Survival
III
Allyn Evannes
…
..
.
Harry smiled gently and lowered the gleaming wand. "Please don't take me seriously, Mr Ollivander. I have no desire to be the next Dark Lord."
Ollivander hmmed thoughtfully and stabbed his wand into the air, the Lumos at its tip a soft glow. "Be that as it may, Mr Potter, that wand is powerful, and you'd best be careful what your intentions are - even the ones you do not yet know of." He tched. "But I am getting ahead of myself, you see. I know that you are not Him."
Harry sighed. There were always parallels between he and Tom Riddle, were there not? Orphaned and abused. Dark-haired and pale. Slytherin aspects. "What is it?" he asked abruptly.
Ollivander lit up. "O! the wand, you surely mean." He turned on his heel and started retracing his steps. "A lovely wand," he began, "truly a masterwork. It was one of my favourites for the sole reason of the wand-wood's history. Sad, though, terribly sad."
Harry stumbled slightly in the dark and protectively cradled the wand. "Interesting, then?"
"Very much so, my dear boy."
Light from the shop filtered down from above. The quiet muttering of a spell had Harry gasping slightly as he was jerked upwards to the first floor.
"My own spell," said Ollivander, grinning madly. "It's perfect for going up, but down I have yet to perfect."
In silence Harry watched as Ollivander replaced the floorboards.
"It's silver lime, the wood," the wandmaker said abruptly. "The father of my father sold many silver lime wands - even to those who did not match with it, for the sole reason that at that time the wand was known for working powerfully with Seers and those adept at the mindarts - arts oft forgotten and powerful, such as the ever-tabboo Legilimency."
Ollivander stood up and motioned with a skeletal hand for Harry to follow him. The sound of their shoes kissing the floor was muted in the dusty shop.
"It was all about status, my dear boy. Status and privilege and who was powerful." Ollivander paused at the doorway and twisted round to face Harry. "But you see, Harry, those who bought silver limes were not all that their wand-wood demanded - Seers are very, very rare, and Legilimency is an art whose foundations are willpower - a thing wizards sorely lack. Bah!" he cried suddenly, "everything nowadays is a spell!" He drew up his wand - a stern, dark thing - and called out: "Cleaning? Scourgify! Tergeo! Light? Lumos! Incendio! Summoning? ACCIO!" he roared.
Harry watched in disbelief at Ollivander's furious casting. "Sir?"
Ollivander lowered his wand and slumped against the doorframe. "I am sorry, my dear boy." He lifted pale eyes. "It is only that wands, an extension of oneself, have become a toy, a convenience." The wandmaker carefully slid his wand back into its holster. "They are molested. They are used like trivial playthings," he spat in disgust, "instead of true magic! Cleaning charms," he cried, "and hair charms and fragrance charms. Gone are the days," he whispered, "where magic was a sacred art and a revered gift."
Ollivander shook his head and perked up. "O! the wand core is simply fascinating, Mr Potter, very much so. Unicorn hair, Mr Potter," he gave a soft chuckle, "willingly given. How very strange, that you should have the wand-wood of, foremost, a Seer, and the wand core of a gentle, healing creature … melancholic is the second wand core, and that it matches you. I am sorry."
Harry stared down at his wand. It was certainly beautiful, he thought. It looked unbelievably fragile, the light from the windows easily penetrating it. He could see the unicorn hair stretching from the sharp tip of the wand to the handle - a glittering silver line that seemed almost alive, and thrummed, even now, with a strange sort of grief and happiness. Twelve inches. Very thin, though the handle was thicker and twisted like a gnarled root.
"See here," breathed Ollivander, stepping towards Harry to trace a grey finger along the twisted handle of his wand, "that there holds tears."
Harry looked up through soot-black lashes. "Phoenix?" he guessed.
Ollivander frowned. "If only. No, my dear boy. The tears of a mother."
Harry reared back, the wand slipping from his fingers. He saw red hair, and heard screams. He smelled death and felt pain, and sadness, and sacrifice.
Ollivander's hand shot out, lightning fast, and snatched the wand before it clattered to the floor. "Careful, boy!" he hissed sharply. "This wand was Allyn Evannes' before it was yours. You didn't think it was hidden beneath the shop for no reason than a little mystery in an old man's life, did you?"
Harry felt dumbstruck. Sickened. The dust in the air swirled like ashes.
"The Ollivanders owed a debt to the Evannes family a long time ago," Ollivander began, fingers wrapping round the fragile wand. "A deed that does not concern you. All they asked in return was that their daughter's wand was kept hidden and safe until it was matched again." He returned the wand to Harry, who took it with shame at his carelessness.
Harry licked his lips and swallowed. "Why not keep it upstairs, where it had more chance of finding a wizard or witch?"
Ollivander snorted unbecomingly. "Let us simply say that the Evannes were once well known, and well-loved." He lifted a hand to his wrinkled face and sighed. "This wand would be coveted not out of rightness, but of wrongness."
"I don't understand."
The wandmaker huffed. "What have I said, Mr Potter, of wizards? They covet power and privilege. They covet status. And the wand of Allyn Evannes would bring it."
Ollivander left the room, cloak brushing his ankles. Harry followed him.
"How so?" Harry asked. He could still hear a soft, loving lullaby, and feel the brush of lips on his forehead, but the story helped banish the memories. It drew his curiosity and his attention. It stilled the slight shaking of his hands. "What happened?"
The wandmaker sighed. He abandoned the stack of boxes he'd been futilely attempting to straighten. "She was their only child. So very excited to learn magic. Her parents had a wand specially made for her, awaiting only a core of her choice. She died. I will not tell you how. Her mother buried her and, in the ways of wizarding society, completed the wand core."
"With a mother's tears and unicorn hair," Harry whispered.
"Yes. It is said all heard the mother's broken wails that night. They rose up and up and up." Ollivander smiled grimly. "Not every mother, Mr Potter, could save their only child. Now leave, dear boy. I care not for your money. The debt is paid in full."
"no one ever told me that grief felt so like fear
—c. s. lewis"