Ernie MacMillan had always known he was magical, and when he was old enough to understand what a wizard was, he knew he was one. He knew he'd go to Hogwarts and he took it for granted that he'd be in Hufflepuff. The cozy common room under the dungeon, filled with plants, earth-toned throw rugs and squashy armchairs featured prominently in the stories his parents told him about their own school days. Even so, the realization, at the end of fifth grade, that he'd be leaving his muggle primary school and all the friends from his neighborhood, hurt a little bit. He was excited, no doubt about it. He'd get his own wand and finally be able to cast charms and experiment with potions, just like the rest of his family. In fact, his wand was the purpose of the journey he was currently on. He gazed out the window at the Scottish countryside from the backseat of his family's station wagon, watching the familiar landmarks sail by as they sped closer and closer to his grandmother's house.
Most old wizarding families like his probably wouldn't travel by muggle car, but his parents enjoyed that sort of thing. He'd grown up going to muggle films, reading muggle books, and learning about the history of the muggle world alongside hearing the stories and lore of what his family called Wizard Culture. "It's no good only knowing about our own kind, Ernie," his father always said, "There are only a few thousand of us. Pretending that the non-magical world doesn't exist is just poor citizenship." His mother would nod along wisely and offer up anecdotes about all of the muggle remedies that she'd learned about and used in her practice to treat magical and non-magical pets. "Their medicine is really advanced. I'd love to take a muggle course in anatomy, I just never have the time. It won't be the case for you, though, Ernie. You'll go to muggle university after Hogwarts, just like your cousins have done." Ernie didn't mind. He liked muggle school. All you really needed to do was sit quietly and do what the teachers asked.
The Macmillans were among the Sacred 28, those few British wizarding families who were deemed amongst the purest of wizarding ancestry and they had ties to some of the most powerful and wealthy folk in Magical Britain. But the younger generations, of which Ernie's father was one, prided themselves on their open-mindedness and their modernity. What was the point, the Macmillans repeated to one another, of ignoring the muggle world completely when it was full of such wonders? Music, art, technology, literature, not to mention job opportunities. What went without saying was that magical talent was the baseline in the Wizarding World, but with careful application in the muggle world, a bit of magic went a long way towards conferring an advantage in life. Of course, Macmillans were honest. They wouldn't take advantage of muggles as individuals, but the system… well it was just like the ministry for magic, wasn't it? Filled with corruption and incompetence? Why not use the loopholes to their advantage? The statute of secrecy was all well and good, but wizards could actually do a fair amount of good in the world with their special abilities, if they were careful and subtle about it, and what was it that muggles said about wizards? That they were subtle. The Macmillans were subtle, and their subtlety had earned them high standing in both worlds. They never shot too far. Don't be the Prime Minister, don't be a film star, don't draw attention to yourself. When you draw attention to yourself, that's when the ministry comes knocking, or worse, dark wizards. Live a comfortable life. Use magic, but not to dominate. Use it gently. Use it to enhance.
And so the Macmillans lived a comfortable, quiet life in a mixed community. Ernie's mother was a magical creature healer; his father owned a bookshop. The bookshop had two doors, and two collections, one muggle, one magical. When Ernie wasn't at school, he worked in the shop, organizing the used books collections, running the register, and helping customers find what they wanted. During long, slow afternoons, he read books, curled up in a corner of the shop with the fuzzy black shop cat.
But now, Ernie was 11. Today was his birthday, July 23rd, and as per family tradition, today was the day he'd get his wand. Macmillans didn't usually get their wands from stores, like other wizards. Instead, on a child's 11th birthday, there was a family wand fitting. From the trove of ancestral wands, a match would be made, overseen by the oldest member of the clan who, currently, was Ernie's grandmother, Gladys. Ernie felt nervous. Although his parents told him there was nothing to fear, and that there were so many wands that everyone always found one to fit, Ernie wasn't completely sure. "Wouldn't it be better, you know, more modern, to have a wand fitted to me by a professional?" he had asked, more than once. Often, the word modern had a motivating effect on his parents, but in this case they were unmoved. "A poorly fitted wand will interfere with my schoolwork," Ernie said. They shrugged, "Children do change over time," his mother said. "Think of it as your first wand, a starter wand," his father said. This did not tally with what Ernie had read about wandlore in the books at his father's shop, nor with any of the numerous pieces of advice that he had read in books like So you're a first year! and Finding Success at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was odd, he thought, that his parents could be so critical of ethnocentric wizards and yet turn out to be so blindly biased in favor of a family tradition themselves. "Did you get new wands when you were older, then?" he asked his parents. "No." his father replied. "My wand is from Ollivander's, dear, but that's only because my family doesn't have the history your father's does,"said his mother. Ernie had given up eventually, but he sighed a little as they turned onto the wide path leading up to his grandmother's home.
Theirs was the only car there, although they were by no means the first to arrive. The other guests had come by more magical means: portkey, floo, broomstick, apparition. Ernie was the youngest of the family. His cousins had all left Hogwarts years ago. There would be few children his age, though, Neville, for one would be there. The Longbottoms were always invited to Macmillan social functions. As they followed the cobblestone path around the side of his grandmother's cottage, the crowd gathered in back came into view. Ernie allowed himself to be kissed on the cheek by his grandmother and then peeled away from his parents, picking up a cup of punch as he passed the snack table. He found Neville sitting glumly on a folding chair under the sprawling oak tree that shaded the yard.
"Hey Nev," Ernie said.
"Happy Birthday, Ernie, excited for the wand fitting?" Neville replied.
"Thanks. I don't want to sound like a party pooper, but I'd rather just go to Ollivander's," Ernie said, shrugging his shoulders and scanning the crowd for familiar faces. There were many, but it looked like his favorite cousin, Adelaide, hadn't arrived yet.
"Tell me about it," Neville said, "but at least you've got a mountain to choose from. I had two options and my father's was the least bad fit. I'll be rubbish at everything I just know it."
"I doubt it," Ernie said, although he thought privately that it was pretty likely Neville would have a tough time at Hogwarts. He was just so negative all the time and in Ernie's experience, children liked cheerful, outgoing children the best for friends. "Are you excited, though, to see Hogwarts and all?" Ernie asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"A little nervous. I've never been to school, you know, Gran and Uncle Algie taught me." Neville said.
"Well, ask the hat for Hufflepuff. I'm sure that's where I'll go and I can keep you company. I've been going to school for years. It isn't so bad, kind of fun, really," Ernie said. Neville was a nice boy, and quiet. Ernie liked nice, quiet children. He really hoped Neville would be in Hufflepuff. It would be comforting to have someone he already knew as a housemate.
"Gran will go mental if I don't go to Gryffindor," Neville responded, sinking even lower into his chair. Ernie nodded in commiseration, looking at Neville's grandmother, who was wearing her signature fox stole and felt fedora even though it was shaping up to be a roasting hot July afternoon. Cooling charms went a long way towards individual comfort but did nothing to make Augusta Longbottom's attire seasonal.
"Well, either way, we'll maybe have classes together and we can spend some free time together. Really, Neville," Ernie said, bracingly, as Neville looked at him with doubt apparent on his face.
"Oh dear. She's waving me over. Who's that she's talking to, is it Professor McGonagal? It is, I'm doomed. See you later, Ernie," and with that, Neville slouched away towards his grandmother who was indeed, in conversation with Minerva McGonagal, a friend of Ernie's own grandma. He watched as Neville, looking bashful, joined the two women and began talking to them.
His mother approached then. "It's time, Ernie, let's go get you a wand." And so they walked together towards the house, where a solid wooden table was laid out with wands of every shape, length, and color. Ernie caught the eye of his cousin Adelaide. She must just have arrived. She waved to him and winked.
The chatter in the crowd hushed as Ernie stood in front of the table. Each wand was tagged with a fluttery bit of parchment attached with ribbon that listed their maker, previous owner, and vital statistics.
Ernie looked across the table at his grandmother, who would guide his choice. She waited a moment until the crowd was silent. Arrayed in front of her were the wands, the Macmillan family crest (a bumblebee on a midnight blue field), a blood red candle, and a lock of Ernie's golden hair, preserved from his very first haircut and stored, along with the other family locks, in the same vault as the family wands. "Who comes to be fitted for a Macmillan wand?" She said, in a carrying voice.
"It is I, Ernest Alan Macmillan, son of Jerome Macmillan and Constance Grey," he replied. He'd heard the words over and over again as a small child, when one after another of his many cousins had recited them from where he now stood.
"Today you come into the magic of the family of Macmillan, and so first must answer the three questions that all new wand holders must answer. First, what purpose does magic hold?" the answers to these questions were not recited. They were prepared. Ernie had been thinking about his answers for years. Part of the tradition was that no one was allowed to help you or to coach you, and his parents had followed the rules.
"The purpose of magic is to enhance what is inherent," Ernie said. He was proud of using the word inherent. His grandmother nodded shortly and looked down at the table. This was a good, safe, Hufflepuff answer. And Ernie really did believe it. It was important to be honest during the wand selection ritual. Around a third of the wands lying there glowed softly.
"The second question you must answer, what is valued over all others?"
Ernie looked at his grandmother's stern face and said, "Flexibility is the most valuable." Something flickered in his grandmother's eyes and Ernie knew it was because he was supposed to say hard work or loyalty or tradition, like everyone did. He wasn't supposed to say something Slytherin like "flexibility," but he really did believe it. Most of the wands that had previously glowed went dull, leaving fewer than 10 still emitting weak light.
"Finally, what is your greatest desire?"
Ernie lifted his chin and met his grandmother's eyes. This was the most personal of the questions and he'd thought long and hard about how to answer. In fact, the question offended him a little bit, because it seemed to him that he wasn't really old enough to be expected to set his life's one desire. It was hard to narrow down to one all of the things that were very important to him, hard to imagine all of the things that might one day become important to him. So he had chosen something that he did desire, from a list of other things he desired, in part to complicate the wand search. He had hypothesized that if he gave confusing enough answers, maybe none of the family wands would fit and he'd have to get a new one from Diagon Alley like a normal first year.
"My greatest desire is to learn everything I can about everything there is," Ernie said, because it was true. It was not, however, a safe answer. One wand remained alight. It was a twisty wand of dark vinewood. His grandmother looked at it in distaste. The workmanship was not like the standard and smooth English wands made by the Ollivanders and echoed in most of the family wands on the table.
"Take the wand in your hand," his grandmother said, so Ernie did. It was not long, only about 9 inches, he guessed. While the wand itself was twisted and knotty, the handle was smooth and comfortable in his hand, like it was made just for him. He immediately felt a kind of warm and friendly energy surge up his arm and he smiled involuntarily. His eyebrows went up in surprise and he looked up at his grandmother. She was looking at him like she'd never seen him before. She shook her head a bit and then said, "Read to us the label."
And so Ernie turned to the crowd and read off the label, "Vinewood, 9 and a half inches, thestral hair core, made by Moragh Macmillan, last wielded by Melania Macmillan Black."
There was a moment of stunned silence in the crowd and then, recovering, his extended family began to applaud as per usual, and Ernie held his wand up over his head, where a happy little shower of sparks was emitted in brief response to the ovation. Ernie looked up in surprise and glee. He really did not expect for his parents to be proven right about the wand ceremony. He really thought he wouldn't find one he liked, but this wand was perfect. He couldn't wait to learn to cast with it. He turned to look at his parents then, and although they were smiling, their expressions looked a bit fixed.
Now people were filing by to shake his hand and congratulate him and offer him advice for his first year. He greeted each with a smile and a word of thanks. When Adelaide came past, she smiled at him, but then she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, "Leave it to the youngest to shock every Macmillan in Scotland. Did you have to pick the darkest wand on the table?" She pulled back, her eyes dancing. Ernie cocked his head and wrinkled his brow, "find me after," she said, gesturing to the line of relatives behind her. Ernie nodded and turned to the next.
As he received the line of relatives, his mind worked fast. He'd read a couple of books about wands. One, it is true, had mentioned that straight, smooth workmanship was a feature of wands that were matched to wizards who used their power for defensive magic. Some of the most famous living wizards, like Albus Dumbledore, for example, along with most of the heroes from the last war, had wands best described as perfectly standard, English made, long and straight and swishy. Rigid wands, twisted wands, short wands, wands with cores outside of dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, and phoenix feather, those were wands for dark wizards. The book had been published in England, by the United Kingdom Wand Authority. As young and inexperienced as he was, Ernie had really not been satisfied with this accounting of wands and so he'd sought out a different book, this one written by an American, that was much more expansive on the subject of cross-cultural wand making. While the wands used by European-American wizards were like in style to the English wands most British wizards were accustomed to, the book also included information about other wand making traditions, including those indigenous to the British Isles. Twisted wands weren't especially unusual in Irish, Welsh, and Scottish wand making, nor in wand-making on the continent. Certainly, in other countries besides Britain and the United States, a twisted wand didn't indicate the wizard wielding it was dark. Ernie shrugged internally. Just another example of Macmillan family hypocrisy—talk about the value of multiculturalism but conveniently forget it when it comes to sacred family traditions.
When the receiving line was finally through and it was time to eat, Ernie found himself at Adelaide's side. "I love my wand," he said simply.
"I'm glad. Don't worry about them, really," she said, waving an arm at their relatives. "I don't know how Melania was sorted, but you know, I got the wand of a Gryffindor Macmillan, I think because I said my greatest desire was adventure or something of that sort. They all looked at me the same way they looked at you," she said. "How are you getting to Hogwarts?"
"Mom and dad promised I could take the Hogwarts Express, to make me feel better about not getting my wand at Ollivander's. We're going to Diagon Alley the day before to pick up some supplies and then I'll be off from London."
"Good," Adelaide said, "I was worried they were going to drop you off at Hogsmeade station in the Ford," they both giggled.
"Can you imagine?" Ernie said, "So embarrassing."
The ride home in that same Ford was quiet. Ernie smiled to himself as he looked out the window. Funny how life works out sometimes. Now his parents were probably thinking they would have done better to have taken him to Ollivander's afterall, so he'd have a nice, normal wand instead of his little twisty one. He wondered what Melania Macmillan had been like, and what she'd done, and how she'd ended up married to a Black. He decided not to ask his parents about that, though, for the time being.