Chapter Three: Victoire

Early August, 2011

Boom!

The slender boxes lining the scarred walls of Mr. Ollivander's shop quivered on their shelves as yet another clap of thunder echoed in the deserted streets of Diagon Alley. Icy rain drummed against his shop's dingy windows, streaking a grimy mixture of dust, splinters of old paint-coated wood, and flakes of rust along their surface. Shadows swallowed the space, giving way to the gloom beyond Ollivander's door. Every source of light within the shop's confines, save one, had been snuffed out. Flickering feebly, the lantern that hung just above his cluttered work table whined as it swung on its peg, the fledgling flame inside dancing frantically. But he paid it no mind as he adjusted the length of his latest creation with a long, practiced scrape of his whittling knife. Slivers of rich, warm wood fell away, revealing the smooth, Red Oak instrument, newly minted and ready for its master's grasp.

Mr. Ollivander had just turned from the shelf upon which that same Red Oak wand now rested, settled in its very own black Ollivander's box, when the incongruous little bell above the door gave an airy tinkle. He straightened, affecting a welcoming smile, before turning to greet the first customers to enter his establishment in two days. He recognized them almost immediately. The woman, her pristine white shoes clicking against the bloated, damp planks, wore a pen expression of mild alarm as she assessed her surroundings. Deep blue eyes, silvery blonde hair, and sharp, elegant features- Fleur was still a terrible beauty, even now, well into adulthood, with three children and a demanding career at Gringotts.

"Welcome, welcome." Mr. Ollivander ushered Mrs. Fleur Weasley and her children inside, firmly shutting the door at their backs. "It is always such a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Weasley."

Fleur schooled her expression, adopting a demure curve to her lips. "Bonjour, Monsieur Ollivander. You are very kind to say such things. But you must call me Fleur. My mozzer in-law is Mrs. Weasley- not I." She placed a hand between each of her children's shoulders, gently pressing them forward. "Meet my children: my eldest, Victoire," Fleur nodded at the taller of the two, Fleur in miniature, just as her aunt was before her. Very little of the Weasley line was evident in this girl, though Mr. Ollivander thought he caught a vague impression of her father in the confident steel of her spine; and her eyes, pale and arresting, were the exact shade of blue as her father's. "And my youngest, Louis," Fleur finished, her expression melting into soft, joyous lines as she gazed at the frail, blond-haired cherub who returned her wide smile with an equally adoring one of his own.

"And how lovely they are," Mr. Ollivander proclaimed, "very like their mother, I see. But wait," his bushy, grey brows lifted. "Is there not a third? Where is your other daughter, Madame?"

"Ooh, you mean Dominique," Fleur spat. "So very naughty, zat one." Her accent grew thicker as her temper flared, her eyes narrowing to irate slits. "She doused her sister's new school robes in salt water yesterday afternoon, so I left her at 'ome wiz my muzzer in-law."

"Alas, what a shame," he lamented with a dip of his head. "I was so hoping to meet all three of your children, Madame. I shall simply have to wait until Miss Dominique comes to collect her wand in a few years."

"The year after next," Fleur informed him. She closed her umbrella with a decisive snap.

"So soon? Well, they do grow up so quickly, don't they?" He scratched at the stubble along his chin. "My eldest grandchild will be starting at Hogwarts around that time, as a matter of fact. My son is a nervous wreck, of course. He has three daughters," he announced, his silver eyes widening comically. "And a son, too. But it's no secret that those three little girls run his home."

Louis and Victoire giggled, covering their mouths with their hands.

"You think he would be eager to send one of them off to school. But no, Gawain wrings his hands every time a Hogwarts student passes through that door." Mr. Ollivander shook his head, still smiling. "Poor man."

"And where is your son today, Monsieur? I have not seen him in many months." Fleur strode to one of the windows , pausing to squint at the street beyond, then set her dripping umbrella against its pane to dry.

"Gawain is working out of our Hogameade location this week," he said. "My associate there is getting on in years and could use the assistance. And my son is just the man for the job. I swear his skills will someday surpass my own. Makes me prouder every day."

Placing a hand on her daughter's arm, Fleur nodded. "I know what you mean, Monsieur Ollivander."

Fleur and Mr. Ollivander shared a brief, but warm smile.

"Maman," interrupted Louis, his small, upturned nose scrunched. "Is this what great-grwndfather's shop is like?"

Fleur clicked her tongue. "No, I think not, mon ange. Besides, his boutique closed many years ago, after he retired."

Deep furrows curled across the old wandmaker's forehead. "Beg pardon, Madame?"

"Oh," Fleur laughed, pink tinging her cheeks. "Excuse moi, Monsieur. My grandfazzer was a wandmaker as well. Benedict Bergeron. His family were the most acclaimed wandmakers in France for a time. Very famous. Very skilled craftsmen." She jut out her chin proudly, shoulders straight and eyes burning.

"Indeed, I know of him," he replied, crossing his arms across his chest. "A very… adventurous wandmaker."

" Revolutionary," Fleur agreed. She turned to her daughter. "Are you certain you do not wish for your great-grandfazzer to make your wand? I'm sure he would not mind. My own wand was finished in less than a week. No offense to you, Monsieur," she added, waving apologetically to Mr. Ollivander, who nodded and offered a tight-lipped smile in return.

"No, thank you, maman," said Victoire primly. "I want an Ollivander's original, just like papa and aunt Hermione have, si'l vous plait."

"As you say, Victoire, you shall have it. I cannot say no to ma étoile, now can I?" Fleur tenderly stroked her daughter's silvery-blonde hair, smiling down at her.

Stepping forward with a slight bow of gratitude, Mr. Ollivander set his gaze on Victoire. "I shall endeavor to not disappoint, Miss Weasley. Shall we begin?" At her firm nod, he clapped his hands, summoning the roll of measuring tape from where it rested atop the pocked countertop. "If you could please extend your wand arm, my dear."

Victoire thrust out her right arm, remaining perfectly still as the measuring tape whizzed around her body, going about the task it was set.

When it had finished, Mr. Ollivander clapped his hands once more and, with a wave of his wand, it settled back onto the counter from whence it had been summoned. "Right, well, now that's done. I believe I know just the one." Without so much as another word, Mr. Ollivander shuffled over to a nearby shelf, plucked an indiscriminant black box from amongst its fellows, then presented it to Victoire. "Here we are: Ash and Phoenix feather, decidedly pliant. Go on then." He turned the handle of the Ash wand toward her, his silver eyes sparkling and eager.

Head held high, Victoire accepted the proffered Ash and Phoenix feather wand and, without any hesitation, swirled her wrist in a clockwise motion, aiming for the sodden floorboards at her feet.

"Oh, no!" Fleur exclaimed, wrinkling her nose and drawing away. "How disgusting!"

The puddle of stagnant rainwater at Victoire's feet, once tepid and dull brown, was now a ghastly olive green hue. Clouds of stench rose from the swampy mess, mingling nauseatingly with the dank atmosphere of Ollivander's shop.

"This is not the wand for me, Monsieur," Victoire said with a half-smile as she returned the wand to its box. "Might I try something else? Perhaps something with less of a… noxious flair."

"Uh, certainly," replied Mr. Ollivander. "But first," with a practiced flick, the greenish puddle of pungent liquid was once again merely rainwater, leaving the shop mundane and musty- just how he preferred it. "That's better. Now where were we? Ah, a different wand. Yes, hmm..." Fingers brushing rhythmically along the rows upon rows of stacked boxes that dominated the cramped room, Mr. Ollivander murmured to himself, reciting all he knew of wand woods and their cores. But a lack of knowledge pertaining to wandlore was not his problem. No, he must focus on the witch, herself. What wand would best suit a witch who was as unique as she was self-possessed and decisive? Then he had it- the wand to offer such a witch was simple: "13 and one-third inches of Elm and unicorn hair," Mr. Ollivander announced, snagging another black box off of a dusty shelf. "This masterpiece of mine with be the one, I'm sure of it."

"C'est elegant," cooed Fleur, learning forward on the tips of her pointy, white heels in order to gaze into the box the old wandmaker cradled in his weathered hands.

"Truly," agreed Mr. Ollivander, pride evident in his tone.

Spiraling out from the wand's pointed tip and encircling its length was a slender ribbon of intricately carved Fleur de lis. Victoire stroked the raised adornments with the flat of her first finger, her breath catching as she carefully freed the wand of elm and unicorn hair from its box. Amber in color, it burned radiant gold in the sunlight peaking through the bank of drab grey clouds only just visible beyond the shop's windows.

"Don't just stand there. Try it out, mon petit," encouraged Fleur, gesturing between her daughter and the wand balanced in Victoire's right hand.

"Of course, maman." But Victoire hesitated, her arm paused in mid air, the elm wand poised loftily between her thumb and first two fingers. Sparing a quick glance for her mother, Victoire simply said "I want this wand to be mine, Maman."

Victoire gave the wand a swift, precise flourish. From its pointed tip shot streamers of cobalt and gold, sparkling and electric in their ecstatic intensity. Jumping back with a squeak, Victoire slowly lowered her arm to her side. Blue eyes wide and gleaming, the young witch marveled at her accomplishment, unabashed with pride as she took in the dazzling spectacle she had conjured.

"Je n'en crois pas mes yeux!" Fleur praised, clapping her hands in amazed delight. "Absolutely beautiful, mon Victoire."

"Indeed," agreed Mr. Ollivander. "A marvelous display, Miss Weasley." With practiced deftness, he extracted the wand from her loose grip and nestled it back into its unassuming, black container. He turned on his heels, pacing the length of his shop as he spoke, eyes twinkling with absent fanaticism. "Wands of Elm are drawn to people who possess a quiet confidence and an air of refined competence- this is what led me to suspect that Elm may be the wand wood for you, Miss Weasley." He winked at her, beaming broadly at the fetching blush the gesture elicited. "Mishaps will be few and far between with this one thanks to the compounded characteristics of its core and wand wood. And although unicorn hair is not notable for its immense and overwhelming power when bonded with wand-quality wood, it does produce the most consistent, purest spell work. I do not doubt that you will perform superior charms with this elegant instrument. Even the most advanced and complex enchantments will be achieved with ease. Mind you," he added, nodding at the strengthening luminous aura about the young part-veela girl, "they tend to favor witches and wizards with a certain…innate grace and evocative, yet subtle, magnetism- a presence, if you will. I have a feeling you fit the bill," he chuckled, wagging his grey brows.

"She gets it from her fazzer," Fleur gushed as she rummaged through her dainty handbag.

"Oh, is that so?" Mr. Ollivander murmured, lips pressed in a tight line so as to stifle the grin that threatened to break across his leathery face. "I never noticed that about Bill."

"Merci beau coup, Monsieur." Fleur bestowed upon him her most bewitching smile as she laid seven galleons in his cupped hands.

"Merci, Madame." Mr. Ollivander graciously bowed his head, proceeding Fleur and her fleet-footed daughter as they strode purposefully toward the shop's door.

"Grab zee umbrella, will you?" Fleur asked. "We are on our way, Monsieur. Au revolr."

"Au revolr, Mister Ollivander." Victoire glanced back over slim shoulder one last time and met the old man's tired eyes. "I'm glad we came to visit you today, Monsieur."

"As am I, Victoire. As am I." Palms pressed to the cool metal frame, Mr. Ollivander studied the mother and daughter from the doorway.

"Au revolr."

Mr. Ollivander startled at the gentle, feather-soft voice that seemed to come from just behind him. "Good heavens!"

"We'll be seeing one another again quite soon, sir." His voice was level, a thread of irrefutable certainty clear in his tone.

Oh, "Louis," Mr. Ollivander clutched at his pounding heart. "I forgot you were here, my boy. My apologies."

Louis smiled a secretive smile and patted the old man's forearm. "That's all right, sir. I'm quite used to it." After taking in the sympathetic crinkle to Mr. Ollivander's grey eyes, he added in a conspiratorial tone, "Maman says it's because I am so quiet and so very small."

"Ah!" was all the bemused Wanamaker could manage.

"Anyway, good day, sir." White umbrella trailing along behind him, Louis, too, exited the shop, waving animatedly as he trailed behind his mother and sister.

Author's Note

Victoire is a rather peculiar girl, isn't she? Charming and intelligent, but strange nonetheless. And Louis? He's an angel, honestly. What did you make of my interpretation of these characters?

I must admit Fleur was a bit of a challenge. The balance between overdone and unnoticeable when it comes to writing a french accent is finite. Hopefully I did her justice.

On an unrelated note, toy have my apologies for the late update. Chronic illness bites, my friends.

Anyway, please leave me comments and messages. I love them; they keep me motivated despite all of the fun sick person things I get to experience.

You guys are the best.

Until next time!