The Phoenix and the Serpent

Chapter One - Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 _B.C.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of Ollivander's wand shop as Tom Potter and his father stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single spindly chair and thousands of narrow boxes piled right up to the ceiling. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Tom jumped.

"Mr. Ollivander," his father whispered to Tom, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," said Tom.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes." He turned to Tom's father. "Your son, I presume?"

"Yes. My oldest."

Tom was unsettled by his father's voice; it was strangely tense.

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Tom. Tom wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. "Odd," he said softly. "You look familiar.... Have you ever been in here?"

Tom shook his head, and felt his father's hand tightening on his shoulder.

"Maybe you've seen me passing by," he ventured. "I've been to Diagon Alley before."

"Perhaps," Mr. Ollivander said. "My memory is not what it once was." He had come so close that he and Tom were almost nose to nose. Tom could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

At last, to Tom's relief, Mr. Ollivander looked over at Tom's father. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple, wasn't it?"

Tom's father nodded and silently extending his wand for inspection. Mr. Ollivander ran a long, white finger over the wand and handed it back. "Not too worn, considering.... It's been through more than most wands, but it should last you well."

"I certainly hope so." Tom's father took back his wand and ran a finger over it himself. "I'm rather fond of it." He gave Mr. Ollivander a small smile.

"Yes, indeed," Mr. Ollivander said softly. "And you are still young, Mr. Potter. I expect many more great things from you in the future." He turned to Tom. "Well, now," he said, and pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"My right," Tom said.

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Tom from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are just the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

Tom suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring the space between his chin and mouth, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Elm and phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches, whippy. Just take it and give it a wave."

Tom took the wand eagerly and waved it around, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Holly and dragon heartstring. Ten inches. Quite supple. Try - "

Tom tried, but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"Mahogany and unicorn hair, twelve inches, swishy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Tom tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Just like your father. Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere...."

The pile of tried wands mounted higher and higher, and even Mr. Ollivander's enthusiasm began to dim.

"Perhaps try the used wands?" Tom's father suggested at last.

Mr. Ollivander turned to look at him sharply. "Pardon?" he said.

"Er..." Tom's father looked uncomfortable. "Professor Dumbledore mentioned to me once that you have quite a collection of used wands.... Perhaps Tom's match is among those."

"Most unusual," Mr. Ollivander said at last. "I have never done such a thing before.... Then again, I have never had such a difficult customer." He disappeared into the back of the shop and returned within moments, carrying a towering stack of boxes that wobbled dangerously. He set his load on the floor, steadied it, and selected a wand.

"Rowan, fourteen inches, rigid. Belonged to a Hogwarts Headmaster several centuries ago, I believe."

Tom tried the wand, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it from his hand. "No, no, certainly not," he said. "But I wonder, now...." Mr. Ollivander's long, white fingers hovered over one of the boxes, a box with a strange mark on it, but after a moment, he withdrew his hand. "No, never mind. Try this one instead - birch and dragon heartstring, twelve inches. Belonged to my grandfather. Go on, give it a wave."

Tom tried again, but Mr. Ollivander almost knocked him over in his haste to snatch it back. "Worse and worse!" Mr. Ollivander said. He tossed it to the side and again turned to the stack of boxes. This time he was still for quite a while, and at last his hovering hand strayed again to the marked box. "Try this," he said at last. "Yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches, quite powerful."

Tom took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot form the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls.

"Oh yes indeed, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious...."

He put Harry's wand back onto its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious...curious..."

"Sorry," said Tom, "but what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Tom with his pale stare. For several moments he said nothing, and then suddenly his eyes widened.

With a swiftness that belied his old age, he whirled around to look at Tom's father. "A word, please," he said tersely, and gestured towards the back of the shop.

To Tom's surprise, his father looked pale. "I'll be right back," he said, and followed Mr. Ollivander into the shadows.

The minutes crept past. Tom walked around the shop restlessly. Why were Mr. Ollivander and his father acting so strangely?

The dust and silence were beginning to seem oppressive by the time his father and Mr. Ollivander returned. Mr. Ollivander now looked just as pale as Tom's father, and he refused to accept payment for the wand. "Take it, take it," he said, and bowed them from his shop. It might have just been Tom's imagination, but it seemed as though he was avoiding Tom's eyes.

At soon as they were out of shop, Tom's father turned to him, looking tense. "Promise me you won't mention this to Mum," he said.

"Why? What happened?" Tom was beginning to feel frightened. "What did Mr. Ollivander want to talk to you about? What was so strange about my wand?"

"Your wand is perfectly fine," his father said, managing a small smile. "I give you my word on that. But come on, we haven't gotten you a pet yet. Would you like an owl?" He began walking towards Eeylops Owl Emporium.

Tom hurried to catch up. "A pet?" he said. "I already have Medusa!"

His father stopped short. "You can't take a snake with you to Hogwarts!"

"Why not?"

"Didn't you read your letter? It said an owl, cat or toad. And most people are quite frightened of snakes, especially adders...."

"You told me once that Uncle Ron had a rat," Tom argued. "And you know that Medusa would never hurt anyone - and besides, she's my friend! It's bad enough that I have to leave you and Mum and the kids."

"Medusa is quite a bit bigger than a rat," his father pointed out. "And are you sure you feel comfortable letting everyone know that you're a Parseltongue? It's associated with Dark magic - people avoided me for several months when they found out."

"If I tell people that you're also a Parseltongue, no one will give me hard time about it. Everyone knows that you're not a dark wizard!"

"Well... I suppose I can write to Professor McGonagall and ask for permission...."

"Oh, could you Dad? Please?"

"Well... all right, then. But I want something from you in return. No questions about what happened in Mr. Ollivander's shop, and don't tell Mum about it either. Deal?"

There was no way Tom could just forget about what had happened, but if his father had made up his mind not to say anything, no amount of badgering could possibly do any good. And he definitely didn't want Mum worrying as well. He'd just have to try to figure it out on his own. This way, at least, his father would agree to write to Professor McGonagall.

"Okay," Tom said at last. "It's a deal. If you can get me permission to bring Medusa to Hogwarts, I won't ask you any questions about my wand."

"Who said anything about getting you permission?" his father protested. "I said I'd write to McGonagall!" But he was smiling.

"How could Professor McGonagall say no?" Tom widened his eyes, putting on the innocent little-kid act that was a special joke between Tom and his father. "A shy first-year, scared to leave his family, desperate to take his pet with him.... And maybe the Slytherins will be friendlier if I have their house mascot as a pet."

"You wish," Tom's father said, smiling again. "Most Slytherins will hate you from the start... especially Professor Snape. Just ignore them. You'll be fine as long as you aren't sorted into Slytherin."

"Sorted into Slytherin?" Tom stared at his father in shock. "Why would I be sorted into Slytherin? You and Mum were both in Gryffindor!"

"Well..." his father looked uncomfortable. "The Sorting Hat wanted to place me in Slytherin, at first. But I was terrified of landing up in Slytherin, so I was concentrating on not Slytherin, not Slytherin... and it finally put me in Gryffindor."

"Really?" Tom looked at his father in amazement. "Wow."

"Yes, well. You and Professor Dumbledore are the only people who know this, you understand. I don't particularly want the newspapers to find out."

"I'll keep it a secret," Tom promised. "But do you really think the Sorting Hat will try to put me in Slytherin too?"

"Yes," his father said, looking serious. "You're also a Parseltongue - Salazar Slytherin himself was a Parseltongue, you know - and you're definitely ambitious." Suddenly he grinned. "Head of the Auror department, or the Minister of Magic, or Headmaster of Hogwarts? A pretty impressive list when it's an eleven-year-old's plan for the future."

But Tom didn't smile in return. He was beginning to feel anxious. "What if the Sorting Hat really does put me in Slytherin?" he asked.

"You'll just have to make the best of it," his father said firmly. "I know my stories make it sound like all Slytherins are evil, but the truth is that there are some good people in Slytherin as well. Even Professor Snape is fairly decent; he hates me, but without him we never could have defeated Voldemort."

"Grandma would be horrified if I was put in Slytherin," Tom said, just barely suppressing a shudder at the thought.

"Yes, well. You understand I don't want you to end up in Slytherin - and if you concentrate on not being put in Slytherin, you probably won't be - but if you do end up in Slytherin, I don't want you to be miserable." Tom's father gave his shoulder a squeeze, and Tom managed a smile.

"That's the spirit," his father said, smiling in return. "Let's go home. Mum will be expecting us, and if we hurry, we'll have time for some flying before supper."

"Can't we do something else?" Tom protested as they headed towards the fireside at The Leaky Cauldron. "I'm hopeless at flying; even Jamie's already better than I am."

"Well... all right," his father said, but he looked disappointed. "What would you like to do?"

"Chess?"

"Oh no!" his father said in mock panic. "You've been playing with Uncle Ron again, haven't you?"

Tom nodded. "I still haven't managed to beat him, but he told me I'm getting close." The memory of the praise still tingled; Uncle Ron was brilliant at chess, and he didn't give out compliments too often.

"You'll miss him, won't you?" his father said softly, pausing outside The Leaky Cauldron.

"He promised to write... and Aunt Hermione told me she'd make sure he really does."

"Well, then, you have nothing to worry about," his father said, smiling. He pushed open the door and together they walked into the dark and shabby interior of the pub. "Ron will miss you even more than you'll miss him ... and the same goes for me and Mum. And you'll love Hogwarts; there's nothing quite like it." His face softened. "It was my first real home, you know. I still miss it."

"Harry! Good to see you!" A tiny man who Tom didn't recognize hurried over to them, beaming. "And this must be your son. Off to Hogwarts this year?"

Tom nodded, and his father rested a hand on his shoulder. "We're in a bit of a rush," he apologized "My wife's expecting us back."

"No matter, no matter. I'll be seeing your son soon enough, and I must say, I'm looking forward to having him as a student. Your wife had quite the gift for charms, and your work was excellent as well."

"Thank you, Professor," Tom's father said, looking pleased, and the little man shook his father's hand vigorously and disappeared into the crowd.

"Professor Flitwick," Tom's father explained. "Don't let his appearance fool you; he's brilliant, and he's a fantastic teacher. But it really is getting late; go on, you first."

Tom took a pinch of the glittering Floo Powder from the jar his father held out and threw it into the fire. The fire turned emerald green and shot up with a roar. Tom tightened his grip on his new wand, stepped into the flames, and said, "Godric's Hollow!"

Tom was used to traveling by Floo powder, but the uncontrolled spinning still made feel sick. Just as he was seriously wishing that he hadn't eaten the ice-cream his father had bought for him, he stumbled out of the living room fireplace. He noticed little Derrick with just enough time avoid knocking him over, but his abrupt change in direction unbalanced him. He tripped over the tower of blocks that Derrick was building, sending the wooden pieces scattering as he crashed to the ground.

"Hey!" Derrick said. "Broke my castle!"

It took Tom a moment to catch his breath. "Your castle almost broke me!" he said. He sat up gingerly and carefully ran a finger over one of his newly-formed bruises.

"Tom? Are you okay?"

Tom turned his head; his father had just stepped out of the fireplace behind him.

"I'll live," Tom said.

"Tom broke my castle, Daddy!" Derrick accused, his chubby face wrinkled up in indignation.

"You know you're not supposed to play so close to the fireplace, Derrick," their father said, putting on a stern expression. "Tom tripped over your blocks, and he hurt himself."

"You hurt, Tom?" Derrick said, looking worried.

"Nah, I'm fine," Tom said. He stood up and swung his little brother into the air.

Derrick squealed, and their father smiled. "Can you keep an eye on him for a minute, Tom? I'd like to go tell Mum we're back. You can get out the chess set, meanwhile, but make sure Derrick doesn't lose any of the pieces." He dropped the bulging bags of school supplies and robes he'd been carrying onto the floor. "Bring these to your room, and if you get a chance, it would be great if you could clean up in here; Dobby's busy making supper."

Tom's father left through the archway that led to the dining room before Tom had chance to protest, and then Derrick was tugging at his arm. "Again!" he demanded.

"Okay, then. You asked for it!" Tom spun him around, then dropped him onto the couch and began tickling him. Derrick's laughter was contagious, and Tom couldn't help but smile.

"Thiss room iss a messs."

Tom released Derrick and turned around. Medusa was slithering into the room, her tongue flicking in and out as she surveyed the cluttered floor.

"Yeah, I noticed," Tom said, his cheerful mood evaporating. "And I'm supposed to clean up...."

"Wass your trip to Diagon Alley ssuccesssful? Did you get your wand?"

Tom gasped. "My wand!" he said. "I dropped it when I fell. Where is it?" He quickly swung Derrick down from the couch and looked around the room in dismay. Blocks were scattered all across the room, along with assorted stuffed dragons, picture books, and Jamie's elaborate train-set, but his wand was nowhere in sight.

Hoping desperately that the wand was still intact, Tom began throwing the blocks back into their bin. Derrick joined in enthusiastically, but most of the blocks he threw landed nowhere near the bin, and one came perilously close to hitting Medusa.

"Be careful, Derrick!" Tom said, and Medusa hastily slithered up onto the couch and out of the way.

Most of the blocks were off the floor by the time Tom at last uncovered the long, thin box that held his wand. One edge of the box was slightly dented, but when he opened it up, he was relieved to find that the wand itself wasn't even scratched. He carefully closed the box and put it up on the mantelpiece, then collapsed onto the couch next to Medusa in relief.

"Wass it damaged?" Medusa asked.

"No, it's fine," Tom said. "A good thing, too. Mr. Ollivander - that's the owner of the wand shop, he's ancient - he had a really hard time finding me a wand."

"What you saying, Tom?" Derrick asked, tugging at his trouser leg.

"I was telling Medusa that my wand didn't get broken when I fell," he explained. "Go and play with the blocks; I want to talk to Medusa for a few minutes."

Derrick pouted, but he toddled off towards the now-full bin of blocks.

"It iss too bad that none of your ssiblings sspeak Parsseltongue as do you and your father," Medusa said, raising herself slightly and turning in Derrick' direction. "Sstill, it iss a rare gift; not many ssnakess have had converssation with even one."

"At least this way, we don't have to worry about anyone except Dad overhearing us."

"True," Medusa said. "Privacy hass itss benefitss. I ssusspect that you will be very glad of our ssecret language once we are at Hogwartss."

"I just hope I'm allowed to take you with me," Tom said.

"What?" Medusa reared her head as she did when startled. "Why do you ssay thiss?"

"Officially, we're only allowed to take along an owl, cat, or toad," Tom explained. "I convinced Dad to owl Professor McGonagall - she's the Headmistress - for special permission to bring you, but I don't know for sure. I think she'll let, though."

"I certainly hope sso," Medusa said, coiling herself back up. "Your father iss quite an interessting converssationalisst, but he is a busy man."

"Is that the only reason you want to come along?" Tom protested. "So that you won't be bored?"

"Of coursse not!" Medusa said. She slithered onto his arm and coiled herself around his shoulders. "You know I would misss you if I was forced to remain."

"I would miss you too," Tom said, running a finger down the criss-cross pattern on Medusa's shimmering olive green scales. "With you there, it'll almost be like home."

"Well, there iss no use worrying about what might happen," Medusa said. "Tell me about your day. What wass it like to hold your wand for the firsst time?"

"Getting my wand was actually a bit creepy," Tom said, frowning. "Dad and Mr. Ollivander were both acting strange, and then they went to the back of the store to talk privately, so I have no idea what it was all about. Dad made me promise not to tell Mum about what happened, and I'm not even supposed to ask him questions. There's no way I can just forget about it, though; maybe once I'm at Hogwarts I'll be able to find out more."

"That ssounds like a wise plan," Medusa said. She slithered off his shoulders and coiled herself up next to him. "Will you -"

But Tom had just noticed that Derrick was gleefully throwing block after block at a purple and green stuffed dragon that was perched on the armchair, and he was getting dangerously close to hitting the decorative earthenware jugs scattered around the room.

"Der-ri-ick!" Tom said, and jumped up from the armchair to grab the bin away from him.

Derrick promptly burst into tears.

"Medusa, I'm really sorry, I can't talk to you now," Tom said hastily. "I have to take care of Derrick and I'm supposed to be cleaning up - maybe after supper?"

"That ssoundss jusst fine," Medusa said.

Derrick began to pound Tom's legs with his fists. "Want my blocks!"

"Nope, you lost your chance," Tom said. He put the blocks on a shelf out of reach, and Derrick' wails promptly doubled in volume.

Tom ignored him and glumly looked around the room. Now that Derrick had thrown most of the blocks out of the bin again, the room was nearly as messy as it had been before. Tom sighed and began to clean up. Going to Hogwarts was beginning to sound better and better.