Disclaimer: The Harry Potter franchise belongs to author JK Rowling and Warner Bros. Therefore, all characters, trademarks, names and other related indicia within this fanfiction are the property of the party's afore-mentioned and any other respective owners.
-x- Bones -x-
"You cannot erase the past. You cannot even change it. But sometimes life offers you the opportunity to put it right."
Ann Brashares
It was the summer of '91 and the shop was perfectly empty.
So much so, that Galatea considered hanging-up the closed sign and taking the afternoon off.
The store was fraught with dusty shelves, stacked in slovenly rows. Thousands of narrow boxes stretching downwards along vast corridors piled right up to the ceiling. The only decorative touch to the otherwise austere place was a single, spindly chair, tucked so far into the corner it might well have been part of the wallpaper.
Waving a delicate hand over the dustpan and broom, the young witch took little notice of the object's bursting to life. Cheerily sweeping the sooty floor as they went, one after the other.
Galatea had been privileged enough to have grown up into a family where knowing the extensions of one's magic was absolutely paramount. Her Grandfather always instilling his opinion that a wand is merely a vessel, a conduit for a witch's or wizard's magic, and with a bit a of practice any person may be able to perform all sorts of spells without the need of a wand. A strange mantra to preach for a wand-maker, she often thought,
"Focus on the broom, Tee. It's getting a little enthusiastic."
Galatea cast her gaze from the book in-hand to the jittering object swishing, back and forth, in a chaotic whirl of dust. Above, a mop of silver hair dangled unruly over the banister, her Grandfathers face appearing between it. She shrugged his way in apology and removed her wand to correct the mistake; the broom falling back into line,
"Sorry, my mind was completely adrift. "
A soft smile encased his thin lips, eyes all bright and twinkling,
"No need to apologise, my dear. It's good to see you practicing your wandless magic."
The gesture plucked, like a bow to a string, at her young heart. She preferred it when the old man smiled. It made him look younger, happier,
"I never get much of a chance back home. You know how Uncle Gallagher thinks it crude."
The older man turned his nose up at her remark, going back to work with a steely grumble. It was no secret that her Grandfather wasn't too keen on his son's by-the-book attitude to magic. The wizard strutted about as if he were a walking encyclopedia. Yes, the man could conjure this and charm that, but he hadn't the interest in broadening his mind to all the possibilities one's magic could offer. Leaving her Grandfather in a sour mood when her Uncle had a chance to visit.
Outside, the streets bustled with a dozen or so witches and wizards, all cooing and gushing, crowding round something Galatea couldn't see. Two boys walked past the window-front, their babyish faces flummoxed as they tried to relay what they'd seen to their friends.
The young witch proceeded, monitoring the stages of her cleaning and ignoring the commotion outside. It seemed that even under distraction she'd managed to complete the task at hand. And with a dainty swish of a finger, the dustpan and broom skipped back into the alcove from whence they came,
"Book down, young lady. We're expecting a visitor."
Her Grandfathers voice settled in her ears, it's tone rather suspicious. It wasn't his usual chirpy pitch, rather the more authoritative voice he used when dishing out arduous chores.
This visitor was obviously someone of great stature. So it came as a strange sort of shock when a young wizard, no older than eleven pushed aside the old, oak door,
"I wondered when I'd be seeing you, Mr. Potter…"
It was in the summer of '91 when Galatea Ollivander first caught sight of the Boy-Wonder.
Back then, she'd come to the rash conclusion that he seemed rather unremarkable. From his too-big muggle clothes, to the nervous shuffle in his walk. But back then, Galatea was a mere witch of twenty-one; she knew little of war. Of how the Dark Lord would come to re-shape the twentieth century dragging it back, kicking and screaming, into the dark ages.
Then again, Harry Potter knew even less about young Galatea Ollivander. A rare witch, from an ancient line of even rarer wizards and witches.
Such as shame the pair would only meet once more. On a cold, starless night seven years from now…