Gilderoy Lockhart was feeling giddy. No Veela hair for him, but he had, he thought, much better: while he was kissing that Annatar person, he had thoroughly rummaged through his hair as one is wont to do, and had left with a few very long, and very fiery, hair winding around his fingers. He didn't know whether Annatar was Veela or not; indeed, he was rather inclined towards not, but surely Annatar wasn't human either, and was therefore a magical creature. That meant he was the proud owner of half the materials needed to create a wand. Halarova wouldn't need to go dragon hunting after all, and our hero sent someone to tell him as much. Lockhart hoped the messenger would insist upon his own great mansuetude that had resulted in him finding another solution. But for now, he was in what he had understood to be Celebrimbor's private workshop, and he had finished securing Annatar's hair while humming some tune by the Weyrd Sisters. How hard could it be to make a wand, really? Gilderoy Lockhart had always privately thought they were overpriced, but one can never pay too much for a status symbol.
The other half of a wand, that was the most visible one, was obviously wood. After his run-in with the Guild, he had decided the safest course of action would be to send for someone to do the job for him. It had been as easy as finding his very own Mister Secretary and giving a few orders. Being a lord, thought our hero, had its perks. Mister Secretary beat the Hogwarts house elves every time; he had dragged an unwitting woodworker with a small lathe to Celebrimbor's workshop in less time than it takes to say obliviate. And now, Gilderoy Lockhart would be able to watch a master at work.
The woodworker made, in the end, three wands of perfectly polished wood, chosen to display the most beautiful grain. It had been a fascinating endeavour that had taken the better part of the day; as most wizards, Gilderoy Lockhart was unfamiliar with craftsmanship. Why bother to learn techniques that take years to master when you can do just as much with a few spells? But he had taken an unexpected pleasure in watching the wooden rods take shape in the lathe; the smell of hot wood, the frizz of chips fine as blades of grass, and the colour that shone after polishing and waxing — it had been enchanting.
"Now, split them in two," he asked. "Along the length."
The woodworker paled. "You should have told me earlier," he protested.
"Now now now, my good man, do not protest. I need the two halves to fit seamlessly."
With a sigh that was definitely not the thing one usually emitted within earshot of one's absolute lord, the woodworker went to work with a very fine saw. When he was done, the sun was setting, and Gilderoy Lockhart sent him away with a mission to dispatch some dinner to his private rooms.
The road back to Celebrimbor's chambers was fairly easy through the emptying streets. When Gilderoy opened the door, he was however surprised to see a guest waiting in the living room. This was no one he had met so far and, for some reason, that man felt quite underwhelming. Gilderoy thought he ought to have looked more, he didn't know, regal? For some reason, the words "hair dark as the shadows of twilight, eyes grey as a clear evening, venerable as a king crowned with many winters, hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strength" floated through Gilderoy Lockhart's mind — but the person sitting there was nothing like it. If anything, he looked like a Hogwarts student on a budget who had failed his NEWT as a way to rebel against his parents.
"Tyelpe," beamed the man, "I took your advice and visited that new hairdresser."
"Well, you do look nice," gushed our hero. And it was true: the man rocked a style not unlike Lockhart's own — neither short nor long, of a blondish colour too drab to be natural, and that required copious amounts of hair spray. "I do give out the best advice, don't I?"
His guest laughed; that must be another friend, so Lockhart fussed over him in the appropriate manner until a servant arrived with food and drink. He then tried to get rid of his guest, but the man just sprawled on several cushions, grabbing a cup of wine, and Lockhart resigned himself to his presence. That one didn't have the courtesy of others who had slipped their own names early into conversation, and Lockhart felt as if he was walking on eggshells here. His over the top social skills did help him, though, and he managed to drink his guest to a stupor in less than an hour and a half while deflecting most questions about rings and wands. He then laid his guest on his side on the couch, put a glass of water near him, and went to bed. That was way too much for a single day. He'd deal with that one more unknown factor in the morning.
When Gilderoy Lockhart woke up the next morning, last night's guest was still happily snoring his wine away. That was excellent — but before he could slip away unnoticed, the man stirred. His face looked slightly different in the morning light, but his hair was still the same glorious brushed-back mane that would make only a select few people proud. He had gotten naked too, beneath the duvet Gilderoy had thoughtfully thrown upon him.
"Ooh," he groaned. "Where am I?"
Too bad, cursed our hero. He forced himself to a welcoming chirpy tone to answer.
"Good morning! I'm afraid you have slept on my couch. Too much to drink. But it's no bother, take all the time you need, my good friend. I was just leaving, but you can stay until you feel better."
There, that ought to do it. But the man looked at him with puzzled eyes, and asked: "Who're you? Where's Robin? Where's everyone?"
"Why, but you did go heavy on the drink last night! I am your good friend lord Celethingbor. Must run. Bye!"
"Wait!"
Before the staggering young man was able to get up (he must have quite the hangover), Lockhart was through the door and halfway to the street. And Lockhart was nearly to the Guild compound when he realised that when he awoke the man had spoken in English and not the strange local language. With an American accent. He nearly turned back to investigate, but the urge to complete a wand was too strong.
Unfortunately for Gilderoy Lockhart, his (sort of) workshop contained another unexpected guest — of the child kind. A little girl was sitting on his (sort of) desk, kicking her heels against the wood; she had very pale hair of silver and, when she saw him, rushed to hug him with a squeal not unlike a kettle reaching boiling point. Then she looked at him, from the full four feet of her height, and asked: "Whatdidyoutellmumthatmusthavebeensomethingcauseshesinsuchamood!"
"Slower, my dear," replied our hero as he tried to untangle himself from the hug. "You must always be articulate, otherwise people won't ever listen to you. I am extremely glad to see you too, but would you please stop impersonating an octopus, dear? It is quite unbecoming at that stage of your career."
"Sorry, uncle Tyelpe. What did you tell my mother yesterday? That must have been something, because she is in one of her moods."
Her mother? Now that he got a better look at the girl, he saw the resemblance. So that must be Galadriel's daughter.
"Nothing much, really," he said.
The girl swirled back to the desk and stuck out her tongue. "You're lying," she retorted. "Dad — father — even said he would punch you in the face if you ever so much as dared to ask that again. But mother said she would do it herself, thank you very much, because she used to be a wrestling champion in her youth. And she called you a poor excuse of a smith to boot."
A heavy silence fell, until realization dawned and Gilderoy slowly said: "I asked her for some of her hair."
The girl gravely nodded. "That would do it," she commented. "Only father and I have the right to touch her hair. Not even her maids do."
"But why? It was only a question, after all."
"Didn't your grandfather used to pester her for some of her hair in the old days? It made her fairly mad at the time I think."
Gilderoy winced. His own Lockhart grandfather had been a piece of work; at the end of his life, the family couldn't pay enough caretakers to deal with him, as he perpetually tried to grope these poor women. Given the probable age of Galadriel, he pictured a leery Celegrandfather committing the local version of sexual harassment against a probably very young woman, and he suddenly completely forgave the strange Veela. Not becoming like his own grandfather had been a personal goal of his from a young age; after all, if one is charming enough and well-bred enough, there is no need to resort to patriarchal coercion in order to get women. He shuddered at thinking how Galadriel must have perceived him.
"Aouch," he said.
"Aouch indeed," agreed the child.
A short silence fell between them, and our hero thought to ask if the young lady's mother was aware of her visiting her favourite uncle's workshop.
"I won't tell her if you don't," retorted the child, sticking her tongue out in a very unladylike fashion. "But I heard you were tinkering with something new and how dared you do that without telling me?"
Sitting in what he hoped came across as an authoritative manner (Gilderoy Lockhart had spent quite some time observing professor McGonagall's aura in the hope of having calmer classrooms — fourth year Gryffindor were a pain), Gilderoy sternly said: "Now that is extremely wrong, my dear. One should never go somewhere against the will of one's own parents. I know my irresistible personality makes it hard to resist the call — I wasn't voted to Witch Weekly cover several times in a row merely thanks to my stunning smile — but, really, child. Your mother would be extremely angry at you if she knew."
"But she won't. Don't snitch and I won't, uncle Tyelpe. What do wands do?"
There was no way around it. The little girl had such disarming grey eyes she might have won first place in a puppy-impersonating contest. Gilderoy Lockhart, with a sigh, abandoned all pretense of teachering.
"They focus your own magic to allow you to channel it into spells and charms." And I'll probably need half of this world's magic in order to get back to Hogwarts.
"But why do you need mom's hair for that?"
There were many reasons behind the use of parts of magical creatures (sentient or not) in wands. Gilderoy only knew the most obvious: that is, magic holds to whatever bits and pieces it can, and can therefore, in this very crude form, be transmitted. The other reasons, that included but were not limited to, wizarding supremacy over other sentients, colonialism, and plain old racism in between humans since wands were considered both the pinnacle of magical engineering and a western European invention, he ignored. He might have been better learned if sociology hadn't been banned from being taught in Hogwarts since the day Helga Hufflepuff died and the other founders had awkwardly looked at each other before scratching off that particular chair. Even Salazar Slytherin had come back for this special occasion. Gilderoy might have suspected these not-so-hidden reasons had he read between the lines of professor Binns' lessons, but he hadn't cared.
"Mum's a Veela?" asked the child, who seemed to get fixated on useless details.
"And so are you," very gently said our hero. "Which is why I don't wish to anger your mother. Angry Veelas are no joke. Adult ones, of course. The pediatric kind I am quite sure I can handle even without a wand."
The girl sneered, kicking her heels against the desk upon which she had climbed again. The pleading puppy was gone, replaced by the scornful expression usually reserved, in children, for canned spinach.
"That stupid, uncle. Mum's a Noldo, same as you. Dad's a Sinda. We're all Calaquendi. Never heard of these Veela persons."
This was getting grating. Gilderoy Lockhart, order of Merlin third class, wasn't about to let himself be sneered at like some badly cooked vegetables by some nameless blond little girl.
"Listen, you brat," he cut, waving his finger and trying once again to channel McGonagall, "that's quite enough. Get out of my office and let me work in peace."
Oh, the puppy eyes again. But our hero steeled his heart and physically dragged the pleading child all the way to the door — only to have her wheedle out of his grasp at the last moment and run to the workbench, where she grabbed the three yet empty wands before running around the room with a cackling laugh. It was once of these moments where one could even fall to the floor in a puddle of nervous tears or be a hero. Of course, Gilderoy Lockhart chose the latter; which is to say he waited for the next lap of the child before tackling her to the ground like an unruly Quidditch Bludger.
"Give — these — back," he panted, trying to wrestle his property from small fingers with an unusual strong grasp. He finally succeeded (mostly because the child was laughing too hard to put up much of a fight).
As he dusted himself, and the girl was howling with laughter on the ground, the humour of the situation at last got to him. Discipline, after all, had never been his strong suit. A chuckle became a laugh, and the laugh became a cry when the girl suddenly jumped to hug him again, sending him down a chair that only cheer luck had put there. She sat on his lap like a cat, clinging to his tunic like a Grindylow, and they both sniggered whatever remained of pent-up energy away. It took several minutes until they both were settled enough to speak, which the child did first.
"So what will you do since you don't have mum's hair?"
With a triumphant Aha!, our hero got up and reached for the box where he had secured Annatar's hair.
"Whose is that?" asked the girl.
"Annatar's."
"Ew, gross. He's gross."
"Probably," agreed Gilderoy Lockhart, sitting on the workbench. "But I have a feeling he's quite a powerful magical creature, and that his hair is therefore eminently suitable to wand-making."
But the child's nose was still wrinkled like a pug's as she watched in silence Lockhart carefully put one hair in the center of one half of a wand and try to fix the other one with some glue he had found on a shelf. The end result looked, well, like two bits of wood badly glued together. Drats. And no Spellotape in sight.
But he was a wizard, right? So Gilderoy Lockhart took the odd-looking wand in hand and said with assurance: "Reparo."
Didn't work. Well, he tried again. Then again, only he tried to hold the wand by the tip, just in case. Didn't work either. Reparo, reparo, repa-BLOODY-paro, until he facepalmed against the table with a sigh of exasperation. The little girl watched him, an expression of intense interest on her face, as one would look at a curious scientific experiment. The tabletop was soft wood. It was very hard upon Gilderoy's cheekbone.
"What are you trying to do there, uncle Tyelpe?"
"It must look whole, so I'm trying to fix it."
The child jumped from her seat and got closer to the workbench; her eyes barely reached to the top, so that she had to climb on a short stool to see better. It was, thought Gilderoy, the thing's only function — the child was obviously a familiar of the place.
"It's just wood, is it," she asked.
"With some old glue and hair from a weird and uncommonly seductive, if slightly creepy, creature but, yes, your usual perceptiveness is spot on: it is, indeed, just wood."
"Can I help? Wood's easy to heal. You just have to make it think it's alive again."
Groaning, our hero regained a more vertical position. "Easy?" he asked.
"Yes, mum — mother — has been teaching me some songs of power. Small stuff. She said I'm not grown enough yet for the big ones. I'll be, someday. But wood's easy. Metal like you usually do is hard, because it doesn't listen. But trees, they like to, and I've been to Lórinand and I've seen how my cousins do it and please uncle Tyelpe, let me try."
A nagging suspicion crossed Lockhart's mind, and he stated flatly: "You've never actually done this before for real, have you?"
The girl became very red and mumbled something about doing it with her mother and it couldn't be so hard, could it? Well, supposed Lockhart, there was nothing to lose by trying.
Silence fell in the small workshop. The girl concentrated so hard upon the wand that she was a very little bit cross-eyed; Gilderoy Lockhart wondered if she had gas. And then, she started singing. She had a very lovely voice — a child's voice, shrill and clear, and she sang of spring in the great forests of Middle Earth, when sap rises and red buds turn into green leaves. She sang of last year's hurt that was gone, washed away by soft winter rains, and of being whole once again, and our hero saw tall trees rustle in the night as flowers bloomed and stars reeled over the land. He heard the deep voice of nature, and smelled fresh humus, and heard the breeze, and saw ferns unfurl their crosiers into great leaves. And in the child's voice he felt peace, and unity — and when the visions faded, the two halves of the wand were as one.
Transfixed, our hero took the wand into his hand. It fit perfectly — better than any he had ever bought — and a subtle fantasy of light and shadow seemed to pour from the wand to dance around the room.
"Avis," murmured our hero, and a flock of small birds, conjured out of thin air, flew around the room. A blue sparrow landed on the little girl's head; giggling, she cried out that it had worked, and could they please do the others. She wanted to try with one of her own hair, and the last one with a hair from the head of "uncle Tyelpe." Gilderoy saw nothing against it. A child could do this? Wandless magic so powerful he had never encountered its like? He felt as if he had glimpsed a greater song that made the world — and a simple child had changed it.
And then a chill went down his spine as he wondered what her mother might be able to do. Oh no, he certainly didn't want to make the lady Galadriel angry.
Once the child was gone, keeping with her the wand that had Gilderoy's hair (our hero was fairly sure it would be useless — not because of some unnatural humility, but because he thought human hair did nothing to a wand, otherwise wouldn't people use it?), Gilderoy Lockhart tried to plan his next move.
He still didn't know how he had ended up in that place. He didn't even know where he was precisely. But did a little bit of ignorance ever stop our hero? No, of course not. Now that he had a wand, he felt much more confident, so he tried to Apparate again to Diagon Alley. It didn't work any better than the first time. He also tried to enchant one of the tools from the bench into a Portkey, but this was a resounding failure too — although he had never succeeded in that particular spell before, so perhaps that one was on him.
The last thing he remembered from his world was getting stone drunk with Rita Skeeter and another reporter pal of hers in Hogsmeade. Perhaps he was only one inebriation away from waking up home? Our hero was just wondering if he should head back to his quarters and order the strongest spirits available when there was a slight knock on the door, and Annatar slid into the workshop, a knowing smile upon his face.
"Hello there, my lord," singsonged the creature. "How are you today? I was afraid that you had forgotten all about our plans for tonight."
Annatar was, well, resplendent, a hungry fire in his golden eyes. He moved around swiftly, like a will o' the wisp, and slid a seductive hand around Gilderoy's waist. Gilderoy gave him a quick peck on the lips and smiled coyly. The impression of being faced with a master conman was even stronger than the day before, and Gilderoy knew he didn't want to antagonize Annatar. Call it survival instinct.
"Me, forget?," he therefore chuckled. "How could I?"
Of course, he had forgotten. Snogging sessions with strange people ranked quite low on the order of his priorities right now. But still, one had to be polite about it.
"You know, Tyelpe, I simply cannot forget our kiss yesterday. And I heard the lady Galadriel is still angry at you? I am so, so, glad our views finally align — that is, if you have at last come to your senses and discarded that wand nonsense. Wood could never fit our goals. Gold, incorruptible as the flesh of the Valar, is the only possible repository for the kind of power you shall then have."
Annatar's breath was warm as a summer breeze against his neck; our hero sought to disengage himself from this embrace. "Power is overrated," he said. "Fame, now, that's a better thing, am I right? Because you get everything power could give you, but with much less hassle."
But Annatar, quick as an adder, turned around Gilderoy Lockhart, taking his hands into his firm grasp. "But think, Tyelpe. You would get both! You would be more famous than Fëanor himself!"
Who was that, now? But there was a catch, there had to be a catch, because Annatar, right now, looked like Gilderoy did when he had met with the Hogwarts board to convince them to give him a chair at the school. He had been lying through his teeth about a passion for tutoring young minds, as well as an endless thirst for grading papers, all so that he could get a book deal out of it. Rita Skeeter, of course, had been on it. Get me all the dirt on Dumbledore and his cronies, write two hundred and fifty pages of it where you'll be the only thing saving the school from mediocrity, and I promise you a fat bag of galleons in advance. And you'll be such a celebrity, even bigger than now!
It had been an irresistible proposition — because it was all true. Skeeter might be the shiftiest reporter of the decade, but she had spoken nothing but the truth, sparking the idea that got Gilderoy to bluff his way in. Annatar's offer, on the other hand, had no solid basis as far as our hero could see (with his limited knowledge of this place). All our hero wanted was to get home, where he was already rich and famous. Annatar had nothing of value to offer to him.
"Fëanor who?" asked our hero, and for some reason that made Annatar howl in melodious laughter.
"That's is, Tyelpe, that's the spirit! Let us get to work, shall we? And then, diner."
Extricating himself from the situation became harder by the minute. Annatar could have been the door-to-door salesman to end all door-to-door salesmen: the one that all called their master and got a bit teary eyed just thinking of the stunts he had pulled to sell another set of Encyclopedia magicae to a middle-aged mother of four who should, by any right, have cursed him to vomit slugs for about a year. However, Gilderoy Lockhart would have been a decent challenger.
"Ah, my dear," he sighed, "I would love to do so. But, you see, yesterday evening I had a guest in my living room; he had a bit too much to drink, and when I left this morning he was still so very poorly. I must check on him — it is a matter of honour, as it is my very own fault. But pray don't be jealous. There's nothing but friendship between us."
Annatar's expression briefly soured and Lockhart thought, for an instant, that the porcelain of his skin had cracked in places to reveal a dark fire. It passed as fast as it had come, though, leaving him with nothing but questions.
"Master Elrond Half-elven is famously a poor drinker," spat Annatar. "Why don't you leave him to his own devices? It might teach him a lesson."
"Now now now, Annatar my dear! You promise me fame, and would like me to risk my reputation both as a host and as a friend? Duty calls. I am the lord of this place. I cannot afford such an obvious gaucherie."
There, this did it. Annatar finally relented, but his voice was tinged with surprise when he said that he never would have thought the lord Celebrimbor to be that socially competent. It would have stung, had our hero felt this in any way applied to his own person and not his unknown double, so he smiled a pained smile before swearing to make it up to Annatar at a later date.