Title: Author(s): Starluff/Stellinia
Rating: PG
Character(s)/Pairings: Holmes and Watson, gen
Summary: 'WANTED: A Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts' the newspaper read. Watson smiled.
Warnings: Some mentions of magical warfare. War wasn't pretty, guys, and neither was the magical part. Nothing explicit, just stating what happened.
Author's Notes: Gift!fic for Alaylith for winning the July Writing Prompts on the Watson's Woes comm. So flattered she chose me to write her gift! This kind of ran away with me, so... Anyway, hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review!
Watson had missed Diagon Alley, he really had. He'd missed the soft sounds of people chatting in the background, doors opening and closing, the occasional tinkle of an opened door. He'd missed the peeling paint, the messiness, the magic. There was something to be said about an alley you could walk down and listen to kids rave about the latest broom and tell tales of the last crack pot who thought he could steal from Gringotts, where old women complained about the prices of potion ingrediants and compared the best potion recipe for rheumatism. Of course, he'd also missed London (England in general, to be specific) and the normalcy of muggle places. He'd spent almost five hours just walking around in muggle places and watching the people go by. But now he longed to be back among his kind. For too long he'd lied and pretended to be something he was not, and he was tired. He wanted to be back among the magic and the magical, and not have to make up a fib about how he had just made a bad wound disappear in just a second, or how he was still treating patients when his supplies were finished.
So, first, off to Gringotts! Watson had loved riding in the cart as a child, though he wasn't sure how he would feel now. He went to the goblin at the counter, gave him his key, and they sat in the cart. No, he still loved it just as much now that he was older. His lips pulled and curled upward, and a laugh escaped him as they hurtled through the dark and unknown. Watson kept a wary eye out for any telltale glimpses of fire, but fortunately, he saw none; he had seen enough dragons for a life time during the war, thank you very much. He had also gotten quite good at killing them - or, at least, distracting them so that they didn't go near the wounded.
After he gathered up his money (he had a reasonable amount saved up from before he went off to war, adding to his monthly pension, he was reasonably well off) he went to his next destination: Olivanders.
Watson had not loved his old wand the way you don't love your arm or leg; it was a constant, it was a very part of you, it was you. You couldn't imagine life without it. Watson felt crippled without a wand. He had done a lot in the war - slain wizards, gone up against dragons and other nasty creatures. Now, even a normal muggle could attack him and win. It galled him, and he yearned for the trusted safety of a wand in his hand. It would never be the same, of course; no two wands are created the same. He wondered what his new wand would be.
"Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." read the peeling gold letters on the door of the narrow and shabby shop. Watson had always wondered if that was true. A bell rang out as he opened the door, and Watson savored the experience. The shop looked as he had remembered it, and it felt the same as well. The little space, the boxes piled ceiling-high, and the ever-present air of magic and mystery, that gave Watson a thrill.
"Good afternoon," said a soft voice, just as soft as his memories told him it would be, and Watson turned toward the source. The wide-eyed man seemed to have changed as little as the shop he ran.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," Watson replied, taking off his hat. The look of confusion on the older man's face pleased Watson; Mr. Ollivander prided himself on remembering everyone who bought from his shop, and to see someone familiar who he couldn't immediately place must have annoyed him. Watson decided he would give the man five seconds before reminding him himself, but he didn't need to. After 3.2 seconds, Mr. Ollivander's eyes shone with recognition, and Watson knew he had missed his chance.
"Watson!" He cried, "John Watson. Now I remember, you've changed quite a bit, haven't you? New hairstyle, mustache, thinner - I almost didn't recognize you. But no matter where we meet or how much you change, I think I will always be able to recognize you by your eyes."
His eyes? What were so special about hazel eyes? But Watson didn't comment - indeed, he couldn't, because Mr. Ollivander just carried on, "I remember your wand, blackthorn with Unicorn hair core, eleven inches, pliable. One of the strongest bonds I ever witnessed in this shop; I did not think I'd ever see you here again, Watson. What happened to the blackthorn?" He fixed Watson with a fierce gaze, as if he had left his child in Watson's charge, and he had not taken care of him. To be fair, that was probably exactly how he felt.
Watson only sighed, though. No one felt the wand's loss as he did. His bond with the blackthorn had, indeed, been a singularly powerful one, and it only strengthened during the war. Coupling the blackthorn's habit of bonding with a man through hardship with a Unicorn's core (making it doubly loyal), no wand had ever been more attached to a man than it. And now it was gone forever.
"I went to war," Watson began, unsure whether Mr. Ollivander knew this. "It was in Kandahar. A friend of mine had injured his leg and I was trying to get to safety when ten men surrounded us. They hit me with their combined strength and, despite my defense spell, my friend and I should have died. But instead, the spell became so powerful that it blocked their combined strengths. But the wand wasn't able to maintain so powerful a spell for long (indeed, it shouldn't have been able to in the first place) so it shattered. After that, the spell went out of control, and it injured me," Watson indicated his shoulder, "and the other men. It broke, saving my life."
Mr. Ollivander nodded, looking too much like a father who had lost his son at war (Watson knew the look well). "That was probably the best way for it to go," was all he said, though.
"But, enough of that! You've come here for another wand, and another wand I shall get you. I warn you, though, the second wand is always harder to find than the first."
Watson nodded - he had known as much - and Mr. Ollivander pulled out his first wand.
Fifteen minutes later, with a pile of wands almost as high as the ceiling, Watson was considering giving up. But Mr. Ollivander wouldn't have it - he said he wouldn't have his reputation tarnished by not having the correct wand for a customer, but Watson knew it was just because he was enjoying himself.
Finally, he touched a wand and felt that familiar warmth spread through his hand, the warmth he had come to crave ever since the blackthorn broke. Sparks shot out of the tip and Watson couldn't help but smile. Mr. Ollivander laughed with delight, rubbing his hands together. "Not as infatuated with you as the old one, but I do think it has taken a shine to you all the same." Watson wished he would stop talking about wands as if they were his lovers.
"Erm, Mr. Ollivander, what did you say this was?" After his fiftieth try, Watson had stopped listening.
"Hm? Oh, I said that it was made of rowan with a phoenix feather core, good for defensive spells and twelve and three quarters inches. Very rigid. I've tried to give it out to people in the past, but rowan is known for only going with the purest of heart, and I think its personality is rigid as well, for it has refused hundreds of people. It's one of a pair, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, as you may know, phoenixes are not in the habit of giving more than one tail feather. The one that gave the tail in your wand did give one more, however. I sold i brother years ago - only three days after it was made - before I made the one you now hold in your hand. I've been trying to sell that wand for - hm, how long? - about, say, twenty years."
"Twenty years?!"
"Yes, everything about this wand was difficult," this said as if it were a great compliment. "It was as if the feather knew what it wanted to be and would take no less. It only worked with rowan, only at a certain length, only at that level of flexibility. Phoenix feathers are always picky about their owners, rowan only takes the purist of heart, and then you have the length to take into account. A difficult wand for a difficult man, eh?"
Watson smiled. "By the by, if you don't mind me asking, who bought this wand's brother?"
Mr. Ollivander, unexpectedly, frowned. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that. He is a highly private man, you see, and I don't think he would appreciate me telling anyone."
Watson was surprised, simply because Mr. Ollivander could talk for hours about who took what, why, and when; he hadn't expected him to refuse. But he understood that a man might want his privacy. He paid the seven galleons and said goodbye.