Chapter Two
Diagon Alley, Harry thought as he walked its winding cobblestone lane, was a mirror image of its former self, the self that had existed before the most recent war. It was vibrantly colored, with bustling, welcoming noises and vendors standing outside their shops with model broomsticks and samples of pastries and beautifully woven fabric for cloaks. It was restored by public and governmental efforts, efforts which all supported, and now it seemed to take on a life of its own, becoming instrumental in its own reconstruction as it promoted itself to all who looked upon it. Ollivander's, restored from the destruction of the war some time ago, stood nestled amongst the rest, expectantly.
A bell's chime was heard as Harry pushed back the entrance door. He glanced about himself, surveying the towering stacks of wand cases and leaning shelves which held their company. Black and gray and navy blue boxes, thin and thick, long and short. All these wands would someday have masters. Some would wait months, some decades or tens thereof, but all would endure and wait for their chosen companion. And some, he thought grimly to himself, would be carved apart and placed within gaping wounds which beckoned the counter movement of the Dark Lord's last supporters. At least, that was his hunch.
The piece itself was enclosed in an envelope folded in half within his breast pocket. The fleshy context in which it had once found itself had been removed, situated off in a forensics lab somewhere within the Magical Law Enforcement department at the Ministry. It sat like a lead weight against his chest.
"Harry Potter," drawled the old man for whom the shop bore its name, turning from a position on a rolling ladder as he said so, "I've been expecting for you." He always had a way with words which twisted them towards a more ominous meaning than he intended.
12 ¾ inches. Hornbeam. Dragon heartstring.
"Good to see you," Harry said, extending his hand which Ollivander then clasped in both of his, shaking heartily, once he had climbed down and situated himself on the floor. "How much did Boot mention in the letter?"
Ollivander gestured over towards his check out counter, which seemed to function just as well as a desk, magnifying glasses and tweezers and other such instruments littering its left side, the dim lighting of the shop still managing to catch on the shiny metal. Harry followed him over to it, taking his standing position on the customer's side as Ollivander climbed into the tall chair behind it. "You've brought me something, yes?"
He nodded minutely, reaching into his breast pocket and withdrawing its contents. "Yes," there was a brief pause in his speech, "we were hoping you'd have a look at this." He slid the envelope across the wooden top on which he leaned.
Wrinkled hands picked up the pale manila paper, fiddling with its sealed opening, and, once the fiddling had become successful, tilting its contents out. Ollivander drew a sharp breath as he stared at the piece before him, but otherwise gave no indication anything was amiss. He gingerly picked up the carved wooden symbol by the tip of the snake pouring out of the skull, pulling his stand alone magnifying glass to the center of the counter and putting it into position over the wooden fragment. He shifted his fingers so that the wooden piece laid on his palm as his fingers now splayed themselves. He gave the object a small bounce to feel its weight. Harry watched his handling, saying nothing, waiting patiently for a verdict.
"This is Acacia, which on its own tells me enough, not to mention its magical qualities were such that I don't think it held one of the three standard cores."
Harry cut in quickly before Olivander could continue. "Sorry, but did you say were?"
"Yes, were. The wand it belonged to is useless now; it may not be snapped, but it can't be repaired either." His words were patient, but his eyes were hard as he continued to maneuver the wand fragment around in his hand. "As I was saying, the non-standard core means it's likely not one of mine. I dabbled in my youth as most wandmakers do, so it's possible that it's one of my older pieces but I seriously doubt this. Most wands are buried with their masters, not passed down. I don't believe I've outlived all to whom I've sold those strange wands, but its more likely this came from another wandmaker, someone younger, someone still selling these types of wands at a higher frequency. Foolish lad, whoever he is."
"How do you mean?" He asked, brows furrowed.
Ollivander sighed. "While I confess I still have a few in the shop, unsold for various reasons, these alternative core types aren't used because ultimately most wandmakers realize there is a reason we tend to use only phoenix feather, unicorn hair, or dragon heartstring: they're more stable and they produce more predictable results."
"Could I see one of these alternative types?"
Ollivander pursed his thin lips. "Mr. Potter, I will stress that these wands are inherently less stable. I have not sold one in at least fifty years. There are a little over two dozen alternative types that I've heard of, some considerably more stable, like augurey tail feather—useful for the arts of Divination—or Billwig Stingers—imported from Australia, good for light-hearted witches and wizards who excel in Charms—or Chimera scale fragment, or especially wampus hair, though this is an American style wand. Wands with these cores are generally able to be used without incident by those witches or wizards with slightly above average skill who have an appropriate temperament." He paused. "I will show you the pair of wands to which the Weasley twins were nearly masters, a pair with Billywig cores."
"What about the others?" Harry asked in curiosity.
"No." A final verdict if Harry had ever heard one. "Dangerous things."
"Then tell me about them, please."
Ollivander ignored him for the time being, save for a "Wait here," and disappeared through the door behind the counter.
It was a minute or two before he returned, a long time for Ollivander, who knew where everything in his shop was and could produce any item from within it in no time at all. He hoisted himself back into his tall chair, setting two rectangular boxes, one gray and one black, out before him. He carefully took off the top of the gray one, cautioning Harry not to touch the wand when he instinctively reached towards it. It was thin and looked more like a real stick than most wands. The knots in its richly colored wood had not been sanded and it curled as if along with the stinger it would draw upon to channel a witch or wizard's power.
"Dogwood. This might have been Fredrick Weasley's."
Ollivander then removed the top from the black box. This one was pale and polished, and curved in the same manner as its other half's.
"Fir. This wand would have been George Weasley's. Fitting, tragic but fitting, considering its lore."
Harry didn't bother to ask what he meant. He studied the wands, looking back between the two even though, he admittedly to himself privately, he wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to be looking for. He just had an investigative hunch. They looked mostly normal, save the stick-like formation of the former, but even that wasn't wholly unusual. One thing he did note about these wands: he could feel their character—not as strongly as he felt his own wand's, but he could sense their nature in a way he couldn't quite quantify but knew was different than most others.
"Do you feel it?" Ollivander asked, as if he could read his mind.
Harry inclined his head once. "Why are they like that?"
"Billywig stinger wands are more honest. They also have their own will in a way most wands do not and they use this in such a way that people can see their cheerful nature; they enjoy it. They're unusual wands. All of the alternative wand cores produce unusual wands, though in different ways." As he spoke, he replaced the tops of the two boxes and stacked them on top of each other before placing them under the counter. "These two are relatively safe, but their independence leaves that slightly unstable quality which I mentioned. The wand you've brought me, I don't believe it had one of these relatively more stable cores."
Harry could hardly keep up with the questions Ollivander was leaving him with. "Why do you call this fragment a 'wand'? Why don't you think this one had a Billywig stinger or whatever the others were? What are the others?"
"I call it a wand," Ollivander said in an almost chiding way, "out of respect, Mr. Potter. This poor thing has been defiled with a symbol of dark magic. It deserves some dignity. This wand, as all wands do, chose its wizard, but to its own peril. No wand deserves to become this."
Harry chose not to comment on the fact that no wizard deserved the fate which had come upon the one in whom this wand piece found itself.
"As for your other questions, I must ask, Mr. Potter: Can you tell me nothing of the wizard this wand belonged to?"
Harry debated with himself internally. Even consulting with Ollivander like this breeched some level of security for the case. But he'd come this far and the old man was so willingly helping him; he didn't know how he would use this information, but he knew it was valuable. "His name was Gray Rivers, half-blood, dark hair, pale skin, a bit porty, roughly mid-forties. Dis you know him?"
Ollivander looked at him oddly. "As I said, I doubt I sold this wand. But Gray Rivers? Are you quite sure?" After the answering nod, Ollivander muttered to himself what sounded to Harry like "curious, curious."
"Sorry, sir, but what's curious?"
Ollivander continued to look at him, as if puzzled, perhaps contemplative. "This wand did not belong to Gray Rivers. The Rivers family began practicing the passing of wands within the last few generations. As the eldest, he would have received his father's wand, who had received his father's, William Rivers. William Rivers was the last wizard to whom I sold an abnormal wand core, but not this one. This wand you've brought me was made from Acacia. The Rivers family wand was 11 ½ inches, larch wood, hippogriff feather." He paused as if collecting his thoughts.
Harry took the opportunity to retract a parchment pad from his coat pocket, which he silently berated himself for not remembering to use earlier, and jotted notes in his somewhat erratic writing.
"As to your questions, I do not think the Acacia wand had one of the milder cores because Acacia itself is perhaps the rarest of wand woods and possesses qualities which make any wand it creates tricky to use, which would not pair well with any of the four cores I mentioned; they require a certain subtle quality to use and in the wrong hands they can be either quite overpowered or simply weak. Since the Acacia wand has maintained some of its aura of power, I can say that its core was quite a powerful one. Based on the quality of magic it seems to have produced, I can say it was likely an heirloom wand core."
At Harry's blank look, Ollivander elaborated. "Heirloom wand cores come from sentient magical beings who themselves have the ability to use wands, whether based on their own merit or because of intermarriage with wizarding kind. These would be either one of the four Werewolf cores types, Mermaid hair or scales, Vampire fang, or Veela hair. They are named such because these wands are often passed from, say, one vampire to another vampire, or one mermaid to another mermaid. That is my guess as to what you're looking for. The length of the wand is impossible to know just from what you've given me."
Harry quickly wrote down the names of the wand cores and returned the parchment pad to his coat pocket. He was sure he was forgetting to ask other pertinent questions, but nonetheless ended the conversation. "Thank you, Mr. Ollivander, you've been a great help." He gathered up the Acacia wand fragment from where Ollivander had lain it and placed it back inside the confines of its envelope, stashing that as well.
As he turned to leave, Ollivander called to him. "Mr. Potter?"
He turned. "I cannot stress how dangerous some of these wand cores are. They can do untold things. I recommend you do more research before you find yourself up against one."