Maker of Rings
Harry let the door to the Leaky Cauldron close with a bang behind him, tore his scarf off and dropped down at the first table. He was greeted with a shriek from the two teenage witches already sitting there. He quickly jumped up again and made his way deeper into the bar, only to drop down at another table, this time making sure it wasn't occupied already.
"A firewhiskey," he told Tom the bartender who approached his table as soon as he noticed him. "Better yet, make it two."
"Three butterbeers," another voice insisted before Tom could leave, "and forget about the whiskeys."
Harry raised his gaze and saw Ron and George getting up from the table next to him and joining his.
"You don't want Ginny mad at you for drinking, now do you?" George asked, patting his shoulder.
"Why are you avoiding us, mate?" Ron prodded. "I didn't think it was so difficult to notice Weasleys in a bar."
"That sounds almost like an anecdote, you know. How do you notice Weasleys in a bar?" George asked, poking Harry to get his attention.
"I don't know," he sighed with absolutely no humor in his face. "How do you?"
"Ermm…" George thought quickly. "I suppose you look for the red hair."
"Not much of a joke, though," Ron said to George. "I thought it would be something funnier."
"But what?" George said. "It is easiest to look at the hair."
Tom approached with the butterbeers at that moment, bringing a halt to their pointless discussion and directing the Weasleys' attention back to Harry.
"So… What happened?" George asked when Tom had left again.
"Nothing," Harry replied, taking a generous swig of his butterbeer and probably hoping that if he drank it quickly it would inebriate him at least a bit.
"Of course nothing happened. You always look as if a train has run over your self-esteem in the afternoons," Ron laughed, but Harry didn't rise to the bait.
"So what did happen?" George asked again after a while.
Harry sighed exasperatedly. "I think we broke up."
"You think you broke up?" George asked when all Ron did was stare with his mouth open and his bottle of butterbeer half way to it.
"Well, yeah," Harry said, finally warming up to the conversation. "Kind of hard to get a certain answer when she's shouting things about braking my wand in two if I ever point it to her again, and getting my sorry excuse of an ass as far away from her as possible, and asking whether it was my life ambition to embarrass her in front of everyone she knew." Harry sighed heavily, drowned the rest of his beer, waved his hand to get Tom's attention and shouted, "Firewhiskey, please!"
"Sounds worse than mum, mate," Ron said with awe.
"What in the world did you do to get her that riled up?" George asked.
Harry muttered something.
"What was that?"
"I hit her with a measurement charm in the middle of the Atrium in the Ministry. I messed up my aim and hit her body instead of her hand. And the bloody wand boomed out her weight for all the Atrium to hear."
Tom arrived with the whiskey at that moment. Harry took the shot, gulped it down, coughed a bit, said a hoarse "Thanks," and waved the barman away before his companions could comprehend all he had said.
"Way to go, mate!" Ron suddenly said, patting his back, then froze, blushed and said, "Sorry. I forgot it didn't quite work out."
"You should have come to your older brothers with this, first," George said, almost beaming.
"You?" Harry asked sardonically
"Well, her older brothers, anyway. We, that means I, can help you with your little problem."
"You?" Harry said again. "I doubt it."
"How can you doubt me! How can you insult your omnipotent almost-brother with such a sensation as doubt!"
"And what do you know about proposing? I don't see you happily married, now do I?"
"Well," George drawled with a smirk, "I'm not married, but Bill is."
"What has that got to do with anything?" Harry asked.
"Fred and I happened to be on the topmost shelf of the bookcase in our living-room when he discussed it with Charlie."
"What were you doing in the bookcase?" Ron asked in bewilderment.
"Hiding, of course. But the thing I was about to say, to help our poor little almost-brother here, is that Bill told Charlie the secret how wizards across the ages have managed to get the right size of rings for their girlfriends."
"How?" Harry and Ron asked simultaneously.
"The secret of secrets, passed down from generation to generation, from fathers to sons, from older brothers to younger, from friends to friends…"
"George!" Ron said.
"Oh, sorry. I got a bit carried away."
"Sure," Ron muttered.
"How then?" Harry asked.
"From Ollivander's," George said.
"Stop joking. How do they do it?"
"I was serious. They do get it from Ollivander's. Haven't you ever wondered what he takes the hand measurements for?"
"Even I know this can't be true. Ginny has grown a bit since getting her wand, haven't you noticed?" Ron laughed.
"You're forgetting this little tool called magic," George said, patting his little brother on the head.
"Oh, yeah. Sorry."
***
Harry didn't remember making a conscious decision about going there, but about half an hour after his conversation with Ron and George he found himself standing in front of Ollivander's wand shop and fingering his scarf nervously. Completely expecting to make a fool of himself he stepped into the shop and tried not to startle when the shopkeeper appeared from between two high shelves like a silent shadow.
"Mr. Holly and Phoenix, how can I help you today?" he asked in his ethereal voice, making Harry curse silently for having gone there. "Need a new wand perhaps?"
"Erm… No," he said. "It's not about my wand. I'm sorry about disturbing you, I shouldn't have come at all…" he tried to make his way back to the door, but Ollivander smiled disconcertingly and nodded.
"It's about your other wand then?" he asked.
Harry felt embarrassed and uncomfortable, and felt his face turning red.
"Mr. Ollivander, Sir…" he tried to leave again, but Ollivander waved him to a stop.
"It's about Miss Larch and Unicorn mane, isn't it? Don't worry, young man, we'll find exactly what you need." He moved over to the window that opened to the street and took the ancient-looking wand that had been exhibited there as long as Harry knew from its matted red case. "But remember, the band chooses the witch," Ollivander said mysteriously, as he tapped the ancient wand against his counter.
Under Harry's wondering eyes the scraped and scorched wood-top counter turned into modern-looking sparkling clean glass case. Another tap from Ollivander made the top glass disappear, and Harry watched in amazement as various sizes and makes of rings rotated slowly on their velvet cushions.
"Making of magic rings is an ancient art," the raspy voice of the shopkeeper shook him up from his stupor. "Anyone can bend a wire to form a circle… but magical jewelry is more than simple craftsmanship."
Harry looked at him and saw the old man holding the ancient wand out for him.
"Take it, and choose wisely," he said, and Harry hesitatively took the wand in his hand. The sensation that now filled him was something he had never felt; he was anxious and apprehensive simultaneously, confident, yet scared, and filled with such overpowering need to do something that he almost dropped the wand then and there.
"I believe you know the summoning charm?" Ollivander's voice penetrated his whirlwind of emotions, and with no conscious thought about it Harry channeled all that he was feeling into this one spell.
"Accio!" he said, and something small and golden flew from the rotating display case, straight onto the wand.
"Well done, young man," Ollivander said, taking the wand from Harry's unresisting grip, tapping the counter to turn it back into wood. He placed the ring in a deep red velvet box, wrapped that in turn in brown shapeless paper, and handed the purchase to Harry.
"Thirteen Galleons and eight Sickles," he said, and when Harry looked surprised to hear the sum, added, "Remember, the band chooses the witch. I suppose we can expect great deeds from you in the future."
Harry passed over the money and left without even a good-bye. Once back outside in the snow he heaved a sigh and looked over his shoulder, where he saw Ollivander replacing the ancient wand in its case on the window. From the corner of his eye he saw the inscription on the shop now read Ollivander's – maker of rings since 382 B.C.