Chapter Four: Dominique

August, 2013

Garrick Ollivander, 'Britain's Most Renowned Wand Maker'—as asserted by the Daily Prophet—was repairing a toppled display when Victoire Weasley, accompanied by her father and an unfamiliar red-haired girl, entered his shop.

Most renowned, indeed.

True, he was a highly skilled craftsman. One had ought to be after over half a century of diligent study and dedication to the noble art of wand-making. But to declare him the most talented in all of Britain? Not to mention the other mistruths printed alongside that nonsense. Mr. Ollivander's lips pursed in disapproval. The old man shook his head, dismissing the ridiculous article without another thought.

Rising to his feet with a murmured groan, the elderly wandmaker waved to the trio. "Welcome, welcome. Nice to see you, Bill, Victoire."

"Good afternoon, Monsieur. I hope you are well." Victoire Weasley's pale hair caught the sunlight pouring in from the grimy front windows, casting her face in a faint angelic glow.

"I am well, my dear." He beamed jovially. "And how may I help you today?" Mr. Ollivander turned to the only other adult in his shop, his tufty brows raised.

Lanky and long-haired, Bill Weasley was not the average husband and father of three. Weathered leather jacket and clunky boots worn proudly and the puckered scar that stretched across one half of his face in full view, Bill Weasley resembled a battle-hardened warrior more than he did a high-ranking official of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. "We're after a wand, as I'm sure you guessed." Bill gestured to the younger of the two girls. "It's Dominique's turn." Rolling her dark blue eyes, Dominique gave her father a playful shove.

"Ah, how wonderful." Mr. Ollivander turned to Dominique, cordial smile in place. "It seems like only yesterday when I first met your charming sister. Will you be in Ravenclaw as well, I wonder."

Victoire gave a rather unladylike snort. "Unlikely." She plucked a silvery-blonde lock of hair from her shoulder, twisting the curling strand between two fingers, beaming at how it captured in the light.

Scowling, Dominique grumbled "If that old hat tries to place me in Ravenclaw I'm leaving." In a much louder, much firmer voice she added "can I have my wand now?"

"Minnie," hissed Victoire, her luminous blue eyes narrowing on her younger sister's folded arms and tight fists, "do not be rude!"

But Mr. Ollivander raised a hand, forestalling the impending reprimand in its tracks. "Dominique is quite right. Let us get on with things, shall we? If you would," he motioned for Dominique to join him. A snap of his bony fingers and the whiplike length of measuring tape lifted itself from the counter and set to work. "Excellent, excellent," murmured Garrick Ollivander, his fingertips tapping the end of his chin thoughtfully. "I think I have just the one for you."

"Not Elm I hope," Dominique muttered. Victoire's eyelids pressed shut for a long, pained moment as she took in three long, calming breaths.

"Not elm." With a flick of his wand Mr. Ollivander summoned a rectangular box from one of the highest and dustiest shelves. "Ebony." And he removed from the box a handsome wand of gleaming night-black wood.

"Ebony?" Bill's ginger brows drew together. "Are you sure, Ollivander? Isn't ebony popular amongst—?"

"Dark wizards?" Mr. Ollivander finished the question for him. "Why, yes." Upon observing Dominique's indignant glare and Victoire's open-mouthed shock, he was quick to dispel their assumptions, his hands extended to halt their protestations. "Death Eaters and Order members alike have found themselves bonded to such a wand. Do not be alarmed by this wood's notorious reputation, my friends. A wand of ebony will bend to its master's inclinations—be them perverse or righteous." He winked at Dominique and tilted the ebony wand's handle in her direction. "Give it a whirl and see for yourself."

Face still flushed with defiant anger, Dominique approached the counter and wordlessly accepted the wand held out to her. "It's lovely," she said in begrudging awe.

"Ooh, what a pretty thing!" Victoire rested her chin on Dominique's shoulder in order to get a view of the cylindrical item in her sister's hand. Dominique pushed her older sister away with a shrug and lifted the wand up to the light, her eyes squinting at the artful design spanning it.

Evocative of an archer's arrow, a single feather was expertly inked onto the wand's curved handle, the precise point of a triangular arrowhead painstakingly carved at its tip. Neatly Expressed in the same liquid Mercury hue outlining the feather stretched the eight phases of the lunar cycle, the expanse of which occupied most of the wand's length. Reimagined in daring slashes and elegant loops, each representation of the moon bore arcane runes and other primordial symbols. Dominique traced each phase with a finger, absently memorizing each swirl and angle. The whole effect was enchanting and otherworldly. The ebony wand embodied the fathomless darkness and chaotic majesty of the night sky.

it embodied Dominique.

No warning, not a battle cry nor a shifting of her weight from foot to foot warned the occupants Ollivander's shop of what transpired next. All lazy grace and wide blue eyes, Dominique lifted her left arm and, with a swift flick of her wrist, shot a stream of blazing golden fire directly at Victoire.

Shrieking, Victoire stumbled back, her hands flung over her head. A hoarse shout rising in his throat, Bill Weasley threw himself at his eldest daughter though his face, now white and blank, was aimed at Dominique.

"That was for earlier," Dominique said, a satisfied half-smirk twisting her lips. "I'm keeping it," announced Dominique to a slack-jawed Ollivander.

"I dare say so," he rasped in reply, his hands shaking slightly as he offered her the rectangular box.

"You could have hurt her," growled Bill, straightening to his feet. "What were you thinking, Dom?"

Dominique shrugged. "She started it. And anyway I wasn't trying to hurt her, Dad." Jabbing a thumb at her older sister Dominique twirled the end of her own fiery red braid. "Only to disfigure her."

Victoire gaped. "Excuse me?" As if in reply Dominique shook the length of her braid. It flopped about against her shoulder like a fish fresh off a fishermen's line. Victoire glanced at her own hair, unbound and shining, and let out a horrified scream.

"Really, Dom?" Bill sighed, exasperated. Thin ribbons of smoke trailed from the singed ends of Victoire's hair.

"It's only hair." Dominique rolled her eyes for the second time in the last half of an hour, a common expression of hers supposed the old wandmaker. Poor Bill Weasley had his hands full with these two.

"Ten and a half inches of Ebony and dragon heartstring. Unbending. A potent combination." Both men shared a knowing look. "A potent combination, you and this wand."

"Your mother is not going to be pleased to hear that," said Bill, wincing.

"Such wands are at home in the hands of those brave enough to be themselves regardless of any adversity or dissent that may subsequently reign down upon them." From the corner of his eye Mr. Ollivander caught Victoire's stiffening posture, discerned the huff of air forced from her flared nostrils. He had enough tact to not comment on how neither sister deigned to so much as acknowledge the other as he had uttered those his Thought roar, he continued, talking to fill the dense silence. "Combative magic and Transfiguration are overwhelmingly preferred by wands of Ebony. And regardless of your inclination, this wand, in being paired with you, will be a force of nature not easily opposed or conquered." At Bill's and Victoire's reproving glances the old wandmaker was quick to add "not that a girl of your years should be overly concerned with dueling. Not yet anyway." Weary grey eyes met hungry blue ones as he breathed his final pronouncement: "ebony's true master will make themselves known, if not by their words, then certainly by their deeds."

Where her older sister's gaze was transfixing and impassive, Dominique's was penetrating and shrewd. Those eyes seemed to absorb everything all at once, as if nothing slipped past her scanning, searching sapphire stare. "I think I'd like to see what this wand and I can do together," Dominique announced.

Sniffing, Victoire turned to her father. "I need to stop at the bookstore before it closes."

"Right." Bill fished in his pocket, pulling free a small red pouch clinking with coins. " here you are," he counted out seven galleons and settled them on the scarred countertop.

Almost to herself Dominique said "I can't wait to show Louis." She tilted her chin, to stare up at her father. "Can we go and see him, Dad?"

Scrubbing a rough hand across the unblemished half of his face, Bill Weasley exhaled, his jaw tightening. "I don't know, Dom. We'll have to see. It might not be a good day for it."

At this Dominique balked, her face reddening to a shade comparable to that of muggle fire engines. "But Dad—"

"And how is young Louis?" asked Mr. Ollivander. "I wondered why he hadn't joined you today."

"He is...quite unwell, actually. Another bad bout of illness set in last month. We're hoping the healers at St. Mungo's can sort it out." Victoire and Dominique both stepped forward, each girl taking one of their father's slack hands.

"Louis will be fine, Papa." Victoire squeezed her father's hand, her smile, though brilliant, appeared forced.

"I'm sorry to hear he is unwell. I am quite fond of him—of the entire Weasley bunch." Mr. Ollivander vowed his head. "Please convey my well wishes to him and your wife." Nodding, Bill tugged his daughters toward the door, his eyes distant and cool.

"Goodbye, Monsieur," Victoire tossed an airy wave over a shoulder as she was ushered outside by her grimacing father.

Dominique, too, waved, eyes alight with determination. "Thank you for my wand—and the things you said."

Ollivander brushed away her gratitude with a shake of his head. "No need, dear." His smile was tired but true. "We mustn't let anyone else tell us who we are to become. We decide that for ourselves, yes?"

Braid swinging between her shoulder blades, Dominique nodded vigorously, winked, then darted off after her father and older sister.

Author's Note:

I have no words to convey how sorry I am that this chapter is so late. I meant to have it up weeks ago. Believe it or not ai have all thirteen chapters pre-planned in scrivener. The hard part—specifically outlining and research—is already over; all that's left for me to do is write the darn chapter. Why I am incapable of that I will never understand. Regardless, I am already working on the next chapter. Maybe if we're lucky it'll be up by 2025.

In all seriousness, chronic illness is the bane of my existence. I've been loads better and that sucks because it means I'm experiencing one of the low points. I want to be better for you guys—and better for these characters I've adopted and made my own. Encouraging messages and friendly comments wouldn't be amiss right now.

In the above chapter we were introduced to a nee character. Dominique Weasley is quite unlike her siblings. What a firecracker, huh? I adore her. She knows her own mind, and I admire that.

Her wand is by far my favorite of those I've designed. If any skilled artist has an undeniable urge to visually render any of the wands I've described, feel free. Just be sure to send it to me when you're finished. I'd love to see what you create.

I have plans to write similar short stories which would focus on the Next Gen as they cast their first patronuses. Would anyone be interested in reading such stories? I would also be open to writing their sorting ceremonies as well. Along that vein, what houses do you think my versions of the Next Gen belong in after reading these stories? Leave your determinations in a comment for me to se!

Again, apologies for my absence. I suck, I know. I'm trying, guys.

Until next time!