Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Round 5: The Mystery Boxes

Theme: Write something canon

Position: Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies

Prompt: (object) Wand

Word Count (Pages): 1,097

Thank you to my editors, MelodyPond77 and TheNextFolchart.

Rowan

The door to Ollivander's Wand Shop is faded and creaky, and if you were to walk down Diagon Alley in the dead of night you might hear it rattling as if something inside is trying to get out. Ignore that—it's just the wind tugging at the locks that no longer sit quite right. It's only to be expected. The other doors on this street don't clatter quite so much, but the other doors haven't been swinging on their hinges since 382 B.C., and the Ollivanders aren't exactly known for their remodeling tendencies.

They're known for their wands.

"Rowan wood." Ollivander leans over his counter and hands the wand to the eleven-year-old girl before him. "Very protective, rowan wands. Good for dangerous times like these."

The girl holds the wand at arm's length, trembling as if afraid it might explode. Her gray eyes flash to his own and then, as she realizes he's looking back, flick down to her shoes.

"Give it a wave." Ollivander mimes waving a wand. The girl carefully flicks her wrist. A shower of pink rose petals flurries from the ceiling. The girl smiles.

Ollivander tries to return the smile.

For a moment, he allows himself to think of her.

The silver bell that hangs above the door chimes as the girl skips out of his shop, one hand wrapped around her new wand while the other grips the edge of her father's robes. Ollivander drops the payment into the pouch on his hip one Galleon at a time: one, two, three—the sound of the coins clinking against each other echo through the dusty shop—four, five—he has sold exactly one wand today, which is better than yesterday but only half as good as the day before—six—his shop seems emptier and emptier, nowadays—seven.

The bell above the door chimes again.

Ollivander looks up. "Mr. Longbottom."

The boy called Longbottom stops halfway between the door and the counter. "How d'you know my name?"

"You look like them." Ollivander fixes his eyes on Longbottom's face. "Alice. Frank. I remember the day your parents walked into my shop."

Longbottom casts his eyes down. "Oh."

"Ebony and dragon heartstring. Eleven inches. Springy. That was your mother's wand."

Longbottom says nothing.

"And your father's . . . let me see. . . ."

"Ashwood," Longbottom says. He looks up. "With a phoenix feather core."

Ollivander nods. "Thirteen inches."

"It's mine, now. I inherited it." Longbottom reaches into the pocket of his robes and pulls out the wand in question, hopelessly splintered. "It was destroyed," he says. "At the Ministry last month."

Ollivander raises his eyebrows as Longbottom drops the broken wand on the counter. "Yes," Ollivander says as he runs a gentle palm over the small heap of pieces. "I did read something about all that in the Prophet."

Longbottom nods. His eyes remain fixed on his father's wand. "I picked up as many pieces as I could find." He looks up. "Do you think you can fix it?"

Ollivander presses his lips together.

Longbottom's chin quivers.

"I'm sorry."

Longbottom scrubs a quick fist under his eyes. "'S'all right."

Ollivander's mind flashes to the girl with the rowan wood wand. "Of course it isn't."

Longbottom closes his eyes. "It was the only thing I had of his." Two tears tumble down his face. Ollivander sees the hint of a bruise coloring one cheekbone. "My Gran always said it was a great wand, but I—I couldn't—I let them break it."

Ollivander's throat aches.

"If I were strong like them it wouldn't have happened."

"You are not your parents, Mr. Longbottom." Ollivander folds his hands on the counter. "May I show you something?"

Longbottom opens his eyes. "What is it?"

Ollivander reaches down to the bottommost shelf tucked behind his counter and coaxes out a weathered wand box. "Rowan wood," he says as he opens the box for Longbottom to see. "Dragon heartstring. Fourteen-and-a-half inches. Unyielding."

Longbottom peers at the wand. "It's . . . nice."

"It belonged to my daughter."

"Oh."

Ollivander gazes at the faint fingerprint marks on the handle. "She died," he says. "Eight months ago."

"Oh."

Ollivander closes the box. "Death Eater attacks in Windsor. There was nothing I could have done." He returns the box to the bottom shelf. "I blame myself anyway."

Longbottom shakes his head. His eyes have gone steely. "It's not you. It's not either of us. It's him."

Ollivander is silent for a moment. "I'm sorry I can't fix your father's wand, Mr. Longbottom."

Longbottom sets his jaw and for a moment, Ollivander sees a fifteen-year-old Frank standing before him. "S'pose I'll be needing a new one, then. A powerful one. The most powerful you've got."

Ollivander smiles. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Longbottom." He turns and plucks a box from the middle of a shelf. "Try this one. Ebony, like your mother's. Nine inches. Rigid."

Longbottom only touches the wand for a second before Ollivander shakes his head. "Not quite right, not quite right." He beckons for Longbottom to hand the wand back. "I wonder." He lifts a wand from the top of a stack. "Phoenix feather core. Bendy." With trembling hands, he passes the wand to Longbottom. "Rowan wood."

Longbottom takes the wand. Nothing happens, and Ollivander can't decide whether he's devastated or relieved.

"Not to worry. Rowan is tricky," Ollivander says as Longbottom hands the wand back with a dejected expression. "It is commonly stated that no dark witch or wizard ever owned a rowan wand, and I cannot recall a single instance where one of my own rowan wands has gone on to do evil in the world. But ever since Windsor—well, it's difficult for me to part with rowan." He puts the wand back on the shelf. "Try . . . this one. Cherry. Unicorn hair. Thirteen inches." He hands Longbottom the box. "It's a rare combination."

Longbottom takes the handle carefully.

The wand hums loudly.

Longbottom's face lights up. "It works!" He looks up at Ollivander. "But I don't understand. It's nothing like my parents'."

"You are not your parents, Mr. Longbottom. But that does not mean you will not do great things."

Longbottom's smile is faint, but his eyes are bright.

As Longbottom pays and leaves, Ollivander drops the Galleons into the pouch at his hip—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. He gazes at the faded front door as it sways in its frame.

It's made of rowan wood, that door, and Ollivander is oddly comforted by the sound of the wind rattling against the hinges.