Survival

II

Diagon Alley

…

..

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"Ollivander's has been around since B.C," Harry spoke quietly.

The wandmaker turned a curious eye on him, his gnarled fingers absentmindedly stroking the white stubble that littered his jawline. "Indeed," murmured Ollivander. "Your astute observation - ?" Harry wasn't sure if he was being made fun of, or if the man was actually surprised that he thought the fact noteworthy enough to comment on.

Harry gently pushed the hovering tape measurer away from his nostrils. "Why, then - should the wands not hold ancient secrets?"

Ollivander turned away so that the young boy wouldn't see his delighted smile. "My dear Mr Potter," he began, "what sort of secrets would they be if I simply told you?"

Harry grinned slightly. "What good is a secret if no-one knows it?"

Ollivander hobbled back to the boy, wrinkled hands clutching a long, thin box. "Touché," he admitted, then drew himself together. "Now, Mr Potter, simply take the wand and give it a wave," he ordered, lifting the box's lid to reveal a thickened mahogany twig, whittled into shape.

Harry obliged, stretching out pale fingers. He grasped the wand, lifted it and gave it an indifferent wave. Sparks shot out and fizzled out of existence. The wand melted, flopping over so much so as some such dying fish.

Ollivander frowned. "Oh, dear."

"Quite," Harry agreed. "Perhaps something with a little more … finesse?"

"Finesse!" crackled the wandmaker. He clutched his middle, the box tumbling to the floor. "Finesse!" he yowled.

Harry frowned. "Mr Ollivander - "

"Mr Potter," Ollivander rebutted, eyes swimming with mirth. "This shop is a Maker of Fine Wands. I assure you, we do … finesse," he smothered a laugh and retreated into the lopsided aisles of wands, muttering and tutting as he shoved boxes aside in his search.

Harry didn't see what was so funny.

"Aha!" crowed the old man as he hurried towards the young wizard. "Try this!" He brandished a wand to the slightly bewildered boy. "Nine inches, somewhat bendy, with Siren hair, enwrapped in pine."

Subsequently, a slight quake occurred at their feet, and Ollivander snatched the wand back. "I thought for sure …" he muttered furiously. "The control Sirens exert on their victims … and … " He eyed the wand thoughtfully, realisation dawning. "Unless …" He snuck a peek at the Boy-Who-Lived's famous scar. "Perhaps … just maybe … ."

Ollivander coughed and gripped yet another box, this one held carefully, as if it were fragile. Lifting the lid, he offered the wand to Harry, the motion the epitome of worshipful devotion. "Holly and Phoenix feather," he said, "eleven inches …" he breathed, anticipation lining his shoulders.

Harry stifled a smile. He leaned forward, the tape at his shoulder leaning with him, and reached for the wand. His fingers hovered lovingly over it, a remnant from the past, and then, with one quick, desperate motion, he plucked up the wand and gave it a wave -

Nothing happened. Not a bang, not a shimmer, not a spark. Harry wilted.

"It didn't work," he said dumbly. "I thought - "

"Yes, well, so did I," said Ollivander gruffly. "Never-mind then! Tricky customer, eh?" He seemed disappointed, but also overwhelmingly excited, like some genius mathematician finally presented with a worthy problem, a challenge to defeat.

Harry tried to shake off his stupor, and failed. "But - " he murmured. "My wand - "

Ollivander paused, then set a gentle hand on the distraught boy's shoulder. Then, speaking quickly and with an almost frantic energy, he said, "Mr Potter, the wand chooses the wizard. Holly is a wand-wood well-suited for those of whom are greatly protective, yet somewhat … temperamental … shall we say … ? The Phoenix feather almost detached; an odd combination, indeed. The wand chooses the wizard," he repeated, "and this is not the wand for you! Oh no. You see, Mr Potter, people change, and the wands, in their infinite wisdom, know this. Quasi-sentient, did you know? I suspect not. Never fear. We will find you a wand, and what an adventure it will be; I am almost certain of it." He gave Harry a crazed smile, washed-out eyes shining.

As he walked off, Harry could've sworn he heard Ollivander say: "The wizard changes; the wand changes."

And so it went. Beech; Yew; Blackthorn; Willow; Walnut; Vine; Acacia; Cedar; Ash … none fit, not with Basilisk fang nor Dragon heartstring; not Veela hair nor Thestral tail hair. It seemed hopeless.

"You may be my trickiest customer yet," Ollivander admitted, sagging against a dangerously large pile of boxes and shelves. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and he was breathing deeply, his eyes flickering from Harry to the shelves, Harry to the shelves, back and forth, back and forth. He seemed possessed. "The wand … " he whispered intently. Suddenly he stood erect, and demanded Harry's attention: "Mr Potter, explain yourself."
Harry blinked. "Excuse me, sir?"

Ollivander cracked his neck and gestured. "Your personality, Mr Potter! I must admit, never before have I struggled so … Not even with your mother, of whom I originally offered Vine, only for her to leave with Willow." He paused, a somewhat nostalgic look on his face. "She was quiet … highly intelligent … and your father; oh your father!" he laughed softly, the sound akin to cracking parchment. "I knew the moment I sold him that wand that he was a prankster at heart." His eyes caught Harry's. "But you, Mr Potter … You are like water; your surface clear, your depths untold." Ollivander swayed and then hovered over Harry. "I cannot see you … I look, and you are small and green-eyed; I look, and you are serious, quiet … You've said only a handful of sentences in" - he cast a quick Tempus - "three hours. I look, and you are mature and reserved - yet … yet …" he floundered. "There is something in your face … a mark … a scar …"

Harry uncomfortably shifted and brushed his hair over his lightning bolt scar, only to have his hand slapped away by the wandmaker.

"Not that scar, boy!" he snapped. Ollivander's eyes grew unfocused. "The mark of …" he sucked in a lungful of breath, "of Death!" He bared his yellowed teeth.

Panic clawed at Harry. He can't know, he frantically assured himself. "I survived the Killing Curse -" he attempted, and received an amused, annoyed look in return.

"Hmm …" Ollivander rocked back on his heels. "I know just the wand … " His tailcoat fluttered as he spun away.

Harry stared after him blankly for a moment, then quickly followed, his feet barely a whisper of noise. "Where are we going?"

Ollivander waved his hands wildly. "What can I say, m'boy?" He turned a mischievous smile on Harry. "Where are any of us going?"

They entered into the back room of the shop. A fine layer of dust coated the creaking floors, and Harry held back a cough. Ollivander seemed unaware of his surroundings, his watery eyes peeled as he knelt in the gloom, hands scuffling hysterically at the edges of the floorboards.

"Sir?"

There was no reply.

Abruptly, like a dog sighting its prey, Ollivander sprung into action, the filth of the room billowing. The floors shuddered as two panels were peeled from their resting grounds, moaning. The wandmaker cast the floorboards to the side, leather shoes glinting as they pivoted with the motion of their movements.

"Come," ordered Ollivander as he disappeared into the hole in the floor he'd revealed.

Harry stood still. There was silence as he breathed. He felt something, then, in that room. That room with four walls and one door. A sort of … terrible urgency … the kind one might feel in the middle of the night, for no good reason at all; the one which steals about, borne of the buzzing in one's ears and the full emptiness in one's chest. How horrible it was, to feel that weight, that full darkness, like some poor, cursed creature only now realising how pathetic its existence was, how sad the picture its pitiful form depicted.

And then he dropped down into the hidden room, gravity made redundant by the heaviness of his heart.

What destiny, what prophecy, indeed.

And so it was that Harry followed Ollivander, torches lighting his way through the stone corridors beneath the wand shop, towards the weapon that would guide that terrible urgency.

"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter."

"I know," said Harry, black hair falling into his eyes, "but I fear this wand" - he lifted it from Ollivander's hands - "is the sort that is made of the stuff of legends."

The wandmaker grinned, and when he did, Harry observed how the skin around his eyes and mouth formed burrows, and the mischievousness of his nature grew in leaps and bounds. "My dear Mr Potter," he said, "never fear; no wood and no manipulation of an extended aide can make a legend, for a legend is itself already inherent, merely waiting to be whittled from its prison."

Harry smiled absently. He had no clue what that meant. "Begging your pardon - "

"All I mean is that you are what you are, no matter what you bear."

Harry held aloft the wand. In the dim light, it shone like the Northern star. He spoke in a hushed voice. "But you said the wand chooses the wizard. Is this wand not a legend, and thereby I, by means of association?"
"Careful, Mr Potter," said Ollivander darkly, "that you do not become the demon which haunts each of us."

And to this, there was no reply.

Author's note:

Why have I not described the wand? I do not yet know what it will be. Although I have an idea … Suggestions, please?

Questions?

This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I love the idea of back-in-time Harry and I landed up typing this little piece … should I continue? Or leave it as is, the mystery of Harry Potter labyrinthine in complexity?

Yes, I am aware I skipped ahead in time. I wrote a piece of fanfic on Harry entering Diagon Alley, but I didn't like it, so I scrapped it. Do you have anything specific you want to occur?

"

there are devilish thoughts

even in the most angelic minds

-rachel wolchin

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