A boy with pale skin and cropped black hair walked in, determination evident in his piercing gaze.
"A weapon! I need a weapon!"
The boy spoke in a voice that was commanding, yet choral.
Ollivander looked at him, bemused.
"I think you are lost, young one," he said.
The boy glared at him, unimpressed.
"You make wands, do you not?" he said.
Ollivander fixed him with a stern look.
"A wand is not a sword. You'd do well to remember that. If you start on a path of cruelty and darkness, you'll not go far."
The pale child looked at Ollivander with disbelief.
"Cruelty? Darkness? What do you take me for? Those are what I seek to fight! How will they be driven back without warriors of the light, properly armed?" said the child.
Ollivander's expression softened. It was strange, almost as if the boy was from a different time. He'd seen similar attitudes in new students during He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reign of terror, mostly in future Gryphindors.
"Listen to me. You want to fight the dark arts? Hogwarts can teach you. But if you view your wand as a weapon and nothing more, your powers will be stunted and useless."
The boy listened, his expression relaxing.
"Very well. A wand, please," said the boy, either convinced or determined to tell Ollivander what he wanted to hear.
Ollivander reached for the tape measure, but stopped short. His usual methods were no help with his most recent customers. Instead, he rummaged about in his store of raw materials and curios. On the counter, he placed samples of unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, and phoenix feather, as well as a unicorn horn, a bezoar, and two vials -- one of a potent antidote, and another of dittany.
"These three are the supreme cores I use for almost all of my wands," said Ollivander, pointing out the first three items. "And the rest are substances that fight sickness, corruption, and darkness. Look at them, and tell me what you see."
The child looked over the dragon heartstring and phoenix feather. "These are strong. I know magisters who'd pay a fortune for focuses such as these. They're not for me, though."
He moved on to the unicorn hair, looking at it with more interest. "This is pure. It rejects the presence of evil," said the child. "But it is too compromised by its bestial nature."
He moved on to the unicorn horn. "This fights darkness and rot, but… still wrong."
Ollivander looked at him.
"How so?" asked Ollivander.
The boy looked lost for words, and hesitated before answering.
"It's so full of life, so soothing. It's not me," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "This is a soothing balm, while I seek something more like the scouring rays of the sun. Illuminating, radiant, harsh, and purifying."
"But not actual fire?" asked Ollivander, deep in thought.
"No," answered the boy, moving on to the vials.
"These are the same. Weaker than the horn."
Ollivander looked at the boy, trying to think of a suitable material.
"How does your kind hold back the dark? Slay its beasts? See past the illusions woven by its agents?" asked the boy.
Ollivander, lost in thought, did not answer. He could think of a few items that would fit the bill. There were artifacts used by Gringotts curse-breakers that helped them see and expunge curses and traps. Alastor Moody, the ex-auror, had an eye that was said to be particularly perceptive. Not that he'd be able to stick any of those in a wand, or even get his hands on them.
What else could do those things?
Many muggles and some wizards believed certain substances were inherently purifying. Sacred powders, oils, woods. Even water from a certain river or well, or blessed by a priest…
Wait. Inspiration struck him. Water, Gringotts, illusions.
"I have to go!" exclaimed Ollivander, gathering his earnings for the day into a pouch and stuffing an empty bottle and small key into his robes.
The boy looked at him, dumbfounded.
"Temporarily," clarified Ollivander, waving his hand. "Come back in an hour or two."
The boy left the shop, confused. Ollivander hung up a sign indicating he'd be back soon, locked up, and dashed in the direction of Gringotts, drawing stares from the other denizens of Diagon Alley.
When he reached the bank, the line was short, but his patience was shorter as he glanced frequently at the large clock on the wall. Finally reaching the head of the line, he presented his key to the goblin at the counter, who assigned a goblin named Griphook to take him to his vault.
Moments later, they were hurtling down the winding path in a small, noisy cart. The Ollivander name was older, wealthier, and more prestigious than most, and his vault was correspondingly deeper.
Ollivander's memory was good, but he was never able to remember every twist and turn. He did, however, remember the rough location of one specific feature.
He heard the roar of a waterfall, further down the track.
The Thief's Downfall.
His entry being properly authorized, his cart would not pass through it. It would, however, pass rather close.
Making sure Griphook was not looking at him, Ollivander pulled out his bottle. What he was about to do might not have been technically prohibited, but he did not like the idea of explaining it to the goblins.
Ollivander extended his hand, intending to dip the bottle into the waterfall. But the roaring waters ripped the bottle out of his grasp, and it disappeared into the darkness below.
Ollivander cursed silently, not wishing to draw Griphook's attention. He drew his wand.
"Accio bottle," he whispered, to no effect.
The waters must be interfering with the charm.
Noticing that he was almost at the end of the waterfall, he threw caution aside and leaned his entire body out of the cart, nearly toppling over the edge. The cold waters splashed over him, soaking his robes. He gasped. The noise of the cart was such that Griphook had not noticed any of this. Soon, the cart slowed down, stopping in front of his vault.
Griphook stepped out and unlocked the vault, then looked back, his puzzled eyes scanning Ollivander's soaking robes.
"Thought I saw something," said Ollivander sheepishly. "I leaned out too far. My fault."
"Wizards…" grumbled Griphook.
Ollivander walked into his vault, counted the money in his pouch, placed it atop a nearby stack of gold coins, and walked back out.
As Griphook directed the cart back up to the Gringotts main hall, Ollivander curled beneath the rim, not wanting his precious water to be blown away by the wind. Once the cart stopped again, he thanked the goblin and walked out of the bank, dripping wet.
He made a beeline back to his shop, almost knocking over Professor Quirrell. Ollivander apologized without stopping, and pressed on, shivering; the weakening rays of the evening sun did little to warm him. Back at his shop, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He stripped and put on fresh clothes, placing his wet robes in a large bowl. Ollivander brought the bowl down to his workshop and wrung every bit of moisture he could from the robes -- by hand, for fear of his magic interfering with that of the water.
Ollivander glanced at his collection of wand blanks. With the optimistic hope that the child was indeed "pure of heart" with "high ideals," rather than just a zealot, he picked up a stiff piece of apple wood, and dipped it into the waters of the bowl.
An hour later, the child returned, holding some new books. Evidently, he'd done some of his other school shopping in the meantime.
Ollivander plucked the applewood blank out of the water and presented it to the child.
"Try this," he said.
The child grasped the wet wand, staring at it in deep concentration.
"This has some power. But it is subtle and weak. Like a scent, or an echo."
Ollivander grimaced. As the child continued staring at the blank from every angle, he thought over the boy's words.
Driving back the darkness… and its creatures.
Ollivander closed his eyes, grabbed his wand, and remembered the first time he had held his son.
"Expecto Patronum!" he incanted, eyes wet with tears of joy.
A silver raven erupted from the tip of his wand, flying around the shop before perching on a hatstand by the door.
The boy looked at Ollivander's patronus with eyes full of wonder, falling to his knees.
"It's beautiful," he whispered, tears streaming down his face.
The raven was rather handsome, but Ollivander knew the boy was seeing more than just its image.
"Can you use… that?" asked the child.
Ollivander shook his head.
"It is ethereal and of my magic. I could no more put it in your wand than I could my own shadow."
The boy looked crestfallen.
"And yet… Patronuses leave traces where they pass."
Ollivander took the wand blank back from the boy and returned it to the water. With his wand, he directed his Patronus to fly through the bowl from different angles, the water briefly glowing white each time.
He continued this for hours. When his Patronus winked out of existence, he took the briefest of breaks, then resummoned it. The child refused to leave, simply watching the Patronus fly around the shop, enraptured. Three times, a "normal" wizarding family interrupted them, bemused by the strange scene. Three times, Ollivander took a break to assist them, and matched three wands to their new witches and wizards, feeling far more haggard than usual.
His closing hour passed, and he continued on. The child did not wish to leave his side, and Ollivander relented, insisting only that he leave briefly to eat. Ollivander continued, deeply focused, not noticing when the child eventually returned.
"It's working," said the child. "I can see its echoes in the wood."
The sky became dark and Ollivander continued, his patronus growing less radiant. Midnight came and went, and he persisted. Eventually, he noticed the child had fallen asleep in the shop's spindly chair. He stopped briefly to cover him with a blanket, then went back to work. Hours later, his corporeal patronus winked out and he could not summon another. Reduced to conjuring silvery smoke, he continued to direct it at the bowl.
It had been decades since he'd stayed up all night to work. It was nostalgic, in a sense, but it did not agree with his aging body. Circles darkened under his increasingly bloodshot eyes as he struggled not to fall asleep.
When dawn broke, accompanied by birdsong, the only thing he could conjure was the smallest wisp of silver smoke. His coordination marred by exhaustion, his hand connected with the bowl, upending it and splashing its contents across the floor. The sound woke the boy.
Feeling he'd done all he could, Ollivander picked up the wand, handing it to him.
"Infused applewood, twelve inches, brittle."
He looked intently at the boy, but saw no sign of a successful match. As the room brightened from the rising sun, Ollivander's heart sank. Had all his efforts been for naught?
Then, he saw the boy's expression, and he realized the light was not coming from the sun, but from the boy, who was now glowing faintly. Sounds of a distant chorus filled the shop. Ollivander rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things out of exhaustion.
The light and sound reached a crescendo, then faded.
"It's beautiful," said the child, fishing in his pocket for Galleons without taking his eyes off the wand.
For Ollivander, the moment was bittersweet. He'd clearly managed to do something right, but he knew in his mind that the wand was weaker than any other he had made. He knew raw strength wasn't the be-all-end-all of wandcraft -- otherwise he'd use only dragon heartstring in his wands. But he realized that the wand he'd made was, in some sense, incomplete.
"Wait here for a few minutes," he said, accepting the boy's money. He fetched a quill and parchment and began drafting a letter, his handwriting barely legible as his hand trembled.
The boy waited patiently. Ollivander handed him the letter.
"My patronus isn't the strongest. One of the professors from Hogwarts, perhaps Dumbledore himself, might be able to build on my efforts," Ollivander said. "This is a letter explaining the situation."
A quizzical expression crossed the child's face, as if Ollivander had suggested gilding a lily.
"Who knows, perhaps you shall learn that spell yourself one day and use it to imbue your wand with greater power," Ollivander said.
A wide smile appeared on the boy's face, and he leaned forward to hug Ollivander.
"Thank you. For everything," he said, wiping away a tear as he left.
Ollivander smiled, then sighed. He was about to collapse from exhaustion. He turned to his clock.
"Need sleep," he mumbled. "I'll open late."
He posted a note on the door, then turned back into the shop, only to hear somebody barging through the door behind him. A shiver ran down Ollivander's spine.
In his shop was what Ollivander could only describe as a wild girl. She had tanned skin, and thick hair covered her bare arms. Bear arms were draped over her shoulders, holding up a ragged pelt that dangled behind her. She was barefoot, wrapped in tattered hides, and had a belt made of what looked like small skulls wound around her waist.
"Need wand!" she said, twitching in the unfamiliar surroundings.
"No. Please leave. We're closed, I'll help you later…" Ollivander pleaded.
The girl's eyes focused on one of the shelves like a predator sighting its prey. In an instant, she pushed past Ollivander, and grabbed one of the boxes off the shelf. She seized the wand within, hurling the box to the floor.
Chestnut and dragon heartstring, ten inches, unyielding, thought one part of Ollivander's mind.
Stop her! thought the other.
Before he could do anything, the girl spread her arms, fists clenched. Facing the ceiling, she roared like a bear, howled like a wolf, and cried like a hippogriff in rapid succession.
Ollivander stared at her, blinking in surprise. The girl looked at the wand with a feral grin. Before Ollivander could overcome his shock, the girl was running for the door. Just before she left, she threw seven galleons behind her, as if disposing of trash. The door slammed shut.
"Well," said Ollivander. "How refreshingly straightforward."
With that, Ollivander collapsed into his chair, immediately drifting off to a deep, well deserved sleep.
