Obtain
I could have gone a lot of different directions with Mr. Ollivander, it's true. But you know what? I was in the mood for adorable. Cute, fluffy, happy family time adorable. Therefore, I give you…tiny baby Mr. Ollivander. And by tiny baby, I mean on the cusp of Hogwarts. So yes. Happy reading! P.S. small nod to one Hermione Granger here through Mr. Ollivander…you'll notice it when you get to it, I'm sure. ;)
The cobbles that covered the streets of Diagon Alley were drenched in floods of rain, making the walk to the famous wand shop significantly more precarious than usual. The boy darted easily between seas of robe clad legs, sliding his way down the winding road without colliding with anything, be it wizard, creature, or stall. He glanced worriedly at the grand clock ticking ominously not far away, letting out a small yelp and hurrying his pace. Dodging to his right to avoid a swinging handbag, he used the slick wetness layered along the street to glide down the gutter, throwing out an arm at the last minute to catch hold of a door frame. He wrenched the door open and stepped inside, shaking himself like a dog in an attempt to dry himself as the tinkling of a bell announced his presence. For a moment he thought his attempt had been a success, until the rough clearing of a male throat made him jump in surprise.
"You're late," the deep voice scolded, rearranging a few boxes on a shelf. The boy cringed, shoulders slumping slightly in defeat as he let out a sigh.
"I'm sorry, Father," Garrick muttered, shuffling his feet and watching the rain drip from his clothes. "I lost track of time."
Gervaise Ollivander turned to his son with a smirk, not even attempting to hide his amusement. "What book has caught your attention now?"
Garrick couldn't help the enthusiastic grin that came to his face as he met his father's eyes. "Hogwarts: A History. I thought I should prepare myself properly."
The wand maker chuckled softly, returning his attention to the merchandise before him. "Of course. Go and dry yourself by the fire and get to work, then."
Following the elder Ollivander's instructions, the child stood by the great fireplace beside the front desk, allowing the heat to evaporate the moisture from his clothes. They could have easily magiced the material dry, but Gervaise would not allow any unnecessary spells to be performed in the shop, particularly around those who dealt with the wands directly. Any magic used on Garrick would result in residual magic on his body, interfering with the wands' natural properties. Such a simple and easily amendable act as drying clothing was not worth risking harm to the volatile instruments.
After a few minutes warming himself in the flames' glow, he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, heading into the back room of the shop to get his supplies. At ten years old, he wasn't yet allowed to participate in the creation of wands yet, but his father had come to entrust him with the task of labeling each box prior to it being placed on its appropriate shelf. His handwriting proved to be smooth and clear, ideal for easy identification no matter how high or far the box was placed. He situated himself on the stool at the desk, settling in to a morning of writing.
Hours later, Garrick stretched, rubbing the ache from the back of his neck gently. He paused to watch his father speak with a short, blonde haired girl about his age. She held a small packet in her elegant hand, passing it over to Gervaise while speaking quickly, hardly taking a moment for breath. The wand maker smiled dotingly down at her as he took the packet in his grasp, reassuring her that her request would be accommodated. He led her to the door, informing her to return the next week for the finished product before approaching Garrick's desk. The boy frowned slightly, studying the packet with a dubious expression.
"What is it this time?" he asked distastefully, capping the ink beside him and pushing his notes of wand woods, lengths, and cores aside. Gervaise clapped his son on the shoulder, dropping the slip of material into his son's ink stained fingers.
"Veela hair," the wizard replied evenly, studying the newly labeled boxes. "A finicky core, certainly, but not impossible. We were able to determine the appropriate wood and length fairly easily, so it shouldn't be too much of a challenge."
Garrick snorted, sorting the empty boxes with a bit more force than was necessary. "I don't understand why you allow customers to bring in their own materials. It seems so much more logical to allow the wands to do their task appropriately and place themselves with the proper owner on their own."
"Yes, well, when you're a proper wand maker yourself, you are more than welcome to prove me wrong," Gervaise admonished, though he couldn't keep the touch of pride from creeping into his voice. Garrick continued to grumble irritably to himself as he collected the finished boxes, carrying them precariously to the work station where his father crafted his wares. He was distracted from his usual tirade of indignation that resulted from a customer arriving with some special sentimental order by the rows of finished wands resting on the rough surface. Each had been meticulously formed, following the same methods passed down by the first Ollivander generations before, smoothed and polished until the magic nearly shimmered on their surfaces. He ran a hand slowly across the rows of wood, barely ghosting over their edges. He thought he felt a strange sensation of familiarity glide up his arm as he did so, but the feeling ended so swiftly that he was unsure whether it was imagined or real. Shrugging it off as a particularly potent core, he pulled the boxes forward and began organizing the wands into their appropriate places.
He had almost reached the last of the stack when it happened. He reached for the wand's tag first, intrigued by the thin, light brown wood. The tiny piece of parchment read, "Hornbeam, twelve and three-fourths inches, dragon heartstring." His brows furrowed slightly, his hand automatically stretching out to grip the implement to inspect it further. As soon as his fingers fastened around it, he felt a rush of energy course through him, centered in the wand clasped firmly in his palm. He let out a gasp as it nearly hummed in his grip, solidifying what he already suspected.
"Fa-father!" he cried, hearing the man come crashing in behind him. Garrick spun about, meeting Gervaise' startled eyes. The wand maker glanced from his son's face to his outstretched arm, the fear changing to enthusiastic elation. He beamed down at the stunned child, pulling him into a rough hug.
"Perhaps you were right, my boy," he mumbled as Garrick remained silent, gaping at his tightly held wand. "It seems that, more often than not, it's best to let the wand chose the wizard."