Most curious
Most curious
He had watched the boy come in from his workplace in the back of the shop. He had been combing through a particularly knotted mass of unicorn hair, carefully removing the strands while trying to break as few as possible. It was while looking up from his work, which was making his eyes sting and his back ache, that he noticed the young man staring at the dusty wand on the display window, then back up at the sign over his door.
He knew what the sign said of course, being the proprietor, Ollivander's, makers of fine wands since 342 BC. It was a label that he always thought on with pride, and not without reason. The Ollivander name stood for quality craftsmanship, the highest value, and of course, only the finest materials used. He glanced down ruefully at the unicorn hair before him though and shook his head. Usually it was the finest material. Deciding that a paying customer was perhaps more interesting than untangling the fine, silvery strands, he made his way through the crowded shelves and dusty cobwebs towards the front, where the young man was now standing, looking both expectant and eager.
Ollivander prided himself in being a rather observant man, a gift he had had since childhood. He could tell things about people that the casual passer-by would never notice. Added to his long, photographic memory, and the amount of customers he saw thanks to his reputation as a wand maker, there were few witches and wizards in Britain he didn't know. Even the young ones who came in, looking for their first Hogwarts wands, he could usually tell by hair color, or their mannerisms, even a turn of a phrase what family they belonged too. Some, like the rich Malfoys, were easy to spot. Others, usually those who were from newer wizarding families were a bit harder to pinpoint. But this boy, this one standing before him, nothing about this child clued him into a single key as to his identity.
"Can I help you, young man?" he asked genially, his soft voice calling from the back before he even made it into full view of the counter.
The young man started only a bit, but seemed to recover himself well. Tall for a boy of eleven, he was extremely handsome. Dark haired, he had a rather pale, somewhat pinched face, as if he had grown up in harder conditions than most young people his age. His clothes, Mugglish, and from what Ollivander knew of their world, painfully institutionalized, marked him as being a child who didn't spend a lot of time with a normal family, Muggle or otherwise. An orphan perhaps or a child sent to one of those strange, Muggle boarding schools?
"You have wands here then?" The boy's direct eyes stared right towards the area where Ollivander stood, and there was no hint of fear in his voice. Many children found Ollivander disconcerting; he was used to it at this point. He always suspected it was nerves, getting ones first wand was a momentous occasion. But this boy acted as if gaining ones first access to their magical abilities was an everyday occurrence, like replacing ones shoes.
"Yes," Ollivander replied simply as he came to stop at his counter, as with flick of his wand, he sent his measuring tape flicking from the work table he had been at towards the boy. The boy's eyes widened, but he allowed the tape to do its work, watching it with mild fascination as it did so.
"Does it do this with magic then?" the boy asked, not really as a question, more a confirmation of fact.
"Yes, I find that accurate measurements help me in the selection process. I have thousands of wands here, you know, and well it's difficult to find a suitable wand if I don't know a bit about a person first?"
"Why," the boy's voice was harsh then, and suddenly very calculating. Ollivander, surprised, blinked blandly at the boy.
"Why? Well, a wand chooses the wizard, you know. How do I know which wands to try if I don't know something about you, Mr…?" He stopped meaningfully, as the boy eyed him now through suddenly suspicious slits.
"Riddle, Tom Riddle." He muttered cautiously, as if he feared the name might mean something. But Ollivander had never heard of any wizarding families named Riddle, pureblood or mixed.
"Muggle born then," Ollivander asked casually, as he turned towards the shelves, beginning to take down some of his stock. He chose the basics he always looked for, willows and oaks, unicorn hairs and dragon heartstring. Best to start with some of the more basic sorts of wands see which direction this young one leaned, before refining it a bit.
"Muggle, that's non-magical, right?" The boy still sounded reticent. Ollivander raised an eyebrow over his shoulder. This boy perhaps did have a strange and rough road behind him. Else he wouldn't be so suspicious of well-meaning strangers.
"Mmmm, yes, the non-magical people, not that I care one way or the other what your blood is, son, merely it lets me know what your background is. Some families of wizards and witches tend to have patterns as far as wands are concerned. For example, the Prewett family almost all uses unicorn hair in their wands. I suspect when they start bringing the new generation of little ones in, they will have unicorn hair as well, perhaps even the grandchildren." He laid a small pile of wand cases on the counter in front of the boy. "But you are a Muggle born, or at least Muggle raised," Ollivander glanced at the boys institutional clothes yet again. "And we have no idea what your family traits are, or if you have any. So we have to start from fresh, won't we?"
He snapped his fingers, and the measuring tape fell quietly to the ground. Tom stared at it quietly, before turning to look back up at Ollivander and his pile.
"You would be right handed, correct?" Ollivander handed him a wand, a very soft pine wood one, with unicorn hair, very good for basic spell casting, but not much else. The boy held it, and without even asking, flicked it with the casual ease of one who had been using wordless magic for years.
But nothing happened, nothing at all, not a flicker of sparks or a flutter of one of the flyers lining the edge of his countertop. Tom, in annoyance, glared up at Ollivander accusingly, as if blaming him for the lack of reaction.
"This one doesn't work," he said coldly, staring at the varnished length of pale wood. "I've seen magic wands, that man from the school who came to see me had one. His could do things." The annoyance in the boy's voice was sharp, and Ollivander tried not to stare at the boy in amazement.
"Of course it didn't," Ollivander said somewhat scathingly, perhaps more so than he would with a boy of eleven. But this child's anger, his command, and his self-possession were a bit unsettling. Besides, at Ollivander's age he was more than a little old enough that he felt some respect for his station and expertise was due. "The wand chooses the wizard, as I said Mr. Riddle. And this wand hasn't chosen you. We shall try another one."
He handed the boy another, willow and unicorn hair, then oak. None of these others fit the young man either, and it was clear that Tom was becoming increasingly more impatient with the process. But as irritated as he was becoming, there was a something keeping him there, trying each and every wand thrust into his hand. Ollivander took note of it mentally, mulling it over as he perused the shelves searching for a rare aspen wand. Tom Riddle, despite his dislike of this whole process was going to leave this day with a wand. It was what he wanted desperately. But what for, he could hardly know how to use it just yet? But there was that way he had about him, the casual flick of his hand as he tried wands, the expectation of what was supposed to happen when he did such. Yes, there was more to this child than Ollivander could see, and what that was…well perhaps time would tell, wouldn't it.
"Here we go, aspen and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, perhaps this will suite." He handed the wand to Tom, who once again touched it, but no sooner than he had laid the index finger of his right hand on the handle of the yellowish wood, then Ollivander had yanked it back again. A light flashed dangerously in Tom's eyes then, a small, thin smile coming upon his lips.
"What, the wand not good then?" Tom's voice was light, but there was hard core to its center. His hand still outstretched, he stared at the wand Ollivander still held critically.
"Not for you it isn't," Ollivander said slowly, watching the boy. Yes, there was something harsh there, something painfully cruel. He could see it in the flash in the boy's eyes, the tightness of his mouth. His stance might bespeak of someone patiently trying wands, but his demeanor spoke of something different. "Are you tiring, Mr. Riddle? You could come back tomorrow; I might have a better idea of something then."
"NO," the response was cold and firm, barked from the boy, but was quickly replaced with an apologetic, almost warm smile. Almost warm, Ollivander thought, but not quite. His eyes were still far too hard for an eleven-year-old. "I was just…disappointed it was taking so long, but I would rather have my wand now. You see, I don't know when I'll be able to get back here to get anything else, I made this trip alone."
"I noticed you had no parents here." Ollivander placed the aspen wand back in its case carefully. "An orphan then," he only asked to confirm the fact, the boys eager, hungry demeanor and his unusual, almost bravado like self-confidence fairly clued him into Tom's background.
"Yes," Tom said simply, as if it were a matter of little consequence. "I was only given the one day free to gather my things, and I would like to get them all today, if I could."
"I understand," Ollivander nodded. "I'm surprised no one from the school then escorted you. Not Dumbledore then?"
The effect of the Deputy Headmaster's name on the boy was the only really normal reaction Ollivander saw out of the boy. Rather than his cool, self-possession the boy's eyes actually widened a little. Staring wildly at the wand maker, he stammered, "What about him," the boy's fists closing tightly upon themselves.
Ollivander took note of this, as it jarred a memory in his brain, a memory of something he had done several years ago. "Oh, nothing really," he said vaguely, as he turned his head back towards his work bench with its unicorn hair. "I would have thought Albus would have wanted to see to a new, orphan student himself, he tends to worry so much about the young people. Seems a bit unlike him not to accompany you," He recalled in that moment he had indeed been working closely with Albus on a project several years before, a rather delicate one that had delighted Ollivander to no end.
"What is it," Tom asked his eyes thin and narrow again, his hands still clenched. But Ollivander only nodded, smiled broadly, and then murmured "yes, I think that is it."
"What is it," Tom insisted, the hard edge returning to his voice.
As if coming out of a stupor, Ollivander turned to the boy again, his attention returning, but the vague smile not leaving his face. "Oh, I think I have something just for you. It didn't occur to me till this moment in fact, but I think, perhaps, it might work."
He turned and re-threaded his way through his stacks and shelves, back to his worktable, covered in scraps of wood and clippings of magical items. There, in the back, under a pile of sketches and bits of oiled rag, were two leather cases, each marked with a scrap of paper indicating the different woods used. They were part of an experiment he had been running, with a new core he had never tried before.
He examined each briefly, before choosing the one marked with a Y, and returning to the front. Tom was standing there, irritation and fear still marking his face, but interest as well as he stared at the leather case in Ollivander's hand.
"This might work, Mr. Riddle," Ollivander's vague smile lighted on the boy. "Thirteen and a half inches, yew, a very powerful wand if I do say so, created for a wizard with much skill and potential. Perhaps a bit powerful for you just yet, but maybe with time…" He took the shiny length of wood out of its case, and handed it to the boy. No sooner had his fingers closed around its shaft, then sparks of silver shot out its tip, and with a wave if his hand, the shutters on his rather dirty storefront windows slammed shut, opening again with just another flick.
"Most curious," Ollivander noted as he stared at his windows open mouthed. A child of eleven doing that, doing wordless magic, it was unheard of. Perhaps it was an aspect of youth, a tool used to help control powers he hadn't understood. He was Muggle born after all, or at least Muggle raised. The control that it took to accomplish such a feat, why youth five years this boy's senior couldn't even perform it consistently.
Tom Riddle turned to him, a broad, happy grin on his handsome face. "I can do it!" He fairly cried. "I can do magic!"
Ollivander recovered himself then, nodding slowly at the child. "Yes, you can. You can do magic indeed." Swallowing hard, he turned to the boy. "That is a very special wand you have there, you know, Mr. Riddle. Every wand has a special, magical core in its center. I use only the finest such cores on the market. But one item I've never been able to lay hands on reliably is that of the phoenix feather."
"The bird then," Tom, still thrilled with his performance, looked back at the shopkeeper in surprise.
"Mmmm, yes, the bird, it's a rare magical creature at best, very shy. It's very hard to gain one of their feathers, of which there are several magical properties, but they are said to make the most superb of wands."
"Couldn't you just hunt them down then, like they do for ladies hats?" Tom asked confused, the idea of hunting down and killing magical birds apparently not a strange idea to him.
"Oh no," Ollivander shook his head solemnly, "No, they are protected. Phoenix are rare to begin with, we can't just kill them all off for their feathers. Muggles seem to forget that killing off a thing only ends up doing you more harm than good." He never had understood that about Muggle game hunters, or even magical ones for that matter. "No, a phoenix feather is usually only given to you, granted to you by the creature itself. Hence why they are so rare, most of the wild ones have no desire to give human's anything. Those that are pets, on rare occasions, do grant a feather to a worthy human being. I suppose they see it as sort of a gift, usually to their owners. I happen to know one man who has a rather fine specimen of a phoenix, who graciously granted me two tail feathers, something unheard of in recent memory."
"And you are going to let me have one of them then?" Tom gazed at his wand incredulously.
"It's not like I have a choice in the matter, Mr. Riddle," Ollivander smiled softly. "Remember what I told you…"
"The wand chooses the wizard, I know." Tom wasn't cynical, nor was he mocking. Instead, he watched his wand carefully, as if thinking.
"Mmmm, will you be paying for that up front then, Mr. Riddle?" Ollivander suspected that the boy didn't have a knut to his name, but that the school would be handling the expenses.
"Hmmm…oh, no, I'm supposed to charge it to Hogwarts." Tom looked as if he was surprised Ollivander was still there, let alone that he was in the man's wand shop. "Erm, I guess I'll just take it then. They won't be angry I have such a fine one, will they?" For a moment he looked worried that Ollivander might snatch it out of his hands.
"Oh, no, I imagine not. I'm sure that Headmaster Dippet would prefer one of his students having a fine wand that works well than a cheaper wand that works poorly." Ollivander shrugged, reaching under the counter for a case. "Would you like then a case to carry it in, so that it will stay safe till September 1st?"
"I don't think I need it, do you?" This wasn't a question really, and again Ollivander was struck by the presence of the boy. His dark eyes regarded the wand maker quietly. "I think I'll just take it and go on about my business then."
"Very well then, Mr. Riddle," he nodded towards the boy as he walked towards the door, watching him leave with the careful eye. When the boy was out of sight past his shop window he sighed to himself, his mouth pursing in a thin line.
"That's a great wand for such a young wizard," he muttered to himself. "Perhaps he'll be up to great things then? He's powerful, yes…but rather cold. Strange." A worried crease formed between his brows, but then he shrugged, turned from the counter, and made his way towards the back of his shop yet again. He had just reached his workbench and the mat of unicorn hair when his eyes fell on the other case, the other wand with the other phoenix feather.
"Perhaps I'll write Dumbledore then. I'm sure he'll be interested in keep an eye on this fellow with his pet's tail feather in hand." Yes, he was sure Dumbledore would be most interested in it. It was strange what wands did at times. Sometimes they could surprise you with the choices that they made. Perhaps there was a reason behind it all. It would be interesting to note.
Clearing aside the collection of scraps of parchment and shavings of wood, Ollivander settled to his work bench, parchment and quill in hand, and began to write.