sauntered over to it, and to his surprise, it was locked. He took out his wand, that he’d recently been reunited with, and was about to say, “Alohomora” when he remembered that he was underage. He wasn’t allowed to do magic. He was sure he’d somehow receive a letter from the Ministry of Magic, telling him he’d been expelled. He dropped his wand-holding hand and retreated from the door to sit on the plush bed, even more puzzled.

Suddenly, without any warning at all, the door that he’d entered in (and carelessly left open) slammed shut. Hedwig screeched. After a few minutes when nothing happened, Harry let Hedwig out of her cage and she hooted gratefully.

Harry, now aware of the time - nine-thirty - pulled off his glasses, lay back on the inviting, sumptuous bed and fell asleep, snoring gently.