(Coeus Black - PoV) (Years later)

I am not a fan of Diagon Alley. So very long ago, when London itself had naught a fraction of the importance it does today, it was just that. A winding, crooked alley where the local wizards kept to themselves or came to do their business. But over the centuries, as power, prestige, and population accumulated, it grew, eventually becoming the core of Magical Britain. That would hardly be a bad thing if it had expanded with any kind of rhyme or reason or a well-thought plan. No, instead it expanded as wizards tend to. In complete and utter chaos.

Alternate paths break off at random, some wide, some narrow, some clean and well lit, some dirty and dangerous. Or, particularly annoyingly, are the ones that start inside of other buildings, where you have to pass through some other property to access entire streets. And don't get me started on buildings or entire neighborhoods that will disappear for the most inane reasons.

Oh, the mechanics are usually not that hard to figure out if one puts in the effort to try, but the reasons are always so nonsensical. Why would you make a shop that only appears under certain conditions? You are a shop! You sell things! Making it difficult for customers to find you is horribly counterproductive unless your product is illegal.

One of my otherwise favored divination shops can't be found unless you close your eyes and trust magic to guide you. And while it may be thematic for a shop selling astronomy supplies to require following the stars, there is no actual reason for it you absolute twat.

Sometimes I can't help but feel Ted is right and wizards are all insane. But we have magic, so that still makes us better.

...It doesn't help that my dream is the be an enchanter and I am likely going to end up helping the morons with their idiotic projects.

"Phoebe?" I look at my twin sister, her jet black hair, the same as my own, but far longer, is left to flow loose, a few strands drifting in the light wind. I do like our outfits for today. Fairly standard black robes, but I think we make the silver accents look quite good.

"Hmmm," She considers, her bright blue eyes, again so similar to my own, staring off into space. "No, you won't end up doing very many of these silly little jobs brother. We don't need money so have no reason to. You can make whatever you want, though I think you mostly end up focusing on weapons for some reason?"

Well, that is a relief. Weapons huh? That sounds interesting enough...and I could level this atrocity and rebuild it into something more sensible...

We both inherited The Gift from mother's line, but Phoebe's is generally far stronger and less limited. I am mostly just good at reading people, with some occasional feelings and dreams. She appears to be the new Cassandra, without the curse. Which is good since I would hate to have to go murder Apollo or something to lift it. Then again Apollo is kind of a dick in general, isn't he?

I briefly debate the merits of trying to make something to kill the Sun. Probably a bad idea, but wow that would be cool. It may be ones last great creation, but what a way to go...

"Weapons? I don't know if I like the sound of that...please keep in mind I won't be there to patch you up if you get to experimenting at the school." Ted speaks up, hazel eyes sharp under his fair hair.

Please, I am hardly that reckless. And everyone has some accidents, it is the price of progress!

"I think it sounds pretty cool." Dora defends me. The Seventh Year is going as a shoulder-length pinkette with violet eyes today and is currently the same height as Andy. "And we have Madame Pomfry, she has no shortage of experience. You'll make me something to help with Auror training right Coi-boy?" she asks.

"Of course, once you stop using stupid names, Nymphadora," I reply.

She glares at me, but I ignore it, even with the cool eyes. For someone who insists that others respect her hatred of her given name, you would think our adoptive big sister would return the favor, but even after almost five years, she still insists on trying to use stupid nicknames, especially for me.

We finally received our Hogwarts letters and came to the alley to get our school supplies...and our wands, at last. Yes, I am still annoyed about having to delay for no good reason.

We should have been able to get them on our birthday back in May, but Andromeda insisted on waiting until we got our letters. It was one of the greatest disagreements we have had since we moved in with her, only the fact Dora had to wait as well settled the matter. I will concede the unfairness of us going early when she did not, even if there was no reason for her to wait either. Some traditions are stupid.

"Now now, no bickering in public you two," said woman interrupts us. "And making weapons sounds like a perfectly respectable plan. I know the Ministry can certainly use them, given how incompetent most of the DMLE is outside of the Aurors. Fudge has forced Amelia to lower the standards so far I have heard some cannot even cast a shield, it is embarrassing."

I frown at the thought. That... doesn't sound good. Isn't that a basic fifth-year spell? Like, easy O.W.L. level? How do you get into law enforcement without it?

"The terrible standards for Defense at Hogwarts aren't helping," Dora reminds us, seeing my confusion. "Don't forget, we haven't had a professor last more than a year since before I was even born, and many of them don't last that long. The most competent seeming professor we had since I started, the only one that seemed to have full actual lesson plans and everything, didn't last two weeks. He just vanished, no one ever found him."

I look to Phoebe, who shrugs.

We continue down the alley, avoiding the man running along the walls chasing a cat, keeping a careful eye on the brooms, umbrellas, and occasional illegal carpet carrying unsteady cauldrons above us and listening to Dora elaborate on the Defense professors.

"We had a vampire once. I thought it would be kinda badass but it was just embarrassing. He had a horribly stupid name and ended up choking to death on garlic while writing bad poetry alone in his office. And do you remember Lovecraft? I think I talked about him before."

"You said he tried to blow up the school right? Claimed the Ravenclaw Third Years were all evil or something?" A professor trying to kill everyone is pretty memorable.

"Yea, that one, in my fourth year. Don't forget, he got along great with Trelawny before that, moaning about ruination and despair, and I am sure you two will have her as a teacher." She smirks at us. "Have fuuuun!"

Ugh, Trelawny. I share a glance with my sister. We've heard nothing but terrible things about her 'classes'. But we will need to attend them for Divination credit...

"Chances she falls down the stairs while drunk?" I ask.

Dora rolls her eyes and Ted just laughs. Andy narrows her eyes at me.

Phoebe wiggles her hand. "Decent. They say she does drink a lot, and the Hogwarts staircases do move around."

Wow, she really is going to be annoying then, isn't she? I wouldn't have asked in front of everyone if I thought we were actually going to have to do it. I'll have to arrange something else if she gets that bad. Isn't the forest suppose to be full of giant spiders?

"Well, here we are, Ollivanders," Ted announces are we arrive at the shop. Obviously, we insisted on coming here as the first part of the trip. I was completely unwilling to wait any longer than necessary. Two months lost already, what a waste.

"Honestly, I don't get it. For such an important place it is so...shabby," Ted complains.

We all shake our heads.

It must be a muggleborn thing, being unable to understand the understated importance, unable to feel the quiet sense of power and majesty imparted here. This is just about the closest thing to a holy place in Magical Britain, and one of the oldest functional magical sites in Britain. They didn't build Ollivanders in Diagon Alley, they built Diagon Alley around Ollivanders.

A punch on the arm from Andy silences Ted, and we enter in respectful silence, only to find a warzone.

The shelves are destroyed, there are several obviously magical fires, the walls are torn apart with gouges and outright holes, and the floor is covered in scattered boxes, many of which have been partially transformed into misshapen abominations.

In the middle of this picture of ruin that looks like it could have come from the front page of the Daily Prophet during the war, telling of a particularly brutal raid, stand two figures. One is Ollivander himself, wearing a beaming smile despite the destruction around him and instantly recognizable even missing much of his hair. The other is a small, terrified-looking black-haired girl hesitantly waving a wand.

Phoebe pulls Dora to the side as the counter explodes, filling the room with splinters and fragments, with one particularly large chunk smashing into the wall where Dora was standing moments before. She gapes at it for a moment, before giving Phoebe a hug.

"Wotcher...thanks for the save, Phobes."

"Of course big sis." She smiles and nods before wandering off into the shop, casually picking through the boxes.

What...the bloody hell?

I take a closer look at the original pair, as the girl throws the wand away from her, into a pile of discarded wands, and Ollivander goes to find another. I note something is...off about him, even as he mutters about a supposedly tricky customer. I have never heard about him taking more than four or five tries.

And the girl, is that? Yes, I do believe that is Iris Potter, isn't it? I look at Andy, and mouth "Potter."

She blinks, examining her before nodding.

Fascinating. This would be an excellent time to make an important connection...assuming we survive the experience. This place looks rather dangerous. I wouldn't mind being able to replicate some of these effects, however, if I could do so in a controlled fashion.

"Apologies, be with you in just a mo-oh," Phoebe cuts off Ollivander, showing him two boxes she picked out of the mess and handing him a handful of coins.

"Ah, I see. Silver lime and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, quite flexible." He peers at her intently over the broken rims of his glasses. "The gift is rare enough Ms. Black. For one so young to have it manifest in such strength, even more so."

She shrugs, unconcerned.

"And for your brother, let's see. Hornbeam and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, reasonably supple. And from the same dragon if I do recall, no surprise there I suppose. A rather brutal and unusually large Hebridean Black. Tell me, what would your passion be, Mr. Black?"

"I am going to be an enchanter, the greatest the world has ever known!" I state proudly.

"Hah! Very well then, very well then. Now," he turns away from us, reaching into a pile of boxes and extracts one. "Apple and phoenix feather, ten inches, fairly bendy. Give it a go," he says, handing it to Iris.

Iris looks at us and cringes as Phoebe crosses the room.

I take the box she hands me, and we each withdraw our wands.

I breathe in deep, and exhale, feeling the rush of magic. I can feel Phoebe's magic entwine with mine, strengthening and empowering it. Many of the nearby boxes stack and organize themselves neatly while the nearest shelves and walls repair themselves. The magical fires, on the other hand, stick around, crackling threateningly.

We smile at each other and turn towards Iris as Phoebe leans against me.

"See? Not so bad. Give it a shot?" I suggest.

Just have to get the right one.

Phoebe doesn't say anything but watches her consideringly instead. She saw something during the surge, didn't she?

She takes a deep breath, nods, lifts the wand, and swings it down.

The wand lets out a piercing wail, and a tornado of wind rips through the shop, flinging boxes in every direction with as much violence as possible, ruining much of my recent work.

We retreat to Dora and Andy, who were ready for this, and had cast shields to protect from the chaos.

What could cause this kind of reaction?

Eventually, the winds die down, and the boxes stop flying through the air.

"What the hell..." Dora whispers under her breath.

"I don't know, I can't say I have ever seen a wand react like that before," Andy admits.

Ted seems stunned into silence.

I have no idea what happened to the wand, other than the fact it is no longer in Iris's hand. Ollivander...looks as excited as ever as he picks through the wreckage? Except...

I look at the old man and can see the truth.

"Stop it," I demand. "Stop yanking her chain, or whatever you are doing. You know the wand she needs, just give it to her."

He stops and blinks at me, before sighing, his entire countenance seeing to age decades in a moment.

Iris stares at me, brilliant green eyes wide in shock, before turning to glare at him in betrayal.

"Apologies Miss Potter," he says, before reaching behind his counter, well, where it used to be, and grabbing a specific box.

"Eleven inches, holly, with a phoenix feather core," the suddenly ancient man intones, offering her the simple-looking wand.

She eyes him with distrust, before hesitantly wrapping her fingers around it. The moment she does, however, her eyes widen, and magic can be felt as it thrums through the shop. The wand glows as she raises it, wind flowing outward in all directions as we all stare in awe.

It lasts but a moment, but the memory will never be forgotten by those present.

Ollivander...Ollivander sighs in resignation.

"As I said, I do apologize Ms. Potter. I was not attempting to trick you, waste your time, or "yank your chain', as it were. No, that wand...well, it has a brother wand. A partner, one made with a feather from the same phoenix, one who gave but only those two feathers and no more."

We all look at him. I don't think anyone gets the point he is making yet, but I don't like the feeling I am getting.

"The partner to that wand, well, it gave you that scar."

...Ah.

"In being chosen by this one? Hmm, I suppose it was inevitable, either way, but I fear it is one more mark, sealing your destiny. A destiny of further confrontation with a Dark Lord. Not a fate I would wish thrust upon anyone. The one who gave you that mark did great things."

I blink. Not how most would describe them, especially to the bloody Girl-Who-Lived of all people.

"Terrible, yes, but great."

Ah, a far more interesting definition. One far more in line with Black philosophy actually. Very interesting...

"But they did it by their own choice. I fear you are being forced onto a path by fate, rather than by choice. And we should all get to make our own choices, however terrible they may be."