Author's note:

I moved countries and started looking for a new job, so YEAH… life really gets in the way sometimes, doesn't it? I've been scribbling away in my spare time, though :)

And I know I promised goblins and elves, but I got side-tracked… again. Goblins and elves will be in the next one, I promise.

Chapter 26: Breakfast and Wands

Amalia woke up without opening her eyes, and without moving at all; giving no outward sign that she was suddenly aware of her surroundings. As usual, the weight and confusion of sleep left her quickly, stripped like cobwebs from her mind, as she became alert to her current situation.

A: she was currently in bed, in the dark basement of a Knockturn pub owned by a werewolf,

B: she usually woke up naturally at about six or seven in the morning, so she didn't think it could be much later than that, despite the only light coming from a lantern near the stairs,

And C: a certain dark-haired someone was draped over her, making it pleasantly warm... Yet also hard to breathe.

This feels weirdly familiar…

Her eyes snapped open, and she hurriedly tried to blink the sleep from her eyes.

"Riddle," she mumbled, and, not knowing what else to do, prodded him gingerly in the ribs, "You're heavy."

He gave an unintelligible groan and burrowed his face further into her neck, unwilling to relinquish his hold on his source of warmth.

Amalia fought to keep her breathing steady at the unexpected ripple of desire that spiked through her. His hot mouth was pressed up against her bare skin, and it was conjuring inappropriate images into her head. This had to stop. Right this moment.

"Are you actually awake and you're just secretly a cuddler," she demanded shakily, "Or are you completely unaware of what's happening right now?" He made a - quite frankly adorable - snuffling sound, mumbling incoherent nonsense into her collarbone.

Evidently the latter, she concluded, flustered. She stared at him up-close for a moment, distracted by his long, almost girlish black eyelashes, trembling as his eyes shuttled beneath closed lids. What was he dreaming of?

A blush was creeping into her cheeks, and an odd, choked giggle erupted out of her before she clamped her mouth shut. This situation was ridiculous. The mere fact that this was the second time that she'd woken up with him clinging onto her like a limpet suggested it wasn't a coincidence, but rather an odd quirk of his. Evidently, the great and fearsome Tom Marvolo Riddle exhibited the characteristics of a boa constrictor when sharing a bed with someone. Well, he does like snakes, she mused, And it's also true that he has... issues... with control. Looking at it like that, she thought wryly, Well. It makes sense, doesn't it? Her immediate, next thought was: No one will ever believe me if I tell them about this.

She attempted to pull an arm free of his restrictive embrace, but he just made a displeased sound, a bit like a sleepy growl, and curled himself more securely around her, his breath warm on the sensitive skin of her neck.

"This seems to be a habit of yours." she remarked weakly. He gave absolutely no indication that he'd heard anything, dead to the world.

"... How much did you actually drink?" she grumbled, after a moment. No doubt that was a contributing factor to his heavy sleep. Taking a deep breath, she sniffed suspiciously, his dark hair tickling her nose, but she found she could just barely smell the alcohol on him. Underneath that, she could identify his own smell. It was subtle, no artificial scent or cologne, not even a residue of soap - just a faint hint of a masculine smell that was just unequivocally him.

It's definitely time to get up, she told herself sternly. Any longer staring at his sleeping face and sniffing him could lead to unwanted, dangerous feelings. She had to nip this in the bud, before she really did fall for the cold-blooded bastard.

"Tom..." she sighed, and then steeled herself. "Jeez. If- If you don't wake up on the count of three and get off," she warned, raising her voice slightly, "I am going to bite your ear." she waited hopefully, but there was no movement.

She gritted her teeth. "One... Two... – I'm really serious about this, you know! – Two and a half! Two and three-quarters! Th-three...! Okay! You asked for it! Don't go blaming me for how this turns out!"

She was just nerving herself up to make good on her threat, when, miracle of miracles, one slightly bloodshot eye cracked open, and Amalia was treated to just about the worst Riddle-ish, baleful glare she'd ever received.

"Gray." he rasped, sounding half asleep and completely pissed off, "...The fuck are you so loud?!"

She narrowed her eyes at his tone and uncharacteristic swearing, "Good morning to you, too." she said icily. Despite wanting him to wake up, she also felt a pang of disappointment; he was so much more likable when he was asleep.

For the first time he seemed to notice in his semi-conscious state that they were literally nose-to-nose, with his arms and legs wrapped tightly around her like she was stuffed animal. He rolled off her immediately and retreated to the other side of the bed, eyes narrowing suspiciously at her. "Taking advantage of me in my sleep, Gray?" he accused sleepily, "That's low, even for you."

She sat up, indignantly spluttering, with her hands waving in the air, "Th-that's not-! You were the one who was-!"

"Ugh, shut up…" He scrunched his eyes closed against her rising voice and groaned, and then disappeared under the comforter, clearly disregarding everything she was saying. "It's still dark..."

"We're underground! Of course it's dark!" she exclaimed, exasperated.

"Hng... Too early to deal with you," he grumbled bad-temperedly, voice muffled beneath the covers. "Wake me again and I swear you'll regret it."

Amalia facepalmed. "How did I end up sharing a room with this asshole?" she asked herself wonderingly, out loud. All thought of his adorable sleeping face had quickly been over-shadowed by his terrible waking personality. As if she could actually develop feelings for this jerk!

The Riddle-shaped lump twitched. "If you're going to talk to yourself, get out." He hissed. She could already hear his voice starting to slur as sleep claimed him quickly again.

"Fine," she snapped, getting out of bed and making sure to jostle him as she did, though he made no further comment, probably already dead asleep again.

She also made sure to slam the trapdoor hatch extra loudly as she departed in search of breakfast.

When Riddle eventually emerged from the basement, Amalia could tell he was still in a black mood. She was sitting down to a late breakfast, having chatted with Ringo at the bar for a good few hours already, while perusing her usual newspapers.

"Over here," she said coolly, still annoyed by his earlier behaviour.

Spotting her table in the far corner of the much emptier pub, Riddle narrowed his slightly bloodshot eyes and stalked over. He was dressed and his hair was neatly combed, but she could tell by the circles under his eyes that he was feeling far from fresh.

"So," she started, as he bad-temperedly threw himself into the booth opposite her, "It's the strangest thing. All morning, I've noticed everyone in this fine establishment," she vaguely gestured towards the few shady patrons at the bar, "Is avoiding my eyes. Now, isn't that odd?"

He gave a noncommittal grunt and reached over to claim a slice of half-burnt toast from her plate.

"Hey!" she protested, but he just bit down into the toast with a decisive crunch, his dark eyes challenging her to do something about it.

She merely huffed at his childishness and waved a hand, getting the attention of the werewolf behind the bar. "One more," she indicated her plate of toast, runny egg and oily bacon, "And a coffee. A strong coffee."

Riddle still didn't say a word as he morosely munched on her toast, but he seemed to grow marginally more alert over time, his dark eyes flickering over her and around the room assessingly.

"You did something, didn't you?" guessed Amalia, "Last night after I left. That's why no one is bothering us."

A baleful stare was all she got in response, and she growled, concluding that he obviously wasn't going to tell her.

Ringo brought over a second plate of breakfast and a cup of black coffee with a grin and a meaningful eye-waggle between them (no doubt remembering his joke about the chains in the basement from the previous night). Riddle immediately grabbed the cup and drained it, his throat bobbing with every gulp.

"Headache?" she commented, without a shred of sympathy.

He placed the cup down decisively. "Only from your inane nagging."

She threw up her hands as if in supplication to the heavens. "Thank Merlin, he actually speaks!"

He rolled his eyes and prodded his bacon suspiciously.

"I'm pretty sure it was part of a pig at some point," Amalia told him, "I don't have any more food left in my trunk anyway, so it's this or wait for lunchtime."

He wordlessly began to eat.

"So, once you're done," she continued, "Ollivanders first?"

His chewing slowed. "Last night you mentioned Gringotts." he commented, raising one eyebrow to demand an explanation.

"I'm surprised you remembered that," she said drily, "But yes, Gringotts. I had an idea about the whole ambush plan."

"Go on." with a distasteful grimace he gave up on the bacon and eyed his egg speculatively.

"In the Gringotts vault," she explained, lowering her voice, "Besides for all the gold, there's also the deed to a house on the Isle of Wight. I haven't been there – it felt like the deed was deliberately placed – like a trap. But now that I have someone to watch my back…" she trailed off expectantly.

He thought for approximately three seconds.

"Let's do it," he decided, "Even if it's a trap – even if they know you won't be alone by now – I guarantee we'll be underestimated." His smirk was chilling.

She nodded slowly. "Very well. There's also another problem – getting there. Can you Apparate?"

He merely glared, looking sour.

"Floo Powder it is, then." She said composedly, unsurprised. Apparition was only taught in their fifth year anyway, and only in the second half of the year. He wouldn't have had time to learn it himself at Hogwarts due to the wards.

"It doesn't really matter," she sighed, "I can't Apparate somewhere I haven't been – or don't remember that I've been. We could try and get a little closer using Side-Along Apparition," she mused, "But I'd rather not use my wand if possible. Dumbledore could check it when we get back to school, and Apparition without a licence leaves traces." She bit her lip. "We should ask Ollivander if I can use the wand we picked up off my – our – stalker. Well, even so, borrowed wands don't work as well… I don't want to risk Splinching myself with you." She grinned. "Just imagine, Riddle, I could be an extra head attached to your shoulder."

"A horrific fate, to be sure." He deadpanned, and stood up. "I'll wait for you outside." He left her without a backward glance, once again abandoning her to foot the bill.

She hastily stood up and got out a couple of Knuts to cover breakfast. "Ungrateful bastard." She muttered.

Climbing out of the manhole in the deserted, snowed-in alley, Amalia paused in surprise. "Who was that?" she asked Riddle, who was leaning against the brick wall and looking extra vampirish in his long dark green coat, his breath misting in the chilled air as he waited for her.

She'd caught a glimpse of a hooded figure striding away, the edge of his cloak disappearing around the far corner of the alley just as she'd arrived.

Riddle inclined his head at her and gave a small, mysterious smirk. "Just some extra insurance, in case we have any unwanted followers."

"Okay." She said dubiously, "Did you meet him last night?"

Riddle ignored her, striding out of the alleyway. Weak winter sunlight was above them; it was around midday.

She huffed, "You really are terrible in the mornings, aren't you? Well, whatever. As long as your drinking buddy is discrete, I guess an extra pair of eyes can't hurt."

They quickly made their way out of Knockturn and into Diagon Alley, where once again they were forced to rejoin the hordes of shoppers. Most people were with their families… Amalia had a brief longing to see what Anne and Callidora were up to, but she couldn't quite imagine herself feeling comfortable with them during such an intimate, family-oriented time of the year.

She was surprisingly contented with her current companion, bad mood and all.

Ollivanders was bustling with people – it was only two days away from Christmas, and it seemed a fair amount of them had mislaid or damaged their wands in the festivities, in addition to all the stressed-looking parents sheparding their younger offspring to choose their first wands.

Despite the fact that Ollivander was clearly swamped with customers, he did an exaggerated double-take at the sight of Riddle and Amalia sidling in the front door, and immediately darted out from behind the counter to greet them in person.

"Mr Riddle, and Ms Gray! This is a surprise." The old man said, sounding flustered. Amalia smiled pleasantly, familiar with his slightly melodramatic way of speaking from her first visit to the wand store over two years before. He was an old man – impossible to tell how old, but he already had greying hair and a lined face – with oddly luminous, pale eyes betraying an incredibly astute mind. She was interested to see his smile falter slightly, and his throat bob nervously, when Riddle turned a cool, yet still impeccably polite smile his way.

"Mr Ollivander," he greeted smoothly, "I wonder if we might have a moment of your time, somewhere more private, perhaps." His eyebrow arched expectantly.

Ollivander nodded, curiosity lighting up in his eyes at the odd request. "Certainly, certainly… Ahem," he cleared his throat as he turned back to the waiting crowd, "Uh, I do apologise, but I'll be closing briefly for, uh," he glanced at a crooked, carved clock hanging on the wall, "… Lunch."

Predictably, there was a chorus of grumblings and complaints from the waiting customers, who eventually departed, Ollivander fluttering around like a nervous bird, to usher them out.

Amalia cast her eye over the towering walls of wand-boxes, remembering her first trip here at the age of twelve. Having just found out that she was, indeed, Amalia Gray, with access to her massive, inherited fortune, and also utterly alone in a confusing world she didn't remember, she had been dazed and shell-shocked during her first visit. She'd changed a lot since then. Ollivander was a sharp man; she knew he would have picked up on a lot from her first visit. Now, she had returned, quite a different girl, and accompanied by Tom Riddle, who he obviously remembered, too. She could assume his excitement was driven by professional curiosity as to the reason for their visit.

"Phew!" he exclaimed, as the door tinkled shut behind the last stragglers. He slid a deadbolt home in the door, and turned a sign in the window which read "Back soon – out for a spell." Dust motes swirled in the sudden emptiness of the room. "This time of year is such chaos! I think even the wands sense it – they've been rather temperamental today."

"It's good to see you, Mr Ollivander." Amalia greeted politely, "Thank you for making time for us."

"Not a problem, my dear," he assured her, his pale eyes darting down to the wand holster at her waist, "Why don't you come into the back office?" he gestured to a narrow opening in the wall of wand-cases, "And we can talk."

They followed him into a cramped back room, which seemed to be more of a workshop than an office, with the parts and materials for wandmaking littering a wide table on one side. Stacks of jars and boxes and scales and other tools of wand-making that Amalia didn't recognise filled up the remaining space, except for a small patch of clear carpet near a fireplace. Ollivander pulled out his own moth-eaten chair from a corner, dusting off some woodchips, and then conjured two other plain wooden chairs from thin air, which arranged themselves near the crackling fire for his guests.

With murmured thanks, Amalia seated herself, shrugging off her coat in the warm air and laying in over the back of her chair. Riddle sat down beside her, and Ollivander perched on the edge of his chair, pale eyes darting between them. "So," he said, "How can I help you?"

Riddle first withdrew the plain wand he'd purchased on the black market, and offered it to the wandmaker. "Due to various… circumstances," he drawled, "I've come into possession of this wand. Is it safe to continue using? It doesn't feel very stable."

Ollivander took the wand, his lip curling in distaste, as though it was a slug, "No, it wouldn't feel stable, I should imagine." He tutted, "Inferior wand-work this is… No personality, no… Feeling to it at all. Definitely not one of mine; a cheap knock-off. More likely to blow up in your face than cast a simple illumination." He paused, as if listening to some far-off sound, "You've used it already, recently." He guessed astutely, glancing up at Riddle with a raised eyebrow.

Riddle's answering gaze was rock-steady. "Well, as you know, students aren't allowed to use magic outside of school. However, if I was to use, for example, a Disarming spell, and it worked… then would it be safe to keep using the wand?"

Ollivander gazed at him for a long moment, his oddly translucent eyes unblinking, as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Hm. Well… theoretically," he said at last, sounding reluctant, but unable to resist imparting his knowledge, "I would say that successfully casting the spell was a lucky coincidence. At best, if you use this wand, Mr Riddle, you can expect a fifty percent success rate when casting spells. An ordinary person might use it without too much fuss, but you have more power than most, so it wouldn't be advisable."

Tom accepted the wand back, looking displeased. "I see."

"If I may ask," Ollivander said cautiously, "Where is your wand? I do hope nothing happened to it. Yew, with that particular phoenix core…" he sounded hopeful, as if he was eager to hold it once more.

Riddle's mouth thinned, but he kept his temper in check. "I don't have it with me at the moment." He said in a clipped tone.

Ollivander seemed to sense that further enquiry in that line would not be welcomed, and turned to Amalia. "And Ms Gray. It is good to see you again – you seem more… collected, than when last we met. Is there something I may assist you with?"

Amalia smiled, "I'm a student now, at Hogwarts. A lot has changed since that time."

He nodded. "A fantastic school, just fantastic… Did you know," he said proudly, "Albus Dumbledore is a great friend of mine – one of your teachers, isn't he? Terrific man…"

Riddle gave a small, impatient cough.

"Ah, yes," Amalia said hastily, eager to move the conversation on before Riddle got into an even worse mood, "I too, have acquired a wand through various circumstances – I won't bore you with the details-" she said swiftly, "I'm wondering if you can tell who the previous owner is?" She offered the wand they had taken off their mysterious stalker. Next to her, Riddle shifted slightly in his chair, tensing.

Ollivander frowned as he accepted the wand, and inspected it closely, bringing out a crystal monocle from his breast-pocket to peer down the length and tip of the wand. "Hm," he hummed unhappily, "Once again, not one of mine," he sniffed, "Very crudely made. French, I think… The French are always far more concerned with outward appearance and fashion, you see, than actual, practical-"

"Can you tell us anything more?" interrupted Riddle, cutting off older man's monologue. "France doesn't give us a lot to go on."

Ollivander pursed his lips at Riddle's tone, but didn't mention it. "I'm afraid not. I'd hazard a guess that the original owner was male, and had a penchant for healing magic, but other than that-"

"Healing magic?" repeated Amalia, baffled. She exchanged an incredulous glance with Riddle – first the surgical masks, and now…

Merlin, she thought, I'm being stalked by French doctors.

"Yes." Confirmed Ollivander simply. "More than that is hard to tell, since the wand's allegiance has now changed…" he glanced sharply at Riddle, evidently putting two-and-two together with the previous mention of a Disarming spell.

"Would it be safe for me to use?" Amalia asked next, crestfallen that their only lead had fallen through, "Theoretically speaking, of course." She hastily added.

Ollivander frowned. "Well, if the wand was won by Mr Riddle here-?"

Riddle didn't blink. "I don't remember." He said blithely.

Ollivander hummed sceptically, and turned back to Amalia, "Usually, I would say that it's not safe to use a wand whose allegiance belongs to another. However, I'm not sensing that problem with you two…" he looked pensive, "Curious…"

"What's curious?" Amalia prompted, when he trailed off, gazing thoughtfully down at the wand.

He looked up, eyes bright, "… It is curious that this wand is as equally happy to serve you, Ms Gray, as it is to serve Mr Riddle, when you had no hand in winning it." His pale eyes flickered, "If I may see your wand for a moment, Ms Gray, perhaps more light can be shed on this matter…"

Amalia blinked, surprised, yet also curious. Wandlore was certainly complicated. "Okay, sure." She said, getting out her own light-brown wand from its holster and offering it to him handle-first.

He accepted it, excitement in his eyes as he lifted up his monocle again and tilted the wand this way and that. "Ah, yes, I remember making this," he said eagerly, "More as an experiment than out of any real hope it would one day find an owner." He briefly glanced up, "You know, some of the wands in my store are hundreds of years old – never found their witch or wizard. Very sad. That was the fate I envisioned for this wand. And then, of course, a mere twenty years after I made it, you walked into my store…"

He held up the wand and admired it; the wand was a light brown, with an ordinary, carved handle. "Elm, twelve and half inches, lightly flexible…" he announced, "And the core," he said with relish, "The tail feather of a Thunderbird."

Riddle looked speculatively at the ordinary-looking wand, hardly surprised that it had such an exotic component. Amalia was its owner, after all, and she was far from ordinary.

Ollivander nodded proudly, "The only one of this core type I ever made, using a technique favoured by the American wandmaker, Shikoba Wolfe. We had a correspondence in our youth, you see," he gushed enthusiastically, "She sent me a single feather and practically dared me to make a wand as good as hers with it. It was all very exciting, and the result, unique."

"It's served me well." Amalia said quietly, a faint smile curling her lips.

He nodded. "A powerful wand, requiring a sharp mind and a delicate touch. Particularly suited for Transfiguration, I've always thought…?" Amalia nodded, and he smiled, pleased.

Riddle folded his arms. "As interesting as this is," he drawled sarcastically, "We do have plans for the rest of the day-"

"Oh, shush, Riddle." Amalia said impatiently, flapping a hand at him, "This is important."

She felt his dark gaze settle coldly on her as a result of her rudeness, but she ignored him.

Ollivander cast a somewhat nervous glance at Riddle, coldly glowering at his female companion, and hastily tried to get back on track. "Ah, I digress. As I was saying, the answer to the mystery of the other wand's dual allegiance lies with this, your original wand." He summarised. "Now, Mr Riddle, would you please take Ms Gray's wand and hold on to it for a moment?"

Riddle's eyebrows rose, but he complied, taking the wand and twirling it idly in between his long fingers.

"Ahah!" said Ollivander excitedly, "Just as I suspected!"

"What is it?" questioned Amalia, looking in confusion at her wand in her enemy/companion's hands. It looked absolutely the same.

Ollivander nodded, satisfied. "You may return Ms Gray's wand now, Mr Riddle."

Riddle seemed almost reluctant to pass it over, but the hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second before he handed it back to her, without complaint.

"So, what did you confirm?" Amalia prompted inquisitively.

Ollivander steepled his fingers. "A most interesting phenomenon has occurred between the two of you." He gestured between his two guests. "A phenomenon I have witnessed only rarely in my experience as a wandmaker."

"And that is…?" drawled Riddle, sounding bored, though Amalia could sense he was interested in the conversation again, now that it involved him.

"Would I be right in saying," started Ollivander slowly, "That recently – perhaps in the last few months – you have, at various times, been in possession of each other's wands, used those wands, before returning them, swapping them again, and so on? Perhaps in some form of repeated conflict, which was then repeatedly resolved?"

Riddle and Amalia exchanged a bemused glance.

"I suppose… Yes." Amalia answered for them both, surprised that he could tell all of that from just holding her wand. She didn't know if it was wise to be so forthcoming with Ollivander– given his friendship with Dumbledore – but as long as they didn't directly admit to duelling or anything else, he couldn't prove they had broken any rules.

"So," Ollivander continued, "Sometimes when this happens, the ownership of the wand becomes… blurred, in a way." He raised both hands at their alarmed expressions, "Don't worry, that doesn't mean that your wand no longer knows its true master! When given the choice, a wand is always fundamentally more loyal to its original owner. But… there is certainly a bond of familiarity between them."

"I don't understand," frowned Amalia, "Riddle and I have only recently called a… a truce, of sorts. How can our wands be… bonded?" it seemed like such a foreign concept, and one look at Riddle's sceptical expression told her he didn't think much of Ollivander's explanation, either.

The wandmaker shrugged expressively, "I cannot speak for your actions towards each other, of course; I only know of what I have sensed from your wand. I sense a clear lack of animosity in your wand towards Mr Riddle, and the effect would be repeated if you were to hold his. In other words, you do not wish actual harm upon each other. If you did, your wands, being unusually powerful and temperamental to start with, would certainly be hostile towards each other. A wand cannot lie about the intentions of its wielder, Ms Gray."

There was a pregnant silence, in which Amalia and Riddle looked at each other blankly. Every single duel they'd had ended in blood and injury, and they had never consciously held back. But it was also true that they had treated it like a game… A deadly game that they both enjoyed.

Perhaps, they had never been enemies, after all? For Amalia, the revelation was less shocking; she hated her family for abandoning her, for causing her lost memories and trauma, and she'd always known that she didn't feel that same strong, negative emotion towards Riddle. Even in the worst moments of their tempestuous relationship, she had never hated him.

But Riddle wasn't saying anything, and his face wasn't giving anything away, either. Did he hate her? Had he ever truly hated her? She didn't think so, but she couldn't be certain. He had a lot of capacity for hate, and had certainly disliked her for a long time.

Ollivander noticed their discomfort, but simply continued, "At this point in time," he summarised, "You could freely use each other's wands, and it would feel almost as comfortable as your own." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I've only seen this level of familiarity in old married couples." He chuckled. "I had a couple once who got so used to picking up each other's wands by mistake around the house, they eventually didn't notice the difference. Had to come and ask me to settle the argument once and for all of whose wand was whose."

"That's… interesting…" Amalia shook her head slightly, trying to get rid of the weird image of her and Riddle as an old married couple, "So… Anyway… All this means is that I can use the other wand," she held up the wand Riddle had won from their stalker, "Safely, right?"

Ollivander nodded. "In essence, yes. It shouldn't give either of you significant problems," he sniffed and added snobbishly, "Besides being weaker and generally inferior in design, of course…"

Riddle's expression had become even more unreadable after the "old married couple" anecdote, but he caught Amalia's eye, and she could guess what he meant. She gave a short nod.

"That's all we needed." Amalia said to Ollivander. She rose and put on her coat, her mind still buzzing with everything they had learned.

"Thank you for your time." Riddle said coolly, standing too.

Ollivander stood with them, "My pleasure, of course…" he murmured, looking a little crestfallen that they were leaving without further discussion of wandlore.

Before he turned to leave, Riddle fixed the older man with an unwavering stare, "I hope we can count on your discretion about everything we discussed today, Mr Ollivander." His smooth voice had a threatening quality, "I would prefer it if you didn't mention anything at all, even to your friends."

"O-Of course," stuttered Ollivander, sounding half-nervous, half-offended, "I wouldn't dream of-"

"Don't worry, Riddle," Amalia interrupted, adding her own, confident smirk, "Mr Ollivander knows the value of keeping his customers happy. He doesn't want unhappy customers."

He seemed sufficiently intimidated by this united front, glancing between them with a wide-eyed look. "Yes," he muttered to himself, "Now I see it… yew and elm…"

"Farewell, Mr Ollivander." Amalia greeted cordially, and Riddle gave a dismissive nod.

They left him still muttering to himself with a slightly anxious look, about feather cores and fated wands.

Author's note:

Yes, I'm aware that "doctor" is a muggle word, and magical folk use "healers". But yeah, it just sounded better in that sentence.

I got my wand lore information (wood type – check out the description for Elm! – and the whole thunderbird feather core thing) off the HP wiki pages, and made up the bit about wands getting familiar with each other. I think it makes sense.

Let me know if you disagree, or have some interesting ideas regarding wand lore!