Interlude - The Last Letter

These letters date from late August, 1996.

My Dear Calliope –

I'm glad to hear that you had a good time at the cinema. That film certainly sounds interesting – Halloween personified as singing puppets? Quite an insight into Muggledom! But I don't think I'll have time to see it. Recently a Muggleborn boy of ten caused all the pencils in his classroom to catch fire – so my team's been assigned to that, as well as to the "hurricane" coverage in West Country. Fortunately that's not the worst of it – the North Ireland division was given what appeared to be another werewolf attack only this morning. It's truly horrible.

I don't mean to spoil your morning, of course (or your whenever you read this) but you might be interested in knowing that Dora Tonks came and visited me the other day. I was quite surprised. She was looking for Protsy (he's in the N-Ireland division) to ask after the werewolf attack, but she took a minute to talk to me, asked me what I thought of the Ministry's new security suggestions and pamphlets. I told her, of course, what I've told you. She enthusiastically agreed with me, but didn't express much sympathy when I admitted that I felt paralyzed with all the paranoia around. I know that's a weakness for an Obliviator to express, but considering she's an Auror, and we go so far back, I thought I could share that. I mean, I can only try to go about my everyday existence, pretending that the last fifteen years are still connected to what I'm living.

Here I go, rambling again. You know I'm no good at letter writing. Long story short, Dora gave every impression of being a tough cookie. Anyway, I hope you're well, and be certain that this Muggle boyfriend of yours doesn't try and push his advantage with another cinema. Those darkened cinemas are where all Muggle boys "pull the moves" on girls. If he attempts anything, he'll have ten and a half inches of enchanted walnut wood to deal with.

Do take care of yourself.

Love,

Linus

Dear Linus,

I am not dating anyone, just to get that clear. If you make assumptions like that again I'll not write a word about anyone and leave you to speculate on what we might be doing in those "darkened cinemas." Ha. Ha. Ha. Honestly, Linus, you were never this protective at Hogwarts. There is platonic, mutually respectful friendship based on coffeehouses and the fact that he found me a flat. That's all. (But now I hear you say I protest too much. I move on.)

I miss Dora. Her letters are less and less frequent nowadays. But I know her job is demanding. She's doing good work. And I, at least, think your reaction to everything is perfectly justified and I sympathize. Even some of the American Wizard press is taking notice. Most of the papers haven't tarnished their image of the Little Boy Who Lived, and the idea of You-Know-Who resurfacing is not quite as immediate or terrifying, but it has received a little coverage. It makes me feel all the more disconnected.

Meanwhile, Boston life is about what it ever was – pretty shipshape. The heat is dying down, which is nice, and it'll be another gorgeous autumn, I'm sure. However, I'm not looking forward to resuming my study at Trimontaine U. I took all my fun classes last semester, and have only credit-filling classes to look forward to. See, even writing about it is boring me to tears. And, yes, fine, I'm homesick. I really shouldn't stay away when there's a war on – I've been thinking about moving back home.

Don't overwork yourself, Linus. Good job on the promotion, by the way, I forgot to mention it in my last letter. I'm so proud of you! And I'm sure Mum would be, too, and Dad. (Well, and of course Benny.) Goodnight for me now.

All my love,

Calliope

Calliope – hope you like the postcard. I spotted it in the Museum of Science and thought it'd be nice for my sole 'snail mail' correspondent. Still, you really should get a new telephone. Andy works at AT&T, he can help!

I'm getting ready for my trip to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I need your home-grown Scottish (right?) advice: what to pack, what to beware of, what exactly is 'haggis'? Say we meet up Saturday to confer?

Now I'm out of room. This is why people don't use postcards anymore. Take care – Mark P.

My dearest niece, Calliope –

Consider this an overdue thank-you for the raven figurine you sent me for my birthday. It is most pleasantly executed, and right now he sits overlooking the workbench in the shop, guarding the wood shavings with an amused eye. Or so I like to think.

Hector is coming along quite well in his studies, though he does not have quite the memory for stories and characters of woods as you have. His mind is more analytical, precisely noting what the phase of the moon will do to a wand's capacity for Transfiguration. I confess that my mind is similarly structured, looking for the numbers in the moon, but I do miss the little black-haired girl who ran around my shop asking "why do aspen leaves shake?"

Calliope, I've a riddle for you. Linus said that he mailed you a first-edition copy of Harry Potter's now-infamous Quibbler article from last May. I trust you noticed the peculiar (to phrase it lightly) reaction between Harry Potter's wand and that of the Dark Lord's. He did not elaborate on what caused that stalemate and Priori Incantatem (and with Rita Skeeter interviewing I scarcely wonder), but I wonder: did you recognize what must have caused that? It wouldn't be fair now for me to merely tell you – Potter knows the cause, as does Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord – well, he's certainly going to be most curious – but when I've got a niece such as yourself, I'd like to test your knowledge. Can you guess it?

Exercise your mind, my dear, and do take care of yourself.

Love, from your fond great-uncle,

Servaas Ollivander

Mr. Ollivander put down his quill and sighed, his left hand gently massaging the opposite wrist. He brushed away some curls of wood to find some sealing wax and his seals, and pulled out his wand to set it alight. A sudden thought stopped him, and he put down the sealing wax and instead levitated another piece of parchment over to him, and picked up the quill again.

A Post-Script: Calliope, I hope that the Atlantic Ocean has not washed away a feeling of camaraderie with your British family. This is a terrifying time, and I remember in the first War, how I, snug in my shop, with the happy prospect of visits from your mother and sister and brother – and of course you – felt insulated from all the terrors around me. I could hide from calamities that I knew were undertaken with wands of my own selling or even crafting.

That only lasted so long, though. Your sister Benny's death quite rocked me out of that mindset. But war is an interesting catalyst. When you know the world is changing around you, a part of you will change with it – either into cowardice, blind solidarity, and despair, or to courage and brotherhood and hope. I trust that you, Calliope, will know which way to change. But be aware too of the temptations that present themselves in petty ways, from outside and within. I have already told you of mine – trepidation, complacency, fear of reproach – so if anything should happen to me I will know that to an extent I will have deserved it. But I take comfort that there is no humiliation that cannot be eroded by time's erasure of memory. I hope Hector (and Tess and Linus and Benny, rest in peace) will not mind if I tell you that you were always my favorite among the grand-nieces and nephews.

Servaas Ollivander

Now Servaas put down the quill, and sealed the letter, selecting the Ollivander family seal as opposed to the shop's seal. He could no longer make out the delicate tree and hands on the wax, but he knew Calliope would appreciate it.

He hummed a bit from the Italian opera 'Handful of Beetles' as he leaned out the second story window and rapped the window frame smartly. An odd pair of owls swooped down, one gold and spotted, the other gray and imposing. Servaas held his fist out to the gray one and said, "You're ready to go home, yes. You like flying across the Atlantic, don't you? Make decent haste, but don't hurt yourself."

The gray owl took the proffered letter with dignity and, with a stretch of silver feathers, was gone into the night sky. The spotted owl waited for a few minutes and then fluttered back up to her perch. Servaas looked up at the stars a moment – even Diagon Alley's air-cleaning charms couldn't bring the stars out as beautifully as in Scotland – and retreated into the warmth of his window. He had just blown out the candle when he heard the locked door click open behind him. He gave a small start and then took a deep breath.

"Forgot to mention that to Calliope," he muttered, "anticipation is the worst part of calamity."

Then he turned around. The moonlight reflected off of three polished wands which were pointed at his necktie. With the voice he used with his customers, he said evenly, "Well, I suppose you've arrived just on time." He stepped forward and pulled his cloak from off his chair. "I won't bother fighting." He took another step, and was now firmly in the midst of his kidnappers. "Let's be off, then."