Amber Dreams

The street was as busy as it had been when they entered Gringotts. Indeed, it seemed as if there were more people, fed by a steady flow from the brazier they had entered the street through. Albus took out the list of equipment again.

Uniform

First year students will require:

"We'll go to Mr Malkin's for your uniform, Albus," said his mother, and she walked up to a large shop with robes of a variety of colours and sizes in the window. A number of people were stood inside the shop. One man, with greying hair and pince-nez spectacles, was busily measuring a young girl dressed in pink who was standing on a stool, under the watchful eye of a stern looking woman in green robes. Albus saw that the man wasn't actually measuring the girl. Instead, the tape measure seemed to dart around the girl, measuring here and there. Another man, younger than the other, to judge by his bushy blonde hair, ran around fetching different black cloths from around the store, and was showing them to the girl.

"Oh, Aunt, can they not be made of the lighter material, the one with the embroidered flowers? I could not stand to wear such plain garments without hope of a little whimsy in them."

"Of course you can, Nancy. And if Phineas complains, then he'll have me to deal with," replied the woman. Albus could tell she wasn't jesting with her daughter on this. He could see it in her eyes. The younger man had taken the other lengths of cloth back to their places. Albus couldn't see the difference between any of them. Perhaps that wasn't the point, he thought. The older man had finished looking over the measurements. Apparently the notepad he was holding took them down as the tape measure dived around.

"We'll have them made up before the end of August. Will you pay now, or shall we credit it to your account?" he asked the green-clad woman.

"Please credit them. We're to have the Ministry Ball at the Wyrd this year, and we'll pay off all debts withstanding after that, my dear Mr Malkin."

The grey-haired man, Mr Malkin, nodded, and jotted a few notes down in the little notepad he had been writing the measurements in. "Very well. A pleasure dealing with you and your niece."

The woman nodded, and the girl stepped off the stool, smiling sweetly. They left without a backwards glance.

"A pain in the arse, that lot," said Mr Malkin to his assistant. The assistant nodded. Beatrice coughed quietly from the corner. "Mr Malkin, I presume."

"I am indeed. Another one for Hogwarts, then? Tailored or off the peg?"

"Off the peg, thank you. We're in a hurry, I'm afraid, Mr Malkin."

"Well, hop up on the stool, child. Can't fit you out standing down there." The man smiled and gestured to the stool the girl in pink had been standing on.

"Tall one, ain't you, boy?" Albus nodded politely. The man whipped out a long tape measure, and it flew around, measuring lengths here and there in apparently a random manner, until eventually it calmed down and returned to Mr Malkin. He looked over the notepad, and rattled off a few numbers to his assistant.

"Any idea what House you're hoping to be in, then, child?"

Albus looked blankly at him. "House?"

"Blimey, woman, don't you tell him nothing about where he's off to?" asked Mr Malkin of his mother, "Hogwarts has four Houses. Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, which was my house. Intelligent lot, us Ravenclaws. Ah, Albert, got the robes?" The assistant had arrived with three sets of robes.

"Well, try them on, then!" said Mr Malkin, in a manner that would have seemed rude if it wasn't for the broad smile on his face. Albus struggled in to the robes, but when they were on they fitted comfortably.

"Now, the Fitting Charm should stay when your mother gives me the money, but if you find the robes start getting too loose on you, then pop back to the shop here or up at Hogsmeade, or get your Head of House to sort them out. Got that, boy?"

Albus got the gist of it. Shrinking Charms to fit the robes to him, and then if they went wrong, a teacher would sort it out. He stepped down from the chair and took the black robes from the assistant. He felt comfortable in his breeches and cotton shirt, and there was little point in getting changed in to his new robes now, if they'd only get worn before he'd even arrived at the school.

His mother paid Mr Malkin two gold coins from the little purple purse, then they left the shop.

"What do we require next, then, Albus?" He produced the list for her again.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A Basic History of Magic by Grogan Stump

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

An Encyclopaedia of Plants and Fungi by Murgot Orange

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

A Basic Reader In Unnatural History by Matthias Macnair

Dark Arts and Dark Theory by Proinsias Stoker

"Well, we'd better go to Flourish and Blotts for those."

The shop was mostly busy, but the customers were predominantly children and their parents, and so they were quickly dealt with. Beatrice told the assistant that Albus was to start his first year, and the young witch went off to find the books, returning with a tall stack of leather-bound tomes within a minute. They purchased the heavy pile, and Beatrice levitated them in front of her as they left.

"You'll need a cauldron as well, no doubt, and scales and potions supplies." They stopped in to a number of little shops here and there. An apothecary full of strange substances, from beetle eyes to dragon liver, and from sliced moonwort to salted leech bile.

A shop as hot as any summer provided cauldrons and brass scales from a forge in the back of the storefront, manned by squat, bearded men with burly forearms and a grim temper, who handed over the goods and took the money quickly in sweating palms. Next door was a shop that was equally as hot, but here a man in a turban blew long jars out of molten glass, whilst an assistant carefully polished lenses for telescopes and spectacles. They bought a set of glass phials and a telescope here, wrapped carefully in swathes of cotton and silk.

There was only one item left on the list, as Beatrice refused to buy Albus a pet. "You can have one in your second year, but I'll not have a rat or a toad in the house, and owls are a little beyond our reach at the moment. Maybe next year," she said, and the look in her eyes made Albus certain that she'd not be moved on that issue.

The last item on the list was a wand. "I'm afraid we'll have to go to Ollivander's for that. I don't trust anywhere else, and, as they so delight in reminding us, the wand chooses the wizard, and a second-hand wand would only hold you back at school, which I'll not stand for."

From the outside, Ollivander's was a tall and intimidating place, but inside, Albus thought, as he looked through the window, it seemed comfortable, like a small library full of books and armchairs to lose an afternoon to. He looked up to the sky. In the top window, he thought he could see a face, a boy's face, and he smiled. The face disappeared, and Albus shook the idea from his mind as his mother pushed him forward to open the door.

A bell rang as the door opened, and a man hurried down the stairs at the back of the shop at the sound. He stopped at the foot of them, looked carefully and shrewdly at the two of them from behind dark and large spectacles. Then he removed them, rubbed them against his robes, spat once, disgustedly, on the floor of the shop, and then strode across the shop floor to them.

"Well, well, well," said the man, in hushed and amused tones. "The prodigal has returned to us all then, Beatrice. I see you have a son to aid you. And I suppose your husband is just behind, with his maps and tricks."

"I'm not his wife any more, Mr Ollivander, and my son is innocent and ignorant of all that has occurred in the past. I'd prefer it to remain this way. You may call me Mrs Dumbledore now."

"Mrs Dumbledore, then. I must say I'm surprised you have the temerity to return to us, after what you did, even without your husband at your heels."

"And I suppose you will deny my son a wand, then? Should the sins of the father be laid upon the son? I hoped that you'd show some forgiveness."

"Honestly, Beatrice. You sound like the Charismatic preachers who used to rail against the Purebloods with Bible and self-righteousness. It doesn't become you at all. But I will not deny your son the chance to rectify your ills to our world. I'm a salesman, after all, and it would do me no good to show favouritism to any family, or any creed or power."

He looked at Albus for a moment, and Albus noticed that Mr Ollivander had the most curious eyes he could imagine, little pearly orbs that could not be only due to age.

"Stand on the stool, please." Albus glanced at his mother, hesitantly. "Quickly, please, child. We haven't got all day." Albus stood quickly. Mr Ollivander took out a long measuring tape with little silver marks at strange and irregular lengths. "What's your wand arm, boy?" he asked. Albus wasn't sure of that. "I write with my right hand, if that's what you mean." The man sniffed with distaste, then he measured Albus's head, his arm, and left to fetch a few boxes. The tape measure kept moving around his body, and Albus was sure it was getting longer, and that the marks were moving.

"Here at Ollivander's, we make our wands from three different cores. Dragon heartstrings, unicorn hair, and phoenix feathers. No wand is the same, and the wand knows the wizard like you know the back of your own hand. And after a while, you'll come to know your wand as well as it knows you."

The tape measure had finished measuring Albus, and already the man was dashing up ladders and crouching down to pick up different boxes, some long, some short. Albus wondered how he could tell the difference between all the boxes. As far as he could work out, only the length differed, and that surely wasn't enough to go by.

Mr Ollivander opened one of the shorter boxes and pulled out some paper wrapping from within, before handing Albus a wand.

"Well, wave it, boy. See what you can do."

There was no reaction from the wand. Already another wand was being proffered.

"10 inches, rowan wood, dragon's heartstring."

He gave it a wave. A little star floated to the ground. He smiled nervously.

"Is that good?"

"It could be better. You're good with a rowan, I think. We'll try a different core. Here, this one. Unicorn's hair from a young foal. A new development we've been working on."

Albus flicked it. There was a little blast of shadow across the room.

"You know, I think that might be a little temperamental. We thought it would be better for a young girl. But still. Definitely rowan. Now, phoenix feather would be the best... there we go," he said, and Albus was presented with another wand.

He waved it, and a little hum of magic that hadn't occurred with the others seemed to judder up his arm, and shadow and stars erupted from the end of the wand. The leather grip of the wand felt warm in his hands, as if it had been designed for him alone, and the shaking of the wand seemed to harmonise with his breathing. He concentrated on spreading the shadow out, and out, and his head began to whirl in the same way as it had in the lobby of Gringotts. A voice was in his head, saying something, and he realised that it was Mr Ollivander. The thought broke his concentration, and his breathing was left alone, and the darkness had left the shop.

"That, boy, was very impressive. Very impressive indeed. We can expect great things from you, Albus Dumbledore, and I'm glad I didn't turn you away on account of your mother. Now, that will be ten galleons for the wand."

His mother gave him ten Galleons and he handed them over to Mr Ollivander. They were heavy, and large, and filled his cupped hands to the brim of his thumbs, and he suddenly felt unable to hold them all, and one fell, dropped with a heavy beat to the ground, and rolled along the floorboard to the base of the stairs. Albus chased after it, hugging wand and money to his chest, and bent down to pick it up. Having done so, he looked up.

There, on the stairwell, stood a boy, about his age, with eyes like quicksilver. There was curiosity in them, but Albus recoiled, stumbling backwards, and turning as quickly as he could to Mr Ollivander. The man was looking not at Albus but at the boy on the stairs, who, Albus realised, must be his son, for the eyes were so similar.

"Geoffrey, go back upstairs to help your mother. If we can stabilise the Erumpent horn mixture with the phoenix tears by tonight, then you'll have your wand." The boy nodded and smiled, and ran back up the stairs. Albus watched him go.

"Well, boy, the money, please." Albus poured the correct amount into Mr Ollivanders outstretched hands, and saw them whisked away in to his robes. "Thank you, child. That will be all."

Albus heard the bell over the door ring before he had even turned to leave. "Quickly, Albus, we need to leave," said his mother, but the words mingled with the bustle and cries of the street, and he hesitated, first looking down at the wand still in his hand, then up to Mr Ollivander, who had already busied himself in writing in the thick ledger. The stairway was empty, and he felt a desire to go and seek after the boy who had been standing there, but there was no use in such actions, and he dared not move past Mr Ollivander to delve into the house. He picked up the cauldron full of books and equipment, and walked off to the door. "You've forgotten your box, boy," said Mr Ollivander, and Albus stopped, his hand on the door. Walking back, he picked up the box and put the wand inside the little cauldron. Mr Ollivander said nothing more, but continued writing in the book.

From the first-floor window, Geoffrey saw the auburn-haired boy catch up with his mother. He had never seen either of his parents turn anyone needing a wand away, though there had been occasions where they were reluctant. This occasion was one of those times, and perhaps the closest they had been. Wizards and witches were not turned away for posing a threat to the Wizarding World. Wands would survive, and so would magic, they knew instinctively. To pass judgement would be to place the Ollivander family as gods, and they were, they knew, merely stewards, tending to trees and weeds alike.

So those who tempted an Ollivander to turn them away from the shop were curious and, no doubt, powerful, because the powerful were those who posed a threat to the world, not the weak. He had seen the fire and the shadow that the boy had created, and he knew that the boy was powerful. He'd have to ask father, he decided. Or, he thought with pleasant realisation, he could ask the boy at Hogwarts - he was obviously his own age, if this was his first wand.

His thoughts leapt to his own wand. They had to finish extracting the explosive liquid from the Erumpent horns they had acquired, from an uncle in Africa posted in Nairobi. Then his father might keep his promise, and let him find his wand. He knew the promise was made to force him to work, and that his father saw promises as little more than a vague possibility of future events. Nevertheless, summer was here, and if he could hold his father to his promises, then he might have his chance.

It was another two hours before all the liquid had been extracted from the Erumpent horn, flown in only that morning to ensure freshness, through a long process of applying hot flannels to extrude the explosive material through the thick wad of bloody flesh at the root of the horn. Geoffrey had been boiling water in the kitchen and hurrying it across to the cold room in which they were collecting the various materials. Too much heat at this stage would cause the liquid to explode, and too little would allow the liquid to congeal. It would only be with the addition of Phoenix tears that the liquid would stabilise far enough to be usable in a wand. The wand would be especially powerful in charms and destructive magic, but nobody, he suspected, would ever use it. None of the five wands they had created so far in this Great Experimentation had worked particularly well, but there were years to go yet, and much to be explored in greater detail.

After the work was done, the family ate. They talked of how the day had gone, and whether more horns would have to be imported, and whether the phoenix tears would be powerful enough. Then politics were discussed, and whether or the Minister might be justified in breaking the Kopfgeld agreement with the goblins, and stockpiling gold against their knowledge in case of betrayal. "Goblins take the damned oaths too seriously," said Mr Ollivander, and Geoffrey's stomach went empty with the reminder of how meagre his father's promises were. The conversation turned to wands.

"Who was the boy you almost turned away, father?" asked Geoffrey after a while, when he had summoned the courage to broach the question.

"A customer. Did you see how the wand chose him? Fire and shadow. He'll be a burst of light, you know, but he'll drive men and women into the shadows. Or at least that's what the omens suggest. I could be wrong, of course. Now, did I tell you you'd find your wand tonight?"

"Yes, father, if the liquid was drained," replied Geoffrey. If he made sure his own side of the promise was acknowledged, there was a slim chance that he could hold his father to his side, or at least use it to remind him.

"After dinner, then."

That was not even a promise, but it was the best that Geoffrey would get. The maid cleared the table, and Geoffrey went to check on the freshly extracted liquid. The vials were full to the stoppers, and the liquid stable. They had to be turned every hour until placed in the wands, to keep the phoenix tears and the Erumpent horn liquid well mixed. The air was cool, and the summer sun was still high in the blue sky. He wondered whether he'd be asked down to the shop now, or whether they would wait until the sun began to set, or, as he thought most likely, never at all.

It was with surprise then that his mother entered and asked him to come downstairs. Maybe she had convinced his father to keep to his promise, or maybe he'd finally kept one of his own volition. It wasn't necessary to ask himself why. His wand was to find him now, his own wand, and that was all that counted right then.

He ran downstairs after his mother. His father was waiting there, with the measuring tape. So it began, with the silver ribbon streaming around him, and he began to realise the fear that might fill the Muggleborn children, or even the Purebloods who had been ill-prepared by their families. Then it was over, and his mother brought him a variety of wands, and he knew, whether through the instincts of the family or the training of the little life he had led so far, that his wand was the one almost at the bottom of the stack. He didn't dare look at the description. He pulled the lid off and took the wand from the brown paper wrapping.

Nine inches.

The wood was warm in his hands, despite the thick lacquer that varnished the wand. The handle was ribbed, not bound with leather, and that showed the wand was old, and had perhaps laid on the shelves for generations. Beneath the deep stain of the varnish, he could see the wood itself.

Olive wood.

That was the wood of peace, and of mediation, and it was the wood that marked a wand-maker. Ollivander. Olive wand. What was the core, he wondered. What clues for his future were imbedded in the wand in his hands? For that, he would have to look at the box. His father might be able to work out the core simply from the feel of the wand, but not Geoffrey. Before he could look, though, his father had stepped forward and taken the box.

"This cannot be your wand, Geoffrey," he said, staring at the wand in what seemed to be horror. "I do not know how it is in the public shelves and not in the back room. But this cannot be your wand. This is a," he paused, searching for the words, "a blasphemy against our art. Give me the wand."

But Geoffrey knew in his heart that this was the wand for him, no matter what the core might be, and he waved it in a sweeping gesture. There was a screech, like fingernails on a blackboard, and the room, light with the summer sun, became dark. The wand jerked in his hand, and he flexed his arm against it. The light flooded back in to the room, yet did not remain soft but increased in its intensity, first like the colours of the world after an eclipse, and then more and more powerful, until he could not see the surroundings of the shop. There was a pause as he wrestled with the power coursing through him, and then the shadows returned to the room. He fell to the ground, exhausted, but kept a firm grip on the wand. His father had obviously dropped the box in horror, for it lay just ahead of Geoffrey on the ground. On the end of the box, in a medieval script, was the description of the wand, and the core was the last line.

Bowtruckle femur.

Now he knew why his father had grown so terrified. Bowtruckles guarded the trees that contained wood suitable for wands, and to kill one would blight the tree they protected. This was dead wood, a wand made by some craftsman who had no respect for how wood should be taken, with sacrifice of insects and due reverence. This could not be his wand, but the power that he had felt declared that it was.

And, at last, his father spoke.

"Very well. The wand has chosen you, for good or ill. Who are we to deny it?"