How These Instruments Summon

"Don't rub at them," Hermione scolded as they stepped into Ollivander's, setting off the bell above the door.

"Have you ever worn them?" Harry groused, still working at his eye with the heel of his hand. "They itch. My eyes are going to be so red by the time we leave, they'll be more frightening than if I'd left the damned things out."

"Because you keep rubbing at them!" she hissed in a whisper, collapsing their damp umbrella as the door clicked to a close behind them, blocking out the excited noise of the crowd that had begun to gather as they strolled down Diagon Alley. Hermione turned quickly to lock it. In contrast, the shop was eerily quiet.

"Remind me again why I'm wearing these tiny glass discs from Satan?" he said, blinking rapidly behind his glasses in an effort not to rub. Even though neither were prescription, looking through a double layer of glass was bothersome to his sensitive eyesight.

"You know already," she tsked, peering over the counter to see if she could spot the shop's owner. But Hermione was never one to pass up an opportunity to explain a thing, even when it was known. "If their aim really was to alienate you from the public; once whoever did this knows you're here, they'll likely try to out you somehow while all the cameras are on you. Enchantments are too easily undone. Besides, they'd expect magic. Not as much they can do about makeup and contact lenses."

"Wrong," Harry said peevishly. "The correct answer to my question is: because you bloody suggested them, Hermione. They hadn't even occurred to Kingsley."

"Then it's a good thing I was on hand to make the suggestion," she snipped back. "Which must have been a good one, as Kingsley took it. Oh, where is Ollivander?" she asked impatiently.

Harry wasn't sure why she was in such a hurry. They had time to kill. Even with an overcast sky, fully covered and shaded with an umbrella, Harry still felt half-cooked. The heavily shaded windows of the shop were a welcome relief, and he resolved not to step foot back outside until the sun had well and properly fucked off. Perhaps Hermione'd just already had enough of him that afternoon. If so, Harry really couldn't blame her. He was irritable. The 'early' hour, the discomfort of the sun; Remus' uncomfortable presence and Severus' absence before they left Grimmauld Place; the scrutiny of the agents that shadowed them...it had all served to put Harry in a foul mood. It didn't help that he'd had gotten his first whiff of virgin blood on the way there, no doubt belonging to some child in the thinning traffic on the Alley. His green contact lenses had hidden the sudden dilation of his pupils, but his fangs sprouted almost as if spring-loaded, and his mouth had watered despite that Hermione herself had sacrificed a tumbler full of blood before they left to help ease his cravings.

"Mr. Potter. Miss Granger. Welcome," Ollivander smiled, stepping from the backroom with an armful of wand boxes as if he hadn't been expecting them.

"Mr. Ollivander," Hermione greeted politely. Harry simply nodded and, without prompting, produced a handkerchief from his cloak containing the remains of his wand, laying it carefully on the counter and peeling the fabric back to reveal the carnage. Ollivander seemed to take it much harder than Harry had.

"Ah! Such a special, such an historic , wand," he lamented. "And how honoured I was to have been the one to craft it. Most regretfully, Mr. Potter, it is beyond repair," he told him sadly. Harry nodded. He'd suspected as much.

"In that case, it looks like I'm in the market for a new one, sir," he said, trying to sound appropriately downtrodden, though secretly he was excited by the prospect of a new wand.

"I took the liberty of pulling a few that might be interested in you," Ollivander said, depositing the boxes he still held at the end of the counter. Once the remains of Harry's old wand were reverently cleared by the old man, he seemed almost as giddy as Harry about the whole enterprise. Harry stepped up eagerly to examine the contents of the box Ollivander opened for him with a flourish, but he felt no stirring at the sight of it. It was a handsome wand, though.

"Is that Silver Lime?" Harry asked interestedly. Ollivander nodded, more knowingly than Harry was comfortable with. "Severus' wand is Silver Lime," Harry quickly explained to Hermione in response to her questioning expression. "He'll be showing me Cypress next, you watch," Harry whispered from the corner of his mouth, causing Hermione's lips to twitch in a suppressed smile as she lightly stepped on his toe in warning.

"Cypress? For you? Let us hope not. All too often the owners of Cypress wands die heroic deaths. And with luck, you're done with heroics and will die a plain, long-delayed one, Mr. Potter," Ollivander replied, clearly fond of the young man. Harry and Hermione exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Though what unsettled Harry most about the comment was thoughts of Remus. Harry hoped he would play no part in the man's possibly untimely but valiant end. Thankfully, he was distracted from this worry as their host quickly presented him with a different wand.

"Aspen and Dragon Heartstring, prized by duelist. Eleven inches," he explained as Harry lifted the wand from its silken bed. Before Harry could even shake his head, Ollivander was presenting him with yet another prospect. "Rowen, excellent for defensive charms. Prefers pure-hearted bearers. Phoenix feather, nine and a half inches," he described, as if confident this was the one. Harry knew before he'd finished it would not be. His heart was anything but pure these days.

And so it went, one wand after another presented and passed on, until all the enthusiasm left both the shopkeeper and his customers. Hermione took a seat by the door as the pile of rejected wands grew higher and more unstable. Harry, already unaccustomed to wearing glasses, reached beneath them to rub his weary eyes.

The world went green for a moment and, realizing what had happened, Harry blinked furiously to work the contact lens back into place. But not soon enough. Harry glanced up to find Ollivander staring at him with a curious expression. Harry returned it as neutrally as he could, but knew in his heart he'd been caught. However, rather than comment, Ollivander narrowed his eyes at Harry. His expression was momentarily excited, then doubtful, then finally thoughtful. He abruptly turned and disappeared to the back of the store for some time; and when he returned he was not bearing more individual cardboard wand boxes, but instead held a large, long but shallow wooden case with a brass fitting. Hermione was drawn by curiosity back to the counter as Ollivander carefully unclasped and turned the case, opening it slowly to reveal the contents to his guests.

"What are they?" Hermione asked a little nervously before Harry could manage the question himself. He didn't know what was so special about these wands (they all seemed different from each other, but not especially so from the dozens he'd held already) but he knew one of them was destined for him. He could feel it sing to him, and his wand hand tingled.

"These," the old man intoned in a way that indicated they were meant to be impressed, "are Thestral hair wands."

Harry felt a shiver. He'd never heard of Thestral hair being used as a magical core, but then he was not versed in wandlore. Fleur's wand contained one of her grandmother's hairs. And if a wand could contain Veela hair, it stood to reason it could contain the hair from any number of magical creatures.

"I have created precious few," Ollivander explained as they drew closer to examine them. "Very powerful magical core, Thestral hair. But dangerous." He shuddered slightly, causing Harry to look back down at the wands with trepidation, but also a thrill of excitement. "It is temperamental. Highly unstable. I have more than one scar I can attribute to its handling. I have, however, managed these seven. They were created as more an exercise of craft. I hadn't thought of selling any before; had not found anyone I felt worthy of possessing them," he said, looking steadily at Harry. "These are no ordinary wands, Mr. Potter," he warned softly. "But then, you are no ordinary wizard."

It seemed they all held their breath as Harry raised a hand to hover over the array. He closed his eyes, sweeping his palm back and forth until he could determine which called to him most strongly. His fingers brushed across one, went to pluck it, then stopped and, with more certainty, wrapped around its neighbor instead.

Harry backed away from the counter with the thing rested in his palm. It was plain, almost utterly so, with the exception of quite a few raised knots that looked as though they actively defied the plain, elegant design. It felt heavy but eager, and Harry supposed the wood must have been exceptionally dense. He raised the thing over his head and brought it down with a small, efficient flourish; but rather than sparks, it emitted a beam of warm, ruddy light that seemed to sink, dripping, from the air rather than immediately dissolving into it. It was a strange reaction, but Harry still called it a success. The bond he felt was unquestionable.

Despite Harry's delight, Ollivander seemed grave as he watched him. "That is not the one I might have predicted," he said, almost disquieted. He approached with an expression of cautious scrutiny. Harry felt stricken when the man took the wand from his hand, but it seemed Ollivander was not denying it to him, simply examining it for himself. "Hornbeam. Only eight inches," the man muttered, turning his study to Harry next. "Hornbeam produces a particularly fine-tuned and sentient wand, and selects for its life mate the talented witch or wizard with a single, pure passion. Obsession, some might call it," he explained in a weighty tone. "Or, more kindly: vision. My own wand is made from Hornbeam," he revealed, but in an offhanded way. "They adapt more quickly than almost any other to their owner's style of magic, and will become so personalised, so quickly, that other people will find them extremely difficult to use even for the most simple of spells. They are hard, nigh unbreakable, unimpressionable...And when crossed with Thestral hair? This is a very dangerous wand, Mr. Potter," he whispered ominously. "But then, you are now a very dangerous man, are you not?" His look held so much understanding, Harry was afraid he would not return his wand to him. But return it he did, though almost reluctantly. "Whatever it is you are obsessed with, let us hope it is a worthwhile endeavour."