Chapter 8: Soul of the Wand

"Is the 'Raine' family known in the Wizarding World?" questioned Cyrna while she chewed on a piece of steak slowly, savouring every bit of flavour that spread deliciously across her mouth. Perenelle really was an amazing cook—just like her mother.

A small twinge that she had never felt before when thinking of her parents coursed through her.

What was that? she wondered, do I miss them after all?

That was as far as she got on her musings; her emotions took a turn to elation when she heard Perenelle reply, "No, not really. I'm sure there are wizards with that name, but no one famous—it doesn't carry any particular significance or weight in Wizarding politics, if that is what you are wondering."

"Why do you ask?" questioned Nicolas curiously as he watched with barely concealed revulsion at the vegetables that Perenelle was pilling onto his plate.

A pleased grin, heavily saturated with satisfaction, spread across Cyrna's face. "To check if my background story is plausible," she answered brightly, "You see, I realized that if I didn't want to attract attention, whether it be good or bad, then it would probably be best for me to be a half-blood. Of course, the validity of that statement when possibly questioned under Veritaserum is also a bonus."

They continued to eat in amicable silence with only the occasional sounds of cutlery against dishes and Prince's happy purrs as he devoured his salmon. It was a while later that Perenelle asked Cyrna a question she had been pondering:

"But what does this have anything to do with your surname?"

A knowing look appeared on her husband's face at this question. Really, thought Perenelle wryly, the way those two think and plan are eerily similar.

"She wants to check that her name doesn't belong to anyone well-known, so she can live out her school years in blissful obscurity," Nicolas snorted as he rolled his eyes and picked at his vegetables. An amused gleam then entered his eyes as he continued, "she doesn't want to change her name because she probably realizes the host of issues that would cause."

"Oh?" wondered Perenelle as she tilted her head questioningly.

"Lies have a terrible habit of catching up to you at the worst possible time," Cyrna replied, finishing off Nicolas' thought. She shrugged indifferently, "It would also be more difficult to respond to a name I'm not familiar with—someone is bound to notice eventually, and that would definitely lead to… problems, to put lightly."

"The best sort of lies are the ones that are closest to the truth," agreed Nicolas with an approving twitch of his lips. "So what's your story going to be?"

"Half-blood from a decently well-off family where the father has a typical desk-job and the mother owns a tiny flower shop in Devon," answered Cyrna promptly.

A slight furrow made its way onto Nicolas' brows. "Why not claim to be a transfer student from America? That story would excuse you for any careless errors that you might make on the common knowledge or customs regarding Wizarding Britain," Nicolas pointed out.

"That is true," mused Cyrna thoughtfully, "however, I'd like to say that I'm fairly confident in my knowledge after the numerous books I've read on Wizarding tradition and history… besides, I would run the risk of garnering significant attention if I was a transfer student—they were bound to be in the spotlight for at least a few months in my old world," she frowned, " and I want to avoid that situation for as long as possible.


"Always be aware of the amount of magic you are releasing!" hollered Nicolas at the retreating figure, "Never lose control, and especially, be careful around the other teachers in how much magic you choose to reveal!"

"And remember dear, portkey over to King's Cross Station as soon as you've bought your wand!" called Perenelle hurriedly, "the train leaves at 11 o'clock sharp!"

The figure responded with a small nod of her head and a farewell wave before she disappeared from their view with a telltale "pop." The Flamels stood watching the empty air for a while longer before they turned as one and headed back into their mansion that now seemed much more sombre compared to the bright, colourful outdoors.

"Good riddance," muttered Nicolas dryly as he ambled down the halls with his wife to his alchemy room, "Perhaps I'll finally get a moment of peace now that I don't have to teach the child."

"Well, I'll miss the dear," said Perenelle wistfully, "it's going to be terribly silent again."

A sigh followed by an assenting grunt was heard from Nicolas as he opened the door to his lab, wondering what he was going to do without the child's occasional questions to bring him out of his boredom that he never realized he had been living in until she came. He gazed out of the small window in his potions room, revealing a beautiful sunlit day with clear blue skies. Small rays of light streamed in through the window, providing the only source of natural light for the dim candlelit room.

Good luck, Cyrna, thought Nicolas gruffly as he took one last gaze at the window before he returned to his private research.


"Ready?" Cyrna whispered nervously at Prince as she quickly ran her hands through his fur, trying to relieve her anxiety.

"Mreow."

Prince released an annoyed sigh as he answered his human for the umpteenth time. Honestly, he thought, it was ridiculous how his human had dragged him from his morning sleep just to get—what did they call those sticks—a wand? Ultimately, he had no idea why his human was so nervous. It was just a stick.

'Why couldn't she have broken one off from the trees in the estate?' he thought with derision.

With a roll of his eyes, he leapt out of Cyrna's arms and pattered over to the plain wooden door. He scratched the door impatiently and would have continued to do so if the door had not suddenly opened. With a yelp of surprise as his weight suddenly tipped forward, he tumbled into the shop, vaguely registering the quiet tinkling of bells before he unfolded himself and cautiously peered around the store. It was filled to the brim with rows upon rows of narrow wooden boxes—some of which looked new while others were covered with a layer of dust and had cobwebs forming over it. Prince gave a tiny sneeze and rubbed his irritated nose when pale, wide eyes, which seemed to glow eerily within the dark of the store, suddenly appeared in close proximity to his face—so close that he had felt the man's exhale.

He gave a small squeak of surprise and scrambled backwards, away from the eyes.

"Ah, a most unusual customer we seem to have today," spoke a soft, inquisitive voice as its owner gazed at him for a little longer before blessedly switching his large silvery eyes to focus the girl who had just stepped into his shop.

"Cyrna!" Prince mentally cried with relief before dashing over to his human and clambering up into her arms.


Cyrna gasped in surprise as the ball of white fur hurtled straight into her arms. "Prince?" questioned Cyrna in concern, "what's wrong?"

"It would seem that I have startled the poor cat," murmured a voice as a man stepped out from the shadows.

Pale skin. Eerily round moon-like eyes that seemed to stare straight into your soul.

"Mr. Ollivander," greeted Cyrna with a slight quiver in her voice that betrayed her nervousness. Definitely understandable for Prince to be scared, she privately thought.

There is no way those eyes belong to a human.

"I would say the same to you, child," replied the man, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, making him slightly more approachable.

Cyrna's eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in caution. She definitely had not said that statement out loud.

"Ah. And there goes your voice," he muttered. Taking note of his customer's surprise, he gave a small chuckle and said, "I have been told that my eyes are the most conspicuous features that I own; this fact coupled with a simple… skill… lead me to conclude what you were thinking."

Cyrna frowned at his wording. It was almost as if he had used…

"You can't use Legilimency on a student!" exclaimed Cyrna defensively.

The shopkeeper gave another quiet chuckle at that, "no, no. Of course not. But any thought that an Occlumens broadcasts is free game."

"What—"

"Anyways," he cleared his throat, "I take it you are here to buy a wand…" Mr. Ollivander trailed off in thought as his eyes focused and a piercing gaze took over his previously misty eyes as he began to take the necessary measurements for the wand.

"Right-handed?" he asked shortly.

"Yes," confirmed Cyrna before she hesitantly asked the questions that had been bugging her, "I'm not an Occlumens, so what did you mean about broadcasting? And is there something special about my eyes?" She would have continued if not for noticing that the shopkeeper was no longer paying attention to her, and was instead, wandering through the narrow, dusty aisles of the wand shop, quietly muttering to himself:

"haven't had a halfling in a while… oh, what fun," he smiled, crooked teeth showing, "… definitely not dogwood, hmm… perhaps pine…"

Making a decision, he snatched the box from the shelf and quickly scurried back to his interesting customer.

"Pine and unicorn hair. 10 inches. Very flexible," he recited, "go on," he urged, eyes sparking with curiosity as Cyrna took it from his hand, "give it a wave."

Cautiously, Cyrna gave it a small flick, and to her horror, a huge blaze of fire suddenly appeared midair.

"Nope, no, no, no, definitely not the one," muttered Mr. Ollivander as he snatched the wand from her hand and put out the fire with a quick Aguamenti. "One moment, and I'll be right back with you," said the wandmaker absentmindedly as he scurried back to the shelves.

"Hm…" he muttered as he looked through the thousands of boxes, "what do you make of the Dark Arts?"

Shocked at this question, it took a while for Cyrna to answer, but eventually, she did with the most general answer possible. "It's illegal," she replied in a clipped tone. How else am I supposed to answer this?

"Yes, yes, of course it is," Mr. Ollivanders muttered annoyed, "But are you against it, academically interested in it, or—ah!" he ended as he noticed a slight reaction from his customer at his last option. He picked up an old, beautifully carved ebony wand and ambled back to his customer.

"Here, give this one a try. Ebony and dragon heartstring. Rigid and unyielding."

She had just touched the wand when the door was violently ripped off its hinges; the windows of the store shattered, and pieces of glass crashed onto the ground.

"Definitely not." A quick Reparo later and everything was looking normal once again. The wandmaker calmly wandered back to the wands leaving a slightly traumatized Prince and Cyrna in his wake.

A few wands later with varying levels of destruction accompanying it, Cyrna heaved a sigh and looked at the old grandfather clock that sat ticking away in the dusty corner of the shop.

Wait.

Was she reading the clock correctly?

Because it read 10:40.

An hour and ten minutes have passed already!?

Well shit. If she didn't find her wand soon, she would be late for the train. Perhaps she should go to Hogwarts first and then get her wand, she thought with panic, but then how would she attend her lessons without a wand?

And so Cyrna sat nervously picking on the sleeves of her new Hogwarts school robes for a few more seconds before the anticipated voice of the wandmaker addressed her:

"Neither rigid nor flexible in your thoughts… how interesting… not daring either, nor do you place much value on the idea of fair play… ambition is lacking in you—not very competitive—and the thirst to learn for the sake of learning is also lacking…"

Cyrna mouth fell open slightly. "How did you guess all this?" she questioned with a tiny amount of awe evident in her voice.

The wandmaker flashed a quick but genuine smile at his customer, "Each wood and core represent intrinsic values within a person. The more I try various wands, the better I know you."

Her eyes sharpened at this statement and she shrewdly asked, "then doesn't that mean that you would know the character, and thus their future actions or choices, of every wizard and witch who you have sold a wand to?"

The only answer was a mischievous chuckle from the back of the store and more quiet rummaging sounds before a delighted, "Aha!" was heard. The wandmaker hurried back to his customer; large, silvery, luminescent eyes glowed brightly with excitement and curiosity.

"Here," he murmured, "this one should do the trick if I'm not wrong." Just before he handed the wand to Cyrna he gave an eerie chuckle, "filled with contradictions, aren't you, Miss Raine?" He gave her a crooked smile as his bulbous eyes attentively watched his customer.

"Hawthorn and Thestral tail hair. This was a Thestral that I had followed for years in order to get the hair," reminisced Mr. Ollivander. "It was aloof and independent, never near its herd—never needed it. And never, until its final moments, would it allow me to come close to it. This hair," he said in a hushed voice, "was harvested as he died—as life transformed into death."

Cyrna gave an involuntary shiver at the similarities between its situation and hers.

She only vaguely registered the next few words before the intricately carved handle of the wand was in her hand. She grasped it reflexively and to her surprise, found that its handle formed comfortably around her fingers, accommodating to her grip.

The wand's magic swirled gently around hers, intertwining before settling back down.

The wand had chosen her.

How did I ever live without you? She wondered in awe as she gazed at the unassuming stick that rested gently in her palms.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" the wandmaker urged with anticipation shining in his eyes, "give it a wave."

A confident smile rose onto her face. You are mine.

Without hesitation, she lifted her hand and made a sharp slash through the air; immediately, beautiful silver sparks showered the dim, shadowed store, painting the tiny shop with ethereal silver light. Hidden tears formed in Ollivander's eyes as he beheld this beautiful sight. Ah, Nyx. So you've finally chosen, haven't you?

'And a powerful one at that,' he thought with amusement.

As the glow finally settled back down, Cyrna blinked a couple of times to adjust her eyes. From the darkness, she recognized the voice of Mr. Ollivander, which sounded gruffer than usual, saying, "You'd better get going soon, the train leaves in 6 minutes."

At this, Cyrna blinked furiously to restore her vision. "How much for the wand?" she asked, ready to pay any price for it.

"You know," began the wandmaker, suddenly going off tangent, "despite the fact that the Thestral never allowed me to approach it, we did have some sort of strange relationship," he sighed with bittersweet nostalgia, "whenever it was wounded, hungry, or just trying to weather a large storm, it would always seek me—though it wouldn't let me get too close to it. Maybe something had happened to it in its past, maybe it was no longer willing to allow people or other creatures close to it for a reason…" he pondered, then with a seriousness and awareness normally absent from his pale eyes he continued, "I'm just glad that he's finally found a friend after waiting for fifty years," he said as he cast a fond gaze at the wand which, to Cyrna, seemed to pulse in response. "No," he murmured, "I can't ask for anything more." Raising his eyes, which now had a faint sheen of tears, he met Cyrna's solemn expression and whispered, "take it, care for it, and treasure it."

"Of course," Cyrna promised, rearranging her features into one that she believed to be sympathy—really, she was terribly suited for emotional moments as such. "But," she continued, "I insist to pay. I have never felt anything like I have felt today when I found my wand… if you know your customers as well as you say you do, then you must know that I hate the feeling of being indebted to someone."

"Some things, like the favour you have done for me today, simply don't have a monetary value."

Cyrna shifted uncomfortably. She was sure that this was one of the moments where not understanding sympathy put her at an analytical disadvantage at understanding the situation.

"Still…" she said stiffly as she stole another glance at the clock.

4 minutes left.

Her eyes widened in panic.

"Sorry sir," she hurriedly apologized, "I really do insist to pay."

Quickly tossing down seven galleons, the amount she remembered Harry Potter paying, she grabbed her wand and luggage and ran out the store, leaving an amused wandmaker behind. Once his customer vanished, his thoughts returned to the Thestral:

She's stubborn, just like you, Nyx.

He gave a peaceful sigh as a weight lifted from his heart at knowing that his friend had finally found an owner.

A wand filled with contradictions: as easily Dark as it could be Light. Supple grip, rigid body. Really, he mused, he could go on forever about that wand.

Glancing at the seven gold coins lying innocuously on his palms, his thoughts turned serious as he sent a silent plea to his friend:

Take care of her, Nyx, don't let her fall from her path.

Miles away in King's Cross station, Cyrna cast a quick glance at her wand as it gave a sudden throb.