A SURPRISING MAN

August 2005

He'd been planning this since the day he'd told her she was a witch, since she'd asked for one of her own. It had been far less difficult than he'd imagined, but Ollivander was a surprising man, and for that he was thankful.

Even during the dark days of the war, when the shadow of Voldemort hung over them all, and most heavily over the Manor, Mr Ollivander had surprised him, by virtue of the depth of his wisdom and the strength of his spirit, not that Draco had much been in the position to absorb it at the time.

The first time he'd known it to be true was when he'd found himself knocking on the door of Ollivander's shop on Diagon Alley, just over a year after the war, hiding his face from others passing by in the street, and the old man had answered.

It was a dull, wet evening, rain plodding down determinedly, the sky heavy and grey and he was desperate. The door opened, and there stood the wandmaker, his expression rather severe in the gloomy light, but, as he stepped to the side to allow Draco admittance, his eyes were clear and free from anger, which was unexpected. The mere fact that he'd gained entrance to the man's shop was frankly bewildering to him, after what Ollivander had experienced in his family home.

Draco stepped through into the shop and Ollivander shut the door behind him. The shop was like a cave, dim and full of yawning shadows, and smelled overpoweringly of dust. Mr Ollivander turned towards him and regarded him sternly.

"I did wonder if I'd be seeing you," he stated, his voice hoarse, though not weak.

Draco chose not respond. He'd always found silence to be an excellent conversational weapon, and it did not fail him now, as Ollivander took a breath and continued.

"The last time I saw you, you were still a child... still a boy, caught in the dark shadow of his father's legacy," he paused. "Now, however, I see you are trying to grow into a man. What type of man, though? We shall see, I think."

Draco tensed as he listened to the wandmaker speak, and then forced himself to relax, not to flare up at the man's presumption – how dare he – but he needed the man's help, and he had told himself he needed to come here to make amends to the man.

It was hard. That was all.

Still, he promised himself a large drink afterwards, knowing what that would mean, and not caring. Longing for it, in fact.

"Do you know why I'm here?" he asked.

"I have my suspicions," replied Ollivander.

"And what are they?"

"I think I shall keep them to myself, thank you," he replied with a knowing smirk. "And considering it was you who came knocking on my door, I believe the burden falls on you to speak and state your purpose."

He was reluctant to admit it, but he had to acknowledge the man had a point, and said as much to the older man, who allowed himself a wry smile.

"I am here to beg your help," Draco began, "and also to offer... my apologies." He was aware as he spoke them how entirely inadequate his words were. How could he possibly being to express the shame, the galling remorse – how he was sickened with it, broken by regret and disgust. "I... I am not a brave man Mr Ollivander, I'm sure you know that. My actions... what I did... I have no excuse for, save that I was scared. A coward.

"There are no words... and as it is I couldn't possibly explain..." he continued haltingly, and resolutely not looking at the other man, because apologies were not something that came easily to any Malfoy. "You were there, at Malfoy Manor; you know who resided there, and what he did.

"The things I've seen..." he had to pause as images of Charity Burbage's despoiled body came forth unbidden – blood, fuck, so much blood... and the smell of death, almost tangible in the thick air – and Draco felt his head swim, and his longing for a drink increased tenfold.

"I was just sixteen when I took the Mark," he went on, clinging on bitterly. "Scant weeks after my birthday, and my father in Azkaban... It was a mess. I thought I was doing right by my family – proud, I suppose, to be taking up my father's mantle," he said, then sighed and continued, his voice weary even to his own ears. "It was a neat little trap I walked myself into. I wonder sometimes, did I ever have a choice? Probably not.

"Anyway, by the time I realised I wanted out... well, it was impossible by then," he paused wearily. "But I need your help. And I know I ought to apologise – and, yes, I am sorry – for every damned minute"-

But it seemed that the wandmaker had heard enough, holding up a hand to halt Draco's lengthy speech. There was silence for a moment before he spoke.

"Mr Malfoy, I am not a young man, by any measure, and I have seen witches and wizards of every kind – He Who Must Not Be Named himself, lest we forget- pass through my doors, waiting for a wand to answer the call of their magic, to choose them. I remember them all. I remember every wand I have made, every wand I have sold.

"I remember your wand, Mr Malfoy," the wandmaker went on, eyeing Draco beadily. "Hawthorn and unicorn hair, ten inches exactly, and reasonably pliant. Do you know what they say about the hawthorn wand?"

Draco shook his head, unsure of where the man was going with this speech.

"They say that hawthorn makes for a complex wand, a conflicted wand," Ollivander continued, "at variance with itself because of the duality of it's nature, and drawn to those who are similarly conflicted; seeking a complexity of mind and a surety of magical talent and skill. The wand knows it's own nature, and you can tell much about a person, simply by looking to their wand.

"But your wand... the wand they say killed the Dark Lord, isn't that right? I can't imagine they were good enough, over at the Ministry, to return it to you. Whose wand do you use now? May I see it?"

Draco handed the wand over without a word.

"Not your father's wand, I see," Ollivander murmured, peering at the wand in the poor light. "Why don't you use it?"

"It was destroyed," Draco replied shortly.

"I see. A pity, I think. It was an ancient wand, was it not? Very unusual too, elm and dragon heartstring, eighteen inches, rigid..." the other man, went on, sounding rather distant. "Over a thousand years old... Armand Malfoy, I believe, was the original owner."

Draco felt a jolt, as he heard the history of his father's wand, a well-cherished family heirloom, recited back to him. An heirloom that should have been his to inherit, he thought resentfully. It had been a powerful wand, but one had to be ready to wield it, to harness the power the wand channelled. Draco regretted the loss of it bitterly.

"This wand, however," he continued, "acacia and phoenix feather, eleven and a quarter inches, unexpectedly yielding... This wand belongs to Severus Snape."

"He's dead," Draco cut in harshly, "as I am sure you know."

"How did it come to you?"

"He... he left his possessions in care of my mother. She... gifted it to me."

"It won't work for you," Ollivander sighed. "It's likely that it will never work for anyone again."

"Why?"

"Acacia is an unusual wood, Mr Malfoy. They make for tricky wands, even at the best of times, which is why I only keep a very few of them here in my shop," he replied. "Once paired with a witch or wizard, the acacia will only work for them – and will refuse to produce magic for any other witch or wizard who attempts to use it.

"However," he continued, clearly enjoying himself, "it can be bent to the will of a witch or wizard who shows significant magical talent"-

"Mr Ollivander," Draco cut in, coldly, "are you attempting to imply that my magic is somehow lacking?"

"Certainly not," Ollivander responded, looking almost affronted. "What you must understand, is that the wood is not the only element at play here. The core of the wand will react with the wood in such a way that it will amplify certain magical aspects of the wand. So, for example, the unicorn hair – in the case of the acacia wand – will enhance the fidelity and the connection between wand and wizard, but the properties of the unicorn hair will also make the wand less fastidious.

"The acacia wand itself is subtle and immensely varied in the magic it can produce, but is demanding, as I've already explained. The phoenix feather, as I am sure you are aware, is a singularly powerful magical element, and the way that it interacts with the wand is exponentially different, and almost impossible to predict, even for an experienced wandmaker such as I," he finished, handing the wand back to Draco.

Draco found himself beginning to understand.

"I'm going to need a new wand."

"Yes."

The word fell like a stone through the dusty air.

Draco wondered would he have to grovel in order to procure a new wand. He could have found another wandmaker, bought one from the shop in Hogsmeade, or gone to France... but he had never done things the easy way, for all he liked to take the easy way out.

But once again Mr Ollivander surprised him.

"Come along then, Mr Malfoy," he spoke, striding into the dusty depths of his shop. "Let us find you a new wand."

It had taken time, but he'd found the right one in the end. He hadn't lingered, paying for the wand, and returning to France to drown himself in alcohol. But it was not the last time he was to see the man. Over the years, on his search for arcane magical texts and ancient artefacts, he'd turned to the wandmaker for his advice, consulting him on more than one occasion, and always coming away surprised and thoughtful.

And so, when he turned to Ollivander for help, the man had accepted the proposal with a few questions and one long, probing look. Draco had expected the man to be somewhat unwilling – especially as he was retired now – but he had shown no reluctance at all, and instead nodded with a sort of shrewd comprehension.

Which was how he ended up standing next to Hermione in Ollivander's shop in Diagon Alley, awaiting the appearance of the wandmaker.

The shop was closed, utterly deserted, and the silence was rich in their ears. Tendrils of late evening light trickled through the narrow windows, and Draco could see the motes of ever-present dust floating in the air. Hermione's eyes were wide and thoughtful, gaze travelling over the entirety of the shop, but she did not speak.

She was twisting her hands together in nervousness, and he found himself rubbing small, soothing circles onto her lower back. She started slightly as the thready sound of Ollivander's voice filtered though the dusty shelves, and he came into sight.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mr Malfoy," he was saying as he walked, but then he stopped rather abruptly as his pale eyes fell onto Hermione. "And Miss Granger? Well, this is a surprise. Forgive me, but you were believed to have..." he paused for a moment to search for the appropriate word. "Disappeared."

"Well, as you can see, sir, that's not quite the case," she replied, with a touch of asperity, eyeing the man warily.

Draco didn't blame her. For all Ollivander was a highly intelligent wizard, and one he respected, there was something unnerving, something faintly eerie about the man.

"Indeed," he nodded. "Vine wood, if I recall correctly, and dragon heartstring. Ten and three-quarter inches, unusually unyielding, but all in all, a lovely wand. A most remarkable pairing, given what you achieved with it. Mr Malfoy tells me you are in need of a new wand, it that right?" he asked, peering at her.

"Yes. Please," she replied immediately.

And so the process began. Mr Ollivander looked Hermione over, murmuring something about 'a fundamental change' and 'elemental shifts', then disappeared into the mire of shelves that made up the wandmaker's shop.

Draco caught Hermione's eye, and she shot him a bewildered look, before glancing back to the labyrinthine shelves, from where they could hear muffled sounds emerging. He smirked slowly and gave her a faint shrug by way of a reply, and had to stifle a laugh when she emitted a noise that sounded something like a growl of exasperation.

Ollivander returned, clutching boxes, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. He placed the boxes onto a table and turned to Hermione, holding out the first wand.


There it was; her wand. She knew it. The wand was highly polished and the wood was a lovely claret colour, not too long, and quite elegant. Almost unconscious of the movement, she stretched her hand out to take the wand from the strange old man with the gleaming eyes.

She held it for a moment, running considering eyes over the richly-hued wood, unaware of anything else but the feel of it in her hand. And then, before she could even draw breath, the wand was gone from her grasp and a new one had replaced it.

"Larch and dragon heartstring, nine and three-quarter inches, rather bendy," the man was saying. "Go on, give it a try."

But once again it was snatched away before she could even try using it. What exactly was this Ollivander was looking for? She couldn't understand it, and for once, wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer, much less ask the question.

"Now this"- another wand pressed between her fingers – "Ebony and unicorn hair, ten inches, rather rigid."

And again, it was gone, before she could even feel the weight of the instrument in her hand, and the whole experience began to seem a bit fruitless, as she watched the wandmaker pace amongst the shelves dizzyingly. He returned with yet another stack of wands, muttering to himself – "A clash! A clash is what we need!" – and Hermione wondered briefly if he was entirely the full shilling.

Then another wand, and another one, on and on it continued, and the last light of the day stretching itself the length of the shop, and Mr Ollivander's expression growing more and more complex; brow furrowed, a gleam of excitement in his eyes, the faint twitching of his mouth.

But then, finally, after what seemed like an age (but really, had been maybe forty minutes or so), Ollivander placed a wand into her hand and she felt her pulse begin to race. That strangely familiar warmth, and a pull unlike anything she could recall began to sing through her frame, and then, without conscious volition she raised her hand and spoke a word that was clamouring within her, begging to be uttered.

"Avis!" she cried out, and to her surprise a flock of starlings erupted from the tip of her wand, fluttering gaily above their heads.

Hermione raised her eyes to watch them, a smile breaking out on her face – marvelling at the simple birds – her birds – who had begun to settle among the rafters, high up in the roof. She turned her eyes to Draco, sharing a warm look, noting the pride lurking behind his ever-present smirk.

"Very lovely, Miss Granger, but then, they didn't call you the brightest of her age for no reason," Ollivander smiled at her, and she was surprised to find it lightened his whole demeanour. "Griselda Marchbanks was a great friend of mine. She remarked to me before died that she hadn't seen such skill and flair with a wand since Dumbledore himself. And, to be entirely fair, Miss Granger, that is really saying something."

Hermione felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment. She could at least understand the comparison to Dumbledore, given she knew who he was now, but she had no idea who Griselda Marchbanks was. She looked down again at the wand clutched in her hand, feeling as though it was already an extension of her very self, and realised that she didn't know what kind of wand it was.

"Mr. Ollivander?" she asked, a rather sheepish expression creeping onto her face, "Could you remind me... which wand is this?"

"Of course," he replied. "This wand is ten and a half inches, made from cedar and phoenix feather, a combination which frequently clashes, but when matched correctly will create truly stunning magic. Cedar, you see, Miss Granger, is attracted to a person with great strength of character, tremendous loyalty, and unusual perception. It makes a wand of hidden depths, and drawn to those whose potential runs deep.

"Phoenix feather," he continued, finding an eager audience in her, "as you are most likely aware, is a remarkable magical element, and rare enough too. It is the most powerful element I use in my wands – highly intuitive, with a vast scope of magical power – but it is also the most difficult to master. The force of it's magical character frequently clashes with the strong nature of the cedar wand, but this wand, I think you'll find, is a very harmonious pairing indeed.

"And, if I may be so bold Miss Granger, I think that this new wand will pair very well with you – especially in light of your own magical alterations," he finished, the faintest hint of a sly smile around his mouth and a knowing gleam to his eye.

Hermione felt herself freeze at his concluding remark. He knew. She shot a quick panicked look at Draco and noted the surprise in his eyes, though he hid it better than she did. She stared at the man, unwilling to let him get to her, refusing to be unnerved.

"The wands know, Miss Granger. They can tell," he said, after a moment of heavy silence.

"I see," she replied slowly.

"Do you?" he asked, not unkindly, but with actual curiosity. "I think, perhaps, at this moment, you don't, but that you will. You will remember, and you will understand then."

"I think it's time to leave," Draco cut in, his voice sounding sharp in the muted air of the shop.

"Yes, Mr Malfoy, I believe you are right," nodded Ollivander, turning his gaze to Draco. "Miss Granger, it has been a most unexpected pleasure to see you again," he went on. "I hope you will drop in to see me again soon. Both of you."

Hermione moved to take some money from her bag – how much was a wand anyway? – but Draco's hand on her arm stayed her movement. Before she could protest, Draco had handed Ollivander a small pouch, which the man took with a brief nod of acknowledgement. Then, without another word, the Draco turned and headed for the door of the shop, leaving Hermione to wonder.

She did not move to follow. Instead she stood for a moment in front of the old man, regarding him carefully. His face was lined, thoroughly, with furrows and crevices in the pale flesh, and despite his eerie manner, there was a gentleness and a warmth in his expression that bespoke a kind nature.

"Are you... are you well acquainted with Draco?" she asked in a quiet voice, not wanting Draco to overhear.

"I know him reasonably well, Miss Granger," Mr Ollivander replied, his tone equally low. "You know, as a boy, he struck me as arrogant yet deeply insecure, and desperate too, but now... well, I would say he has developed into a good man, a principled one. You can trust him, I think."

"Do I have a reason not to trust him?" she asked, this time with some urgency laced through her voice.

"I don't know. That is for you to answer," he answered, in the same low murmur he had before.

In frustration, she made to turn away from the wandmaker, but his voice, still hushed, stalled her a moment more.

"Miss Granger."

She looked to him, a final time, impatience painted clear across her face, nor did she try to hide it.

"You must bear in mind... he is a most surprising man. Don't forget that."


A/N: I hope you enjoyed the new installment. I'm sorry it took so long.

I got bogged down with end of year assignments and exams, and I had very little time for anything else.

I'd also like to add that a friend of mine recently took her life, and it really... well there are no words. I have really struggled to write more than a few words at a time, which is why I laboured over it so long.

Thank you to all my readers, new and old, especially after I dropped off like that.

-Millie xx

12/08/2018: Edited chapter now up :)