Chapter One: Eloise Dursley
Mid August, 2015
The cheery tinkling of the silver bell that hung over the shop's door announced the entry of a new customer. A rare smile flashed across the old wandmaker's face as the story of how exactly the bell had come into his possession flitted through his mind like a petal on the summer breeze. She had been so happy the day she had presented him with the lumpy little parcel. The old man's heart squeezed in fond remembrance.
"Come along now, Eloise!" ordered a brisk, but nonetheless exuberant, female voice.
"Coming, mum." A girl, Eloise-he presumed, replied. She had a high, trilling voice, reminiscent of a morning bird's anticipatory chirping.
From where Garrick Ollivander hunched over a stained work table, he could just make out the silhouettes of the four customers who had just entered his shop. It was just after midday and Garrick Ollivander was well past exhaustion, a sensation to which he had become quite accustomed over the last seventeen years. The morning had careened away from him as he worked, painstakingly performing the craft that so ensnared him in its artful grip. Garrick Ollivander was nearly done with his latest creation-a stout, brittle wand of blackthorn and dragon heartstring- when the group entered his well-worn and yet well-loved establishment. Only minutes more and the wand of blackthorn would have been ready to join its brethren upon the crowded shelves. With a great, heaving breath, Ollivander straightened from his work and tugged down the frayed sleeves of his tan robes.
"Mummy, can we visit the owl emporium again? Please?" The chirpy voice rose with the thinly veiled plea. "They were ever so cute. If I got one, I could write to you and father every day. Wouldn't that be lovely?"
"Oh, Eloise," the woman scoffed in amused exasperation. "Let's sort out your wand first, darling. Then we'll see about a pet, yes?"
He shuffled around the corner that opened out into the main room of his little shop, Ollivander caught the young girl's dejected nod, her large blonde pin curls bobbing against her wobbly chin.
"That's a good girl," said a the woman, gingerly patting her daughter on her head so as not to rumple her fastidiously arranged hairdo.
"Good day," Ollivander called, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he offered the four a welcoming smile. At the sight of the man still standing in the doorway, Ollivander's grin widened, a more earnest tilt to his lips. "Ah, Mr. Potter, I didn't expect to see you here. Your boy already came through with your wife days ago. What a...lively chap he is."
Harry smiled ruefully. "I heard." He offered a hand to the old wandmaker. "I planned to take him myself, but something came up at work and James couldn't wait."
Mr. Ollivander tilted his head, "I understand, of course. The life of an auror, I imagine, requires one to live quite...malleably. But let's not dwell on that. Who have you brought in with you today?" Bowing slightly to take in the girl, Ollivander offered her a bony hand. "My name is Garrick Ollivander, dear girl. And you are?"
The girl extended a chubby hand toward the old wandmaker. "I'm Eloise-Eloise Dursley." Grasping his hand firmly in her much smaller one, Eloise shook it twice, then released it just as suddenly. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ollivander."
"Ah," Ollivander's eyes lifted to meet Harry's as he shook out his fingers with a grimace. "A relative of yours, I gather?"
At Harry's affirming half-grin, Mr. Ollivander turned back to the remaining two occupants of his narrow shop. "And you must be Eloise's parents."
"I am her mother," announced the smartly dressed woman. She placed a manicured hand on Eloise's shoulder and offered the other to the stooped wandmaker. "I am Mrs. Martha Dursley."
Straightening, Ollivander shook her hand. "you look very familiar, my dear. Did I, by any chance, place your wand? I cannot seem to recall exactly. How strange..." He trailed off, thick brows furrowed as he muttered incoherently under his breath for many uncomfortable seconds.
"Certainly not," asserted the blond-haired man who stood an arm's width away from Harry Potter, his beefy arms tucked tight against his sides. "My wife isn't a- a wizard."
"No, I don't think so, sir," she agreed neatly. "You're probably thinking of my sisters-Elizabeth and Estelle Cartwright. I'm the third Cartwright sister. The squib. You won't remember me."
Her surly husband blinked in confusion. "The what?"
"Squib," Harry repeated without even so much as glancing in his cousin's direction. "If a wizard and witch bear a child who cannot produce magic, the child is called a squib. Martha is a squib," Harry clarified, his tone pragmatic.
At her husband's paling complexion, Martha Dursley winced. "Sorry, dear. I forget how new you are to all of this." She turned an abashed smile on Mr. Ollivander's direction. "You would think, with the famous Harry Potter for a cousin, my husband would know a thing or two about the Wizarding world. But he knows even less than I do and I was raised by my muggle grandparents. Do forgive us, Mr. Ollivander."
To his credit, Garrick Ollivander's smile did not falter for a moment during the entire exchange. "Not at all, madam. Not at all. As a matter of fact, I do remember your sisters. You look very like them, I must say. I recall the day I first met each of your parents as well. Estelle's wand was especially lovely. Ten and a half inches of applewood and uni-"
"Yes," Martha Dursley interrupted with a tight, impatient smile. "She carries it still. But today we are here to find Eloise's wand." With a covert shove between the girl's shoulders, Martha sent her daughter forward to stand before the wizened wandmaker.
"Yes, of course," Ollivander pulled free of his musings to assess the rosy-cheeked girl before him. "What an interesting case you are, Eloise." With an expert wave of his wand, a long bit of measuring tape soared from the counter and came to rest at Ollivander's side, awaiting orders. After another quick movement, the practiced wandmaker had Eloise's measurements.
Pink cheeks dimpling, Eloise glanced at her patent leather shoes as the whiplike measuring tape whizzed around her, "Am I, really?" Blue sparks bloomed and fizzled atop her fingertips. She wiggled her fingers.
"Indeed, my dear. Your case is quite odd, I must confess," Mr. Ollivander informed her as he quickly scanned the untidy shelves of his shop. "Your mother comes from an established Wizarding family and your father is the only cousin of the great Harry Potter. Though both your parents possess no substantial magic of their own, you, young Eloise, are indeed a witch." He spared a glance at her still faintly sparking fingers.
"Oh, is that all," Eloise muttered, her face flushed. With a few tugs at her sleeves, Eloise's fingers were hidden by the mauve wool of her loose jumper.
"Not to worry," Ollivander soothed absentmindedly as he slid a box off of the tallest shelf along the back wall. "Here we are." After placing the dusty box upon the scratched countertop, Mr. Ollivander carefully removed a narrow, cylindrical object and presented it to Eloise. "Go on and give it a flick. There's a good girl."
Without further prompting, Eloise accepted the wand from Mr. Ollivander, gazing raptly as it rolled between her fingers. "What's it made of, sir? James-he's my cousin, you know-told me all about wands just last week. His, he says, has the heartstring of a dragon as its core. Is that true, or was he simply exaggerating again? I like him well enough, but he has a habit of stretching the truth." Her wide, light blue eyes stared up at him with unbridled curiosity and more than a dash of trepidation.
The warm laugh that crackled in his chest surprised Mr. Ollivander, himself. "He spoke the truth, Miss Dursley. James' wand does, in fact, contain the heartstring of a dragon."
Stuttering feebly, Dudley Dursley slumped against the rickety chair rucked away into the farthest corner of Ollivander's shop. "Dr-dragon heartstrings, did you say?"
"Oh, calm down, Dudley, darling," Martha Dursley advised her husband-not unaffectionately, as she gazed at her daughter, who was cautiously waving the wand clutched in her right hand.
"But dragons, Martha," his lower lip quivered, his eyes blinking rapidly as if to clear away the peculiar sight before him.
From the tip of the wand, an anticlimactic puff of thin, black smoke burst free, the smell not unlike that of sunbaked tar. "Oh, no!" Eloise gasped, hurriedly returning the wand to its box and backing away.
Martha clicked her tongue, "yes, I know, Dudley. It's a lot to take in, isn't it? But one would assume you knew more about all of this. After all, you are Harry Potter's cousin." The knob-like brass buttons of her austere suit glinted in the dim lighting as she turned to face her daughter once again. "Try another one, sweetie."
"So?" Dudley's breathing had increased in volume and speed over the last few minutes. His pudgy face was a ruddy shade of puce. "What's that got to do with it?"
"Your blood pressure, dear," reminded Martha chidingly. "Oh, that one is quite the odd picture." Martha wrinkled her nose at the greyish-brown wand Ollivander had just placed in her daughter's hand.
Dudley nodded stiffly as he mopped at the sweat gleaming on his forehead.
Harry, who leaned against the pane of the shop window with his arms folded over his chest, wore a satisfied half-smile. "All right there, Big D?"
"All right?" Dudley croaked, his eyes squinted incredulously at the image of his youngest daughter waving the greyish stick of wood at a clay vase of wilted daisies. "Of course I'm not bloody all right! I've just learnt about the existence of dragons, now haven't I?"
Harry raised a brow. "Well, there's more where that came from." His chuckle was low. Relishing the stupefied expression on his cousin's face, Harry took his time as he continued. "Unicorns, trolls. Werewolves, ghosts-all real. Oh," Harry slapped a hand against his knee as if remembering a fond memory, "and don't forget about the Dementors. There's a great deal of them wandering around, too, now that the ministry's cut them loose."
"All right, all right," Dudley wheezed, eyes bloodshot with horror. "I get the idea, Potter."
"You sure?" Asked Harry, his green eyes lit with barely disguised mirth at his cousin's expense. "As an auror, it's up to me to know all about these sorts of things. I could tell you a horrifying story about a trio of vampires, a decapitated troll, and a few infer-"
"I've heard enough!" Dudley growled, his shaking palms raised as if to ward off the beasts of which his cousin spoke.
"If you're sure," Harry chuckled, relaxing back against the window, content to watch his only cousin as he attempted to reclaim his composure.
"Try this one," Mr. Ollivander pressed a short, sturdy wand into Eloise's plump hand.
Running her thumb along the raised runic markings that decorated the instrument she held, Eloise marveled at the proof of Ollivander's superb craftsmanship. "It's very pretty," she cooed, transfixed by the warm honeyed gold of the wand's wood as it captured the thin light thrown by the sole lantern above her.
Beaming proudly, Ollivander stepped away from the girl. "It is at that," he agreed. "Now, give it a wave, Eloise. I have a good feeling about this one."
Eloise returned his smile, hers more sheepish. "I do, too." With a gentle flick of her wrist, Eloise sent the tip of the wand up in a sharp arc.
"Oh, how marvelous!" Martha Dursley clapped excitedly.
A streak of radiant yellow sunbursts shot out of the wand's rounded tip, hanging in the air before Eloise. "I did that," Eloise whispered in awe, her eyes bright as the light drifted across her face, painting it in shades of sunshine.
"Eight and a third inches of pear and unicorn hair. Quite swishy. Wonderful."
Mr. Ollivander's proclamation recaptured Eloise's attention. "Is that a good combination to have? I'm not complaining," she was quick to assure him. "It's just that, well, James also told me that a wand says quite a lot about its master. So, well-what exactly does my wand say about me, Mr. Ollivander?"
The old man's expression softened at her anxious inquiry. He rested a tender hand upon Eloise's wand arm and gently uncurled her fingers from around her wand. Balancing the instrument between both index fingers, the practiced wandmaker took his creation's measure with his keen gaze. "This was crafted from the highest quality pear wood- as with all of my stock. Its length, while below average, is perfect in that it suits a modest witch with, from what I have gathered, abundant skills and a buoyant personality that does not crave effusive adornments. Wood of pear is most suited to witches and wizards who've a generous heart and canny mind. You should be very proud," he added with a wink.
Dimples reappearing, Eloise watched in mesmerized silence as Mr. Ollivander tucked her wand back into its box and laid it in her her extended hands.
"How nice," Martha cooed as she approached the counter, a small pouch of gold coins already balanced on her palm. After counting out the correct amount, Martha Dursley returned the remaining coins to the small purse and turned to her husband and his famous cousin. "Are we ready to be off, you lot?" Martha asked with an airy toss of her hair.
The assenting grunts and grumbles that followed seemed to satisfy her; she advanced toward the shop's door. Before reaching it, Martha turned back to Mr. Ollivander. "Thank you for your time, sir. Say thank you to Mr. Ollivander, Eloise."
"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. I won't forget this, I promise." The plump, jolly girl shook the shopkeeper's hand once more before following her mother out of the shop.
Wincing at Eloise's firm handshake for the second time, Garrick Ollivander waved the family away. "And I'll be seeing you again before I know it, Mr. Potter."
Harry, who had straightened, preparing to follow the trio, tipped his head. "That, you will, sir." Something poignant seemed to pass between them- a ghost of a memory, perhaps. A dank basement and the deafening screams of a crazed madwoman hung between them, unacknowledged.
His pale eyes gone dark with distant agony, Mr. Ollivander simply shooed Harry away when the other man would have stepped forward. "Off with you now, Mr. Potter. I have work to do. Off with you, I said."
"Right," Harry said, his eyes averted. "See you then, Mr. Ollivander." Harry Potter exited the shop of the finest wandmaker in all of Britain while its wizened proprietor gazed on after him, a profound sorrow settling in his silver eyes.
Author's Note:
Recently, I've had a suffocating bout of Writer's block. So, as a means to alleviate it, I've decided to write a series of short stories; it's a tactic that has worked for me in the past. Hopefully, it works once again.
Regardless, please leave me a review. I absolutely adore reading your thoughts-good, bad, and neutral. Tell me what you think of Eloise. What was your impression of her? Did you catch the subtle nods to the events that took place in the seventh Harry Potter book? How did you feel about my interpretation of the information concerning her wand? Please leave suggestions as to whom you think should receive his or her wand next. You guys make my day with your comments, so keep 'em up!
Until next time, potterheads!