Disclaimer: Actually- other than the fact that the ingredients are the same, I might possibly have come up with this- as the only thing that really stands out as Potterverse is the first half of the last sentence. But for the sake of the disclaimer: No. I do not own Harry Potter or any of it's various legal partakers.
Summary: A little glimpse into how Ollivander thinks. Yeah- and this really just fills in one of the things JKR forgot to tell us in the books-- how are Wands made?
Warnings: Urm- none? Lemme think- no slash, no het, no threesomes, no sex at all, no violence, no fluff, no angst, no hate, no grief, no character death, no bestiality-- I think I'll be good with 'faintly hopeful ending'.
Dedicated to Foolish Catalyst, because her fic ('The Wands That Choose the Wizards') made me think of this.
Title: The Wandmaker
He sat at his table and gazed solemnly at the items strewn across it. There was no particular order to the holly, oak, cedar, and willow, but he knew their arrangements, knew their place. They shared the table graciously with feathers and heartstrings and long strands of hair, each lying peaceably in wait.
They waited- and watched.
There was a song in the air, a song that whispered just beyond his hearing. He cocked his head, trying to hear the distinct melody, the unique tone. For a while all was still as he listened. Quiet.
For hours, it seemed, he sat and listened, knowing not to rush the elusive sound. For his Art was patience, and understanding, and emotion. He felt the yearning of the oak- felt it longing to find its core. He felt the heartstring- felt it singing a plea to be encased and surrounded by the strong protection of wood.
But still he waited.
He would not be rushed.
Finally he stretched a hand out over the worktable, reaching for the willow but hesitating. The song wavered, and he passed his hand over the cedar, and the song faded. A slight frown marred his features as he contemplated the remaining wood, but his hand flexed and settled over the holly.
The song grew in strength as he handled the wood reverently. He let his hands run over the shape of the branch, he let his hands memorize the feel of the bark beneath his fingers and the pattern of the grain hiding from his eyes. Moments stretched into seconds, seconds into minutes. Yet still he sat- making sure that this was right- that the song wanted this piece of wood.
And after a quarter of an hour, he was ready.
His hand went unerringly to the feather lying to the side of the table- looking almost lonely in the cacophony of clutter. He brought the feather to his nose, and inhaled. The scent was spicy- and hard. It brought about memories of staring through windows during Christmas and seeing all the good food and presents and family, and knowing you couldn't have it.
But underneath that was the suggestion of possibility- the possibility that maybe one day all that would be attainable. And he was pleased.
He stood from his seat at the untidy table and walked into the next room, shutting the door behind him as he went. There was no need for anything or anyone else to see what he was about to do- his Art was intensely private- intensely focused. There was no room for error, and he would need to be able to focus his full concentration on the task before him.
The song grew louder as if it sensed the approach of it's finale- and he smiled. The harmony was perfect- the rhythm excellent. There were no flaws in it's song, no defects that would never be corrected. He was finally ready to begin.
The room was empty but for a single chair, and he sat in it, holding the holly in his hands and placing the feather in his lap. He closed his eyes in concentration, listening to the song and memorizing it, the pattern, the melody. And then he opened his eyes, and sang.
The song skipped, as though someone had startled it, but then it sank into its familiar route, winding about the small room and dancing in the air. It seemed to fly as he sang, though at first only the barest impression of sound came from his throat. But then his voice strengthened as he became more confident in the song, more sure of his ability to follow.
His hands ran over the bumpy, imperfect wood, smoothing the knots and scars and bark away easily. His hands began to move faster, blurring over the wood as his song started to rise higher, and he took the feather in hand. His voice never stopped, never faltered, and he pressed the phoenix feather to the holly as his voice became more demanding, more forceful.
The feather began to burn but he never noticed, and his hands still ran over the wood, stroking it, caressing it, pressing the feather into the now smooth exterior. The holly caught fire abruptly but he pressed on in his song, his voice now drowning out the original song as he mastered the contours and swirls.
He no longer felt the feather under his palms, he only felt the smooth burning intensity of the holly dancing between his hands as he shaped and molded and guided the song. He held the song in his hands- held it and shaped it and molded it. The holly and the feather and the song merged as his voice rose, shaking the room with the strength of the power that was being compressed.
The holly accepted the song- much as it had accepted the feather- and sparked. Golden sparks fell out of its head as he sang the song inside the wood- bound the raw power of an unborn Mage to this earthly, perfect tool.
As he let the last notes of the song sink into the flawless shaft he held in his hands, he smiled. Gone was the phoenix feather. Gone was the holly. Gone was the song. What remained was single. Whole. Faultless.
Powerful.
He stared at it in awe as it let him hold it, knowing that this privilege was reserved only for him- its Maker. Soon the shaft would cool and the magic would settle in to wait, but for right now, he was content. For in eleven years, his creation would change the world.
Yet now it would go into a box, only to be taken out time and time again as prospective owners sought to make it theirs. But it would wait, and seek, and choose. And only one person would be able to claim it as their own.
And he knew the truth- though he may make and sell and display these powerful objects, and though his customers may fool themselves into thinking that they had a choice… that was not the case.
For the Wands choose the Wizards, and they'll never be wrong.
I wrote this at one o'clock in the morning after seven hours of work. Yeah- talk about random inspiration, right?
Newayz, I hope you enjoyed it, and please drop me a line and tell me whacha thought.
Thanks!
Netrixie