CHAPTER 22: DIAGON ALLEY - THE LONG HARD STICK

A/N: Better late that nevaarr


Another exciting ride back to the surface and they were all breathing the fresh air of Diagon Alley. Well, Adelaide was more gulping in the fresh air. In fact, she looked distinctly sick. "Roller Coasters not good for a woman my age" she ground out, grimacing. At Dumbledore's behest, Snape led her to the leaky cauldron for something soothing to calm her stomach. Neither of the two looked happy with the arrangement.

"Well then, Sparhawk. Let's carry on," stated Dumbledore grandly, and tottered over to a shop that appeared to be selling clothes. 'Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions' the signage read. Inside a thin woman welcomed Harry back, all the while ogling Dumbledore. It seemed the old man indeed was something of a bigshot. Then she was pleasantly interrupted from her staring at Dumbledore by Harry, who it turned out was not Harry at all but a completely unrelated chap called Sparhawk. This sent Madam Malkin into a spiralling weave of confusion, but Dumbledore stepped in and whispered something in her ear, following which she calmed down.

"Well then, I still have your measurements from last time, so I'll be done in a jiffy Ha...Sparhawk."

"Much obliged, neighbour" said Sparhawk, leaving the woman staring at him as she made her way to the back of the shop.

"Why do you do that?" asked Dumbledore curiously.

"What?" he asked, then added, "sir" as an afterthought. Dumbledore didn't seem to mind.

"Call people 'neighbour' Sparhawk. Why not go for 'friend', or 'madame' or some such?"

Truth be told, it was a habit he'd carried over from his father. The elder Sparhawk had once been asked the same by his son, the currently Harry Sparhawk, and had been told, "People might not always be your friend Sparhawk. But anyone can be your neighbour" It hadn't really made much sense then, it still didn't make much sense today, but he'd be damned if he was going to stop doing it.

"Force of habit" he answered tersely.

Before Dumbledore could ask anything more, Madam Malkin was back with four sets of black robes with all their attendant paraphernalia. "Here you are dearie," she said packing them up. Well, that was quick. "We don't seem to have a bag", Sparhawk observed.

"Oh the trappings of age, Sparhawk!" Dumbledore bemoaned. "I seem to have forgotten that little detail. Well, hold on to those for us will you, dear?" he said to the starstruck Malkin, "We shall be back shortly" and waddled out of the shop with Sparhawk.


'Sweetsack's Capacious Containers' read the sign hanging on the front of the shop, 'Big or Small, We Have em 'all'. "Ah," said Dumbledore, " I remember when I purchased my first trunk at Sweetsack's. It was a ratty second-hand thing, but I do believe I still have it lying around."

Sparhawk made non-committal conversation sounds.

The bell above the door tinkled as the duo made their way in, where they were immediately accosted by a young, sunny fellow. Putting on the biggest smile that Sparhawk had ever seen, he greeted Dumbledore with exuberant warmth. "Professor Dumbledore! What a pleasure to have you back with us! What do you need sir?"

Dumbledore's own face beamed. Sparhawk was quickly becoming blinded by all the beaming going on. "Oh, young Sweetsack, the younger! How nice to see you, my boy! How is the business doing? And how about the elder Sweetsack?"

"Oh, he's fine sir. Grandpa's a bit too old to be looking after the shop now, so it's mostly me these days. And what will you be having, sir? Another of our Infinity Trunks?"

"Oh, no lad. Nothing for me. It's for young..."

"Oh, Good Lord! It's Harry Potter!"

"Sparhawk"

"...Sparhawk here" Dumbledore finished.

"Sparhawk?" asked Sweetsack the younger.

"Sparhawk," Sparhawk answered with a tone of finality.

Ever the consummate salesman, Sweetsack regained his composure in a jiffy and asked, "What will it be then, sir? The Sweetsack's Standard School Trunk? Or will you be going for something bigger?"

"Standard School Trunk?" Sparhawk asked.

"Yes, young sir. It's a good old-fashioned trunk, wood with leather, no spells or any of the new-fangled accessories, quite roomy, fits all your school needs, comes at the low low cost of three galleons, not inclusive of tax. A must-have for any new Hogwarts student. "

"What about those Infinity Trunks you told the Professor about?"

Dumbledore tried to butt in, saying how that was unnecessary for a boy his age, but Sweetsack was having none of that. Subtly manoeuvring around Dumbledore, he beamed even brighter and steered Sparhawk to a sleek, black, leather affair.

"The Infinity Trunk 5000" he declared, pride brimming in his voice, "the latest culmination of Sweetsack's efforts to give the best for people to shove their stuff into. On the outside, it might look unassuming," which was a lie, It looked sleek, with a capital S, "but on the inside, it's so big, you could get lost in it! Truly coming close to the ideal of Infinite storage that we crave. And none of that shoddy expansion charmwork holding it up. Good, solid runework by the best Egyptian runemasters."

"Meaning?" asked Sparhawk.

"Oh, I'm sorry, young Sparhawk. I got a bit excited there. It means that, unlike an expansion charm which can always fail and wreck your stuff, this is pretty safe to use. And if you need anything from in there, all you have to do is stick your hand in and think of it and it'll come right out"

"And? What else?"

Sweetsack's eyes gained a fervent expression. "It's got the best security. Muggles have radical new locks that can only be opened with your unique fingerprints. But since wizards have access to polyjuice potion.."

"What's that?"

"I think that knowledge is..." began Dumbledore, but was swiftly cut off by capitalist greed.

"It's a potion that can let you turn into anybody for a short time."

"What?!"

"Anyhow, because of that, in addition to magic that replicates that fingerprint sensing, our Infinity trunks also require a spoken password and a bit of your personal magic to open it once it's locked. And if anyone tries to force it open or pick the lock, then it'll gobble them up and hold them prisonser!"

"I really do think that's a bit..."

"And that's not all, " Sweetsack continued. He was really getting into his element here. "Once you heft the grip, a rune of weightlessness activates, so you can look good carrying it around without breaking a sweat. And if you don't want to, speak a set word of your choosing to activate a levitation rune and have it follow you!"

All this was beginning to sound rather nice to Sparhawk. "How much?" he asked

"It can all be yours for the low low price of 499 galleons."

"I don't have that much on me, right now. I'll have to ..."

"No problem, young sir. Just sign this promissory Gringotts note, and if you've got the funds in your account, it'll light up green and you can be on your way with a brand new Infinity Trunk 5000"

Sparhawk wrote his name in with a flourish, while Dumbledore stared. Maybe he should have brought Mrs. Baker along.

"Done," said Sweetsack, stuffing the note in a box. "Anything else you need sir?"

"Can you make it look sort of worn and beaten?"

"What?"


Sparhawk lugged his worn, beaten-down-looking trunk, currently containing all of his school purchases. Apart from the little spending splurge at Sweetsack's, he'd been fairly frugal in his shopping, and by the time they wandered around to Ollivander's, he still had a fair sum left. Snape had met them briefly to inform them that he was taking Adeliade back to Hogwarts for a little look by Madame Pomfrey. Apparently whatever they were selling in The Leaky Cauldron for settling stomachs was quite the efficient emetic.

And so it was that Sparhawk and Dumbledore found themselves at the entrance of a shop bearing a board that said, 'Ollivander's - Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." Dumbledore's eyes lit up. "Ah" he breathed, "the most important possession of any wizard or witch. I remember my first wand from Gerbold Ollivander, right in this very shop. It was long, hard, and black and I'll never forget how it felt when I first grabbed it"

"Greasy?" Sparhawk suggested.

"Whatever do you mean young lad?" Dumbledore asked and the two of them walked in. The shop was dark, dry, and dusty, the few beams of sunlight cutting through the window lighting up the dust motes before pooling in patches of brightness that served to drive home the darkness even more.

Sparhawk watched as an old, old man with wispy hair slid out of the shadows of the shop, seeming to almost materialize into existence. "Well, if it isn't young Harry Potter. Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple, I believe?" When Sparhawk just stared, not sure what to make of that (Eleven inches when nice and supple? He was a boy, not a horse!), Dumbledore cleared his throat to get the old wandmaker's attention. At once, those milky eyes snapped towards the headmaster. "Ah," he began, getting a strange glint in his eyes, "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. A most special wand, yes?..." He was cut off rather abruptly by the headmaster. "We're here on some rather unusual business, Ollivander. And we'd appreciate it if you kept your discretion regarding the matter." Ollivander smiled a mysterious little smile. "Of course, Albus."

"Young Harry here has had an accident of sorts. He's lost his memory and somewhere along the way to that, managed to lose his wand."

Ollivander listened, nodding gravely. "A terrible accident. Accidental magic of some sort? Well, that's for the healers to sort out. But surely, Albus," he asked, "You must have found it by now? There are some spells, not very obscure, that utilize the bond between the wand and wizard to do exactly just that."

Dumbledore nodded, "There are Garrick. But somehow, I believe that Harry losing his memory broke that bond. People do argue that memories make the man, after all..."

Sparhawk chose that moment to intervene. He was getting tired of being talked over. And he very much preferred his name. "My name is Sparhawk." he said quietly.

Dumbledore sighed. " And there's that too. He got lost and managed to spend a few days in a foster where he got that name, and now he's convinced he's Sparhawk, and nothing I or anyone said managed to convince him."

"Hmm.." the wandmaker mused, "A loss of memory so complete it has changed his perception of himself. Well, it is true that the sum of one's experiences shapes a person in profound ways, and the loss of all that may have just changed young Mr Potter drastically enough that he no longer fits his old wand, although considering what it was, it seems...extraordinary." Dumbledore looked at Ollivander, a curious look on his face.

"You see, Mr Potter's former wand was of Holly with a core of Phoenix feather. As a matter of fact, it was a brother wand to the one that gave him his rather famous scar, which," Ollivander paused and squinted at Sparhawk's forehead, "now that I look closer...seems to have faded somewhat...fascinating..." and he trailed off, lost in thought.

"Yes, fascinating indeed." Dumbledore agreed, looking at Sparhawk, something hidden behind those blue twinkling eyes, something that made Sparhawk feel ill at ease.

"Or it may have just been destroyed entirely." shrugged Ollivander. "Oh well, that is not for me to ponder over. We have a wizard and he needs a wand, so let's get on with it, shall we?" he asked, moving towards his shelves while a tape measure whipped like a snake towards Sparhawk. Memories of the warrior he was, imposed upon the body of the child and his hand shot up to grab what he honestly thought was a snake and threw it to the ground, stomping on it. Sparhawk nearly smiled. What excellent reflexes. The first good thing he'd discovered about his new body.

Dumbledore and Ollivander were staring at him. "Well my boy, if you're quite finished with that, can you let the tape do its work? I do need the measurements you see. Just to be sure." Sparhawk stared down at his feet, only then realizing what it was he'd caught and felt his face heating up. Moving his foot, he let it zoom up and dearly wished he hadn't when it began measuring him in every conceivable way. It was, frankly, very violating.

By the time the devilish little thing was done, Ollivander was back with an armload of wands looking rather anticipatory. "You gave me quite a run for my money the first time around ...Sparhawk. I expect nothing less on your second."


It had been a very chaotic hour or so as Harry, or Sparhawk as he called himself now, tried wand after wand to varying results. Some rejected him outright, like the yew wand with the dragon heartstring core, which slipped out of his hand so fast it nearly poked Ollivander in the eyes, while some seemed more undecided, like the acacia with phoenix feather, taking a good bit of wand-waving before doing something spectacularly destructive. Then there were those few wands that seemed to almost fit him, seemed to be just right... but a couple of seconds would pass and instead of shooting out sparks or something benign and encouraging they would straight up explode.

Ollivander loved a good challenge, but Dumbledore could see that the old wandmaker's face was growing strained. Never in all his days had Garrick Ollivander turned a wizard away without a wand from his shop and if this kept up, today could just be the day. Finally, as they reached the last of the wands that Ollivander had brought in for the umpteenth time, the old wandmaker seemed to sag as that too exploded in an ear-popping display.

Dumbledore watched Harry through hooded eyes as the young boy looked at Ollivander with an enquiring eyebrow. No eleven-year boy was entitled to such vast reserves of patience. Something had happened that had not only wiped his young charge's memories but also changed something fundamental in him. He'd had little luck in finding out what, but he'd persevere. Maybe a bit of...borderline legal detective work was in order.

"I...I believe that all my conventional wands, and I mean nearly every single one has been used up." Ollivander admitted, wincing. "The right thing to do would be to send you off to Gregorovitch, the first time we have done in more than a century, but the store also houses several experimental wands. Wands crafted by generations of Ollivanders. While I would not recommend those to anyone right off the bat, I have a feeling, call it an old wandmaker's hunch that Gregorovitch would be similarly stymied as myself. If you'd allow it, I can..."

The boy seemed to consider a moment. Then he shrugged and nodded.

Ollivander seemed to get a bit of life in him once again and disappeared into the back of the store. It was a good ten minutes later that he returned levitating an old metal safe before him. Clearing out a space among the piles of discarded wands, he set it down and reverently wrapped a hand around the handle. A reddish glow seemed to emanate from it and Ollivander's hand came away bleeding. And the safe opened.

Dumbledore nearly started. The magic pouring out of the safe was...formidable. Of all shades. He didn't know if any of the wands in there was actually usable, but this he did know. They were brimming with power. Exceedingly so.

The wandmaker had cast a charm to seal the bleeding and now he gently reached inside withdrawing a long, thin black stick.

Sparhawk watched as the old man hesitantly handed him the stick. Wand. "When the exploits of the Elder wand, the Death Stick, first began to be noticed, wizards desired to possess it, but the wandmaker desired to make it, match it, if possible, better it. And it was in this pursuit that my forefather Garret Ollivander made this specimen. Like so many wandmakers, he decided to ape the elder wand and made one of elder wood with a thestral hair core...but for some reason the two wouldn't...bind, so to speak. Now, it didn't make sense, as the same combination had been made by a number of inferior wandmakers and turned out functional, if not exactly successful. Garret reasoned that his superior wand-making techniques somehow impacted the materials and thus the unforeseen result. Now understand that this was from those times where blood magic wasn't exactly frowned upon. He surmised that since the Death Stick was rumoured to have the touch of Death itself to power it, maybe something similarly significant, say a bit of blood delivered ritually would do it. And he did it. The moment the blood of Garret was absorbed into the wand, it glowed a deathly black and began to draw in red hazy magic at enormous amounts. But Garret felt no strain on himself. Curiously he watched as the wand imbibed and imbibed and finally quietened. With great anticipation, he touched the wand, and he knew, that even if he did not equal the famed Death Stick, this wand from the Ollivander's would make a name for itself.

Trembling in excitement, he made his way to his son's room, intending, as it had been from the beginning to give it to him. What father does not wish the best for their child. But upon entering, he found his precious boy curled up on the floor, drained of both blood and life. And at that moment he knew that in his greed and arrogance, he had unwittingly killed his child, for the great source of magic that the wand took in was none but the boy's soul. He wept and howled and went half-mad with grief. And the wand was locked away for inches. Elder wood. Thestral tail hair core. Just a bit of blood. And undeniably something more"

Sparhawk's hand closed about the instrument. As it had so many times before on holding a wand, something within him surged to meet it, something that was him and also not. But on coming into contact with the piece of wood, his world exploded in agony as a child's voice screamed in his mind, not a single vestige of sanity left in it and it screamed and screamed and screamed. It begged, pleaded, blubbered, howled. And something within the wave, something achingly familiar, reminding Sparhawk of wet grass and freshly baked bread, reached out, even as the wave recoiled and TOUCHED the voice. Something happened then that Sparhawk could not comprehend, but the voice quietened and he had an overwhelming compulsion to break the wand and before he knew what he was doing, he'd brought the stick across his knee and snapped it.

Everything fell silent and he sat down heavily, not trusting himself to open his eyes just yet. A hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up woozily into the headmaster's concerned face. He pushed himself to his feet, God, children had remarkable energy, and faced Ollivander. The wandmaker's face was inscrutable as he studied the remains of the wand. "Well, that's that then," he said softly and reached into the safe again.

"Garrick, I think that's enough," said Dumbledore, interposing himself between Sparhawk and Ollivander. A touching gesture, but it was going to take more than that to put a Pandion knight down. Especially one who'd seen much worse when he'd been in the process of killing Azash. He pushed past the headmaster or tried anyway. The old man was stronger than he looked. He slipped around the man's robes and stared at Ollivander. "I can keep going, neighbor."

"No, you can't," said Dumbledore reaching down and dabbing at his nose with a kerchief. It came away red with blood " And perhaps, Mr Potter," he said, a bit of a smile coming back into his voice, "You can stop sounding like an old man." Ollivander laughed softly off to the side.

Sparhawk glared at Dumbledore. It wasn't as threatening as it could be. "Sparhawk," he grunted. Or squeaked. The two were interchangeable when you were that young. "And I can." And he reached out and plucked the wand that Ollivander had just brought out.

"Applewood. Serpent skin core. This wand predates even the name of Ollivander. Its origins are lost in time, but the only piece of advice young Ollivanders are given is to stay away from it."

Sparhawk sighed. He could have used that warning a bit sooner. Nevertheless, he concentrated on the feeling of the wand. Once again, something rose in him and like a great wave it crashed into the wand. Surprisingly, it took it all, humming with quiet energy. Gently Sparhawk could feel his senses being pulled towards it. And he heard such beautiful murmurings in his ears. Half-spoken promises. Comfort. Familiarity. Belonging. An unbidden thought of his family rose in his mind. Would he like to go back to them? Yes. Would he like to see the sons of his friends grow as they became good men themselves? Yes. Would he like to make the world a better place for them to grow into? Yes. He could do all that if only he would...

Sparhawk gasped and yeeted the wand all the way across the room. His breath came in huge gasps. What in the name of God was that? It was as if temptation itself had been made manifest. If he'd held it any longer, opened his mind up any more, he wasn't sure he would have been able to resist its subtle advances. He wasn't sure of the price to pay, but whatever it was it couldn't have been good.

Ollivander and Dumbledore had been staring at him in concern. He smiled a bit. It didn't come out right. "Have any more?"


The next few wands went without incident. They were really experimental in the sense that they were works in progress. None of them was quite what it could still be, and none of them was quite the match for him. He managed to destroy two, through no fault of his own and the rest just fell dead to the floor. Ollivander's face grew more despairing every time he reached into the safe. Things were looking bleak.

Finally, Ollivander reached in and grabbed three all at once. Setting them out in front of Sparhawk, he sighed. "These are the last three wands I have in my possession. If it isn't any of these, then it's Gregorovitch for you. I think it'd be better if you choose."

Sparhawk wasn't really listening to Ollivander. His eyes fixed on one wand in particular. It was thick and long, and a deep red, glinting in the low light of the shop. He barely registered reaching out to take it. It was heavy and hard. In fact, it did not feel much like wood at all. No sooner had he touched it than some part of him seemed to flow into it. Or it tried to. But there was something keeping it from him. He frowned. He knew instinctively that he needed to reach it, whatever it was.

And again and again, with a ferocity it hadn't shown before, the nameless wave within him tried to reach the wand, and again and again, it was denied. The air around Sparhawk began to thicken and crackle and he dimly registered the other two occupants edge away from him. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he do it, whatever 'it' was.

And all of a sudden there was a change. The red veneer seemed to crack and peel away, revealing a brilliant blue beneath it and Sparhawk's soul seemed to slip into those cracks and suddenly the wand felt hot in his hands and the red melted away completely to reveal a wand of pure, beautiful sapphire. It was if his being pooled within it and exulted, and then, something completely different, something that did not quite feel as if it was him, flowed into the wand, and the two energies danced in symphony, seeming to draw strength from each other. And after so long, he heard Aphrael's voice in his head, "Well Anakha, it seems your time has come again."

Sparhawk shivered on hearing that name, Anakha, creature of Bhelliom, the unbound, He without destiny. And a gentle blue light glowed from the wand.

"Well, well, well," Ollivander said, disbelief mingled with relief in his voice, "Seems the wand has chosen the wizard, Mr Sparhawk."


The wand had cost Sparhawk a good and round 80 galleons. Ollivander had held out for 150, citing precious gems, antiquity, and a difficult customer. Dumbledore had countered that since it was highly experimental, probably useless in the hands of anybody else, he should be giving it away for free. Ollivander nearly choked at that and there was a fair bit of haggling and they'd finally settled on 80 galleons.

As he packed the wand, face wistful, the wandmaker narrated its history. "Way back in the 2nd century, one of the earliest Ollivanders, or Ollivandaius as was the name back then, accompanied a group of Roman soldiers down a mine. One of their oracles had a vision of a great and terrible power hidden beneath the Earth, on Roman soil. The Romans, being who they were, decided getting their hands on whatever it was supposed to be would greatly facilitate the expansion of the empire. And so it was that squads of soldiers and mages were sent to delve the depths of the Earth, diving into every cave, mine, and crevice the land had to offer.

Now, this particular mine had seemed rather normal, until a gruesome beast, an owlbear, or something similarly gruesome burst upon them wounding a great many. During this unexpected confrontation, my forefather was separated from the rest and somehow wound up tumbling down a deep crevice. The stories passed down are sketchy on what passed down there, but when a relief team finally found him a few days later, he was sitting on the lip of the crevice holding a blue sapphire stick. The team was delighted with the find and wanted to take it back to the emperor, but Ollivandaius wasn't having any of that.

Anyhow, the story goes that the sapphire somehow magically enhanced him and he slaughtered the entire team, and the blood that flowed in that massacre tainted the wand and he was able to use it no more, despite his best efforts. He made it out of the mines, battered and bloody and lied through his teeth about everybody else. And when he came home, he hid it away, only revealing the existence of the wand to his successor on his deathbed. And so the wand was passed on down generations and at first, many tried to wield it, but it simply did not work. As time passed, it was simply there as a mysterious curio more than anything else. But it seems it's long wait is finally at an end."

"Well then, " he continued handing over the box to Sparhawk, "Twelve inches, Sapphire, core unknown, rigid and unyielding. And I hope to learn more about it in the coming years, Sparhawk."


Aye, and that's the wand done. In case you were wondering what you were supposed to have noticed in the previous chapter, it was the smattering of dick jokes. I mean, the lad's got his wand. it 'll be dick jokes all around from now on. And Hajime no Ippo might have been a bad influence. As always, read and review.

To Nate: That's an interesting viewpoint. I always thought Sparhawk went with the flow a lot. But will he stop going with the flow? Well, you'll have to read on and find out.

To Khait Khepri: Thanks for the kind words. It's stuff like this that's the juice for my engine. Also, it's wonderful to see a David Eddings fan. I thought they'd all died out along with the dinosaurs.