Their meeting was one I'll never forget. Holmes was enjoying dinner when she swooped through the window, a silent ghost on the wind. Had I not been facing the correct direction, I never would have seen her enter. When she landed on the table, directly onto a platter of kippers, Holmes' reaction was instantaneous. He attacked.
It is not that my friends dislikes owls (or any animal outright), but sudden intrusion into his closely guarded personal space begets reflexive action.
I watched, confusion turning to amusement, as man and owl danced about the flat. They carefully stayed out of the others reach, and sniped blows from a distance, always falling just short. When the encounter lulled, Holmes had a moment to realize just what he was doing, namely, destroying our flat through hand-to-claw combat with an avian.
-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD
-oOo-
The first impression was one of dust. Thick motes of it drifted in the dead air, settling over the shop like a velvet blanket. Harry stepped quietly, with an instinctive need for silence; the same instinct one feels when walking through a library, or perhaps a tomb.
A low countertop divided the shop in two, devoid of anything save a small service bell and tray of business cards. Behind the counter was a single aisle, shelves lined with narrow boxes. Looking between those two shelves, Harry felt goose bumps break out over his arms. Of course, he thought.
The aisle stretched endlessly, and faded into darkness.
The mokeskin and chest displayed similar properties of spatial distortion, but Ollivander's wand aisle was on an entirely different scale.
Harry shakily leaned against the countertop and helped himself to a business card. The card was black, with elegant gold script that read, "Ollivander's: Maker of Fine Wands". Either Ollivander's didn't know the first thing about advertising, or were so good they didn't care about it. Glancing at the endless aisle of wands, Harry strongly suspected the latter.
Clearing his throat, he called out softly. "Excuse me?"
Harry waited a moment, and then shrugged. He glanced around a final time before ringing the service bell. Nothing happened, and Harry was about to ring again we he noticed…hair growing from the bell. He looked closer. No, not hair. Antennae? He watched as a large, red beetle crawled out from under the bell. The bug climbed to the instruments summit and shook itself briskly, as if trying to wake up from a nap. Harry could have sworn the beetle gave him a glare before flying off down the aisle, fading into the distance with astonishing speed.
Harry waited, mostly wondering how beetles could glare. He was about to give the bell another try when he heard something. It was a very quiet sort of hissing, and it was getting louder by the second.
If he squinted, he could just make out a tiny speck at the aisles far end, though the speck was getting larger by the moment. As it drew closer, Harry saw it was actually a rolling ladder, and clinging to it was an old man. Closer, and he could see the man's white hair sticking out and waving wildly in the wind. Even closer, and he could see eyes like bowls of milk. Until at last, coming to a jolting stop before the counter, the old man hopped off the ladder and gave Harry a creepy smile. He crept up to the countertop, giving the impression of a wading bird stalking prey in the shallows.
"I've been expecting you, Mr. Potter."
Harry frowned. "Mr. Ollivander, I presume?"
"Correct." Ollivander leaned closer, staring at Harry with unblinking eyes. "Remarkable. You look just like them, you know. Your father's hair, with your mother's eyes. Uncanny."
Harry leaned back, keeping just out of reach, should the man make a grab. "You knew my parents?"
"I sold them wands, and I remember every wand I've ever sold."
The two stared for a moment, each weighing the other. Ollivander seemed to drink in the quiet, not bothered in the least. Harry too was no stranger to awkward silence, an inevitable side-effect of being raised by Sherlock Holmes. It continued until Harry noticed the small red beetle perched on Ollivander's shoulder; it seemed to be staring at him as well.
"So," said Harry, "How does this work? Do I just pick one I like?"
Ollivander seemed amused by this remark. "It's rather the other way around, actually. The wand chooses the wizard."
Harry didn't want to think about how a stick of wood could choose someone. He was quickly learning, with regards to magic, you had to accept and press on.
"Usually," said Ollivander, "The pairing of wand and wizard is quite an ordeal. But for you, I already have something in mind."
From his robes, Ollivander withdrew a long, thin box. From within he pulled a thin piece of wood. "I've had it in mind forever, actually. Been keeping it safe, just in case."
Reaching out for the wand, Harry felt an electric tingle in his fingers. He braced himself. Braced for what, he couldn't say, but guessed it wouldn't be pleasant.
He guessed wrong.
In retrospect, he would decide it was somewhat like activating his Midas Sight, only a thousand time more intense. Foremost among the resulting maelstrom of sensation, grabbing the wand was accompanied by a shock, and not a small one. It felt like bolt of lightning coursed from his stomach up to his eyes, then arced through his limbs before forcing his mouth open in a silent scream.
Then, swift as they began, the feelings stopped.
Harry swayed, aware of a loud ringing in his ears, and realized he was seeing double. After the dizzy spell passed, and he had shaken the sound out of his ears, Harry noticed Ollivander acting rather odd.
The old man was giggling like a schoolgirl, with a hand clapped tight over his mouth. The red beetle flew around the shop keeper's head in loopy circles. Harry edged away, suddenly and keenly aware of Professor McGonagall's absence.
Seeming to sense Harry's unease, the hysteric man's laughter cut off abruptly. Ollivander stood perfectly composed, a transformation so sudden and complete that Harry found himself doubting the man's lapse of composure had ever happened.
"Oh, Mr. Potter, you'll have to excuse me," he said, "I have an unusually keen sense of irony. It's a terrible thing."
Harry watched the man carefully. "That's...That is, I'd love to hear about it."
"No, you wouldn't, but it's nice of you to say. I'll give you the gist. It just so happens that the phoenix who's feather resides in your wand gave another feather. Just one other. It is ironic that you should be destined for this wand, when it's brother gave you that scar."
Harry reached up and traced the scar on his forehead. It was still well hidden behind his bangs. "And who owned that wand?"
"We do not speak his name. He did great things, you know. Terrible, oh yes, but great."
Harry frowned. "Did great things. As in past tense? As in he's dead?"
Ollivander nodded.
"Then why don't you say his name?" asked Harry.
"We can, but we do not." Ollivander glanced around his dark, quiet shop and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Great men attract followers. Followers that live on and listen for the name of Voldemort."
"Vold-".
"Shhh!" Ollivander glared and placed a single finger over his lips.
Harry sighed. "I think you'd better start at the beginning."
-oOo-
Time passed slowly as the two quietly conversed. Harry's mind swirled as the wand maker spun a dark tale of painful times.
The tale had many facets. Voldemort, the Dark Lord. Avada Kedavra, the Killing Curse. Sirius Black, the betrayer. Death Eaters, the Dark Lord's terrible servants. The tale's end hit Harry like a bat to the head. It ended with Magical Britain's savior, the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter.
All these facts and more crowded in his mind, vying for attention. Information overload threatened until he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and fell back on his training. Slowly the clamor of thoughts quelled, as Harry put them all aside for later analysis. He was very careful not to pursue any train of thought based on the new information. It was, after all, unverified. That was one of the first things Holmes had taught him. The great detective's words echoed in his mind even now:
"It's a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."
"It doesn't seem very clear," said Harry. "I was only one year old when this happened, right? And there were no survivors. How does anyone know anything?"
Ollivander climbed back onto his ladder. "No one knows anything, because nothing is clear, except for one thing." Turning his milky eyes on the boy below, Ollivander smiled. "I think it's clear we can expect great things from you, too."
With a soft hiss, the ladder started rolling down the aisle. It quickly picked up speed, and the old wand maker was soon swallowed by the lack of light. Harry took a seat, thoughtfully twirling his wand, waiting in the dust and dark.
Enough time passed for him to start feeling the first twitches of restlessness when the door opened, creaking on rusty hinges. Professor McGonagall entered the shop, pulling a cart stacked with books, a small cauldron, and all the detritus of academia. A brilliant snowy owl, perching in a delicate cage, sat on top. She closed the door softly and looked around, gaze settling on Harry.
"Well?" she asked.
Harry held up his new wand, and McGonagall nodded, pulling out a tangle of leather from her robes and handing it to Harry. "For your wand," she said, "It's a dueling harness for your forearm; all the kids use them. The...holster style went out of fashion some time ago, apparently." She gave a sniff of disapproval, and Harry refrained from looking at her wand holster.
McGonagall watched him fumble with the harness for a moment before stepping forward. "Here," she said. A few deft turns, tugs, and clasps saw the harness strapped firmly to his arm. Slotting his wand in, Harry was surprised to feel something tugging it into place.
"It's charmed," said McGonagall, seeing his expression, "To hold wands in place with a Jelly Grip charm."
Harry pulled at his wand, and found it remained seated, resisting a fair amount of pulling before coming loose.
McGonagall set the owl cage on the countertop, and gestured towards the pile of school supplies. "Here's all your first year books and supplies. They should fit in your mokeskin without a problem."
Harry approached the pile and removed the mokeskin pouch from around his neck. He regarded the small bag skeptically, grabbed a pack of writing quills, and pushed them against the mokeskin's mouth. The container's lip stretched like a rubber band, expanding more than he'd thought possible, and accepted the quill pack with a quiet glorp.
As he fed the pouch the rest of his supplies, he found the only tight fit to be a small pewter cauldron.
Finished packing, he pulled the drawstring tight, replaced the bag around his neck, and was pleased to find it still weighed next to nothing.
McGonagall laid a hand on the owl cage. "This is Hedwig. She's a mail owl"
"Mail owl?"
"Every family has one. They can carry letters and packages almost everywhere, and find almost anyone."
"But how do they know where to go?"
McGonagall blinked, opened her mouth, and then closed it. Harry sighed. "Never mind," he said. "Magic, right?"
McGonagall tapped her wand thoughtfully. "We could pick up a book on it, if you'd like."
"That'd be great," he said, approaching the owl cage. Hedwig watched him with fierce, golden eyes.
"I thought," said McGonagall, "She could be a sort of congratulations, as it were. If you like her, I mean. Getting your wand is a big step, after all. Not to mention you going to Hogwarts…"
Harry regarded McGonagall from the corner of his eye. She was frowning, stiff, and watching him with ill-concealed nervousness. Harry wondered how unused she was to this sort of thing, this manner of direct, overt kindness. "Thank you," he said, happily noting the small, faintly relieved smile that bloomed in the professor's face.
Harry undid the cage latch and stepped back. "Hello, Hedwig."
Hedwig regarded him keenly before stepping onto the countertop, and swiveled her around to glance at the professor.
Harry slowly extended his hand towards the bird, not quite touching her. The owl leaned forward, brushed against his hand, and then pulled back with a hoot. Harry turned to McGonagall, about to explain how he was never good with animals, when Hedwig hopped forward. With a brief flurry of white wings, she settled onto Harry's shoulder, and surveyed her surroundings from the new perch.
Harry grinned. "I guess she likes me."
McGonagall's eyes widened. "So it seems."
The owl had been more expensive than the McGonagall would ever admit, with a pedigree to match, but it's behavior still shocked her. Owls were not really regarded as pets in the wizarding world, mostly seen a mere couriers. They always performed their duties admirably, but were quite solitary creatures, and trusted slowly, if at all. She had expected Hedwig to limit contact with the brush against his hand, or more realistically, a gentle nip on the finger. But to ride the shoulder of a perfect stranger?
"Do I really need the cage, Professor?"
McGonagall came very close to automatically saying "yes". Holding back her snap reaction, she regarded the pair, already so natural together.
Why not? After all, she knew a fourth year who kept a hamster in his pocket, so why not an owl on the shoulder?
"I suppose," she said, "You could do without the cage, as long as no incidents occur. Some of the student's smaller pets may be particularly at risk." She tapped her foot a few times, a frown starting to creep onto her face. "In fact, now that I think about it, I don't-"
"Hedwig wouldn't do something like that, would you girl?" The owl hooted in reply, and swiveled it's head to fix the professor with a particularly intimidating gaze.
McGonagall sighed. "I'll probably regret this, but alright. Mind you, on a trial basis."
Harry beamed. "Excellent."