The First Wandmaker
Rating: G
Summary: Refer to Title!
Disclaimer: I do not own a knut of the JKR Empire
In a small village in the heart of England which would one day be swallowed by the future city of London, a young lad who had just completed his apprenticeship was in his brand-new workshop admiring his first 'proper' staff (purely from as a craftsman of the trade). But as always with his staffs he felt a wave of disappointment, a dissatisfaction that he just could not get rid of.
Now. Let get this straight. It was not disappointment due to that there was an internal fault to the staff, or in power levels that it was weak – for it was neither. It was just that staffs were so cumbersome. Not very ideal for the witch or wizard who was constantly on the move. If only he could design something simpler, or at least lighter – but the wood had to be of heavier enough ratio for the rather large, very expensive gem on the top.
"There must be some way I may reduce its density-" he spoke out aloud with longing. "To carry it in your pocket, so not to lug it around!" He faltered, "…but not to destroy its precious power…" he added under his breath.
He continued his pondering with a little humming tune between the remaining teeth in his mouth. His imagination just wasn't going to be very inspiring today, he decided with an inward sigh and decided instead to write that long, overdue letter to his mother's sister.
Digging out a dark, greeny-black quill from a mountain of thick parchments he threw the feather onto the only clear surface – his stool, as he hunted around for his small throwing knife.
Eventually being able to sharpen the lead of his quill, a flash of inspiration sent a shock-wave throughout his body.
'Hang on a minute!' He thought. 'Why not use a different source of power than a gem, stone or crystal? How about a core?' A core could be from a magical source or creature; such as a unicorn hair or a snake's fang or heartstring – or maybe a quill… The lad giggled as he eyed his Irish Phoenix feathered quill. Anything long and nicely thin or supple would do the trick quite nicely. Then the staff would only need to be long enough to contain the core… And if the price coulg be lowered from not used the gems then the common wizard or witch could own one of these mini-staffs without going into debt.
"I amaze even myself sometimes," the lad chuckled to himself with glee and jumped up from the floor and prepared himself for work.
***** *** *****
One thousand, three hundred and seventy-three years later, a man, going by the surname of Ollivander, picked up a wand in the back of his workshop which housed the staffs and wands of historic interest and unusualality.
Looking up and down the wonky wand, he smiled and uttered those words that escaped his lips every time he picked up a wand.
"Stool leg, made of oak. Inflexible. One and a half foot, core is a feathered quill-pencil from the tail of an Augurey, commonly known as the Irish Phoenix."
This was the world's most powerful wand. It may not seem like it – the common observer may even consider that over the years that there had been improvements in the art of making a fine wand – and there had. Wands had become lighter and more aerodynamic. But this wand had the power of being the first – it was like the god of all wands. It was also the reason why himself, his father, his father's father, his father's father's mother … you get the drift … had been given the absolute privilege of such a wonderful job.
The bell to the shop jingled.
"Ooh! I wonder who it is." He whispered, in that same gleeful tone of his ancestor. He carefully placed the wand into its box and sprung towards the young girl in order to scare and amaze her, … and to perhaps sell to her a wand of great potential.