Experiments

Calliope and Linus' father, Modeste Samara, had been born in Rabat, Morocco, to a Moroccan father and a mother from North India. Modeste had immigrated to Paris while rather young, where he had met Philomel Ollivander. He had not minded giving his children a , but he insisted that his children know the places he had known growing up. As a result, Calliope was as comfortable traveling as staying still, and could speak excellent French, albeit with a slight tang of the Maghreb. She had never been to Switzerland before, and knew this was no holiday, but was at perfect ease in the Keyport, where she took the Portkey to the Continent. She found the trains to the countryside with ease and enjoyed the mountain scenery very well.

Gregorovitch's shop was embedded in the quiet of a small Swiss hamlet in the Alps. It was as unlike the cramped and vertically disposed shop in Diagon Alley as possible: a wide, low-eaved building bordered by firs, with an elaborately carved sign over the door advertising the wand shop. Callliope paused before pulling the doorbell, straightening her small black hat and her raincoat. She swallowed and rehearsed saying, under her breath, "Bonjour, M'sieur, je suis la petit-nièce du Servaas Ollivander, le faiseur anglais des baguettes." Then she smiled. The fact that the French words for 'loaf of bread' and 'wand' were the same would never cease to amuse her. She nodded and pulled the door-pull.

There was a silence, then the patter of footsteps approached the door. It swung open to reveal a wide-bellied, white bearded man still halfway down the hall, his wand out and a broad smile on his face. "Wilkommen," he called. "Bienvenue!"

"Bonjour, Monsieur," Calliope replied. He was at the door and shook her hand heartily. They conversed in French.

"Welcome, Miss, how can I be of assistance? Do you need a repair job? Perhaps a consultation? Is there a child I should be expecting?" he looked past her at the long walk as though the buoyant student to-be-was already approaching.

Calliope shook her head. "No, sir, no, I've not come on a matter of business, I have some news to deliver. May I come inside?"

"Certainly, please come in." Gregorovitch beckoned her to come inside. "Durmstrang has been in session all summer, so I am not busy. And a local school for Muggle-borns has also opened its semester – I can relax at last!" He led Calliope, chatting amiably, to a parlor, with dainty chocolates arranged on a platter on the table between two well-stuffed armchairs. The room was well-furnished with certificates, awards in several different languages, recognitions of merit and craftsmanship etc. etc. Servaas had a similar display of awards, but all of them had, upon reception, been retired into a box in the attic.

Calliope sat down, put down her hat, discarded her raincoat, and accepted a chocolate dipped slice of ginger cake. She demurely parried and answered his inquiries as to her journey, her comfort, the weather in England and how much more pleasant was the weather in Switzerland. Gregorovitch then tried to inquire after her family, with less success, as he was a little out of touch.

"How is your mother, the famed Philomel Ollivander? I last heard of her in her battle with ah, Lugh Prince, a fierce duel, I've heard –"

That duel had been fought more than forty years prior.

"She died a few years ago, M'sieur, from the lingering effects of that duel."

"Oh! I am – I am sorry to hear that. But she is survived by three children, right?"

Benedicte Ollivander had died some fifteen years before her mother did.

"Only two survived her, M'sieur."

"Helas! What a tragic family! Er – what of your great-uncle, the wandmaker?"

This was the moment. "M'sieur Gregorovitch," Calliope said carefully, "that is what I came to tell you. My uncle has been kidnapped, by – " then she faltered. Should she say "Le Seigneir D'Ombre," which sounded idiotic, or "Vous-Savez-Quoi," which she was not sure was correct? Or should she try to figure out how to say "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" She paused.

"Mademoiselle?" the plump host asked.

"Oh!" Calliope started. "Pardon." Suddenly the obvious solution had occurred to her: "He was kidnapped," she repeated, "by Flight-From-Death." 'Flight,' or Vol, 'From' came from De, and 'Death,' Mort. Though it was shielded in French, she shuddered. A string of pride vibrated in her heart – for the first time in her life, she had said the name. Maybe she was catching on to the Order of the Phoenix.

Gregorovitch, while she was reflecting on this, had repeated "flight from death?" as if unsure of what he had heard. Comprehending, he jumped back. First he gave an exclamation in German, which sounded disbelieving, then "Mademoiselle! Your uncle – kidnapped by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" (So that was the French way to say it.) "I am – astonished! What else was taken? I am sorry to hear the news."

"Nothing," Calliope answered with deliberation. "Nothing else was taken. Only my uncle."

"Oh." Gregorovitch leaned back in his seat. "A shame. A terrible shame. Servaas Ollivander knew much about his craft… how was he taken? At night? On the street? Was there a struggle?"

"There was no struggle," Calliope said, thinking, 'He's wondering what he should be on his guard against, the scared man.' "He was taken at night from his shop."

Gregorovitch was silent for a bit. "This is grave. I am glad you have told me this." He took a chocolate-dipped slice of cake.

"M'sieur, if you are afraid for your own safety," Calliope offered, "Dumbledore, you know, the head of the Order of the Phoenix – do you know it?"

"No, but I know Dumbledore. What about it?"

"He is willing to offer you protection. You can come into hiding, we will take you under our wing…"

"Into hiding? Now, now, that's a bit of a demand!" Gregorovitch's uneasiness seemed to have vanished as he finished the cake. "What of my shop? My business? Mademoiselle, troubled as I am by the capture of my colleague, surely it is not cause to put my life on hiatus! Do not think, Mademoiselle Ollivander, that I am not a competent wizard!" Gregorovitch got up and stood by a wall of certificates, rubbing his hands.

Calliope was on the edge of her chair, hands gripping the armrests. "You mean to tell me, sir, that you are not afraid?"

"True, I am out of practice, but a little hired security should suffice – if I really need it." He gave a soft, strange chuckle. "Indeed, Dumbledore should be more afraid than I…"

"Why?" Calliope urged, echoing her Moroccan grandfather, "Yallah, what has Dumbledore got to fear?"

Gregorovitch, instead of answering outright, first gave a grin. "I didn't realize the Ollivanders were a Maghreb family." He then turned away, leaving Calliope incensed at herself for her lapse. Gregorovitch turned back with a piece of parchment in his hand and a freshly inked quill. He set the parchment on the table; Calliope bent over to see. He scratched on the parchment first a triangle, then a circle within the triangle, and a line bisecting both of them, vertical to Gregorovitch's point of view. He pushed it to Calliope. "Mademoiselle Ollivander," he said in a professional voice "You are learned in the study of wands, correct?"

"Yes." Calliope studied the symbol with a furrowed brow. After a pause she said, "I do not know this symbol."

"Ah!" Gregorovitch leaned back. "You see? If you, a woman as learned in wands as I expect can be found in England, do not know this, then, why should anyone else?" He took the tray of chocolates away and began to talk to himself in German. He sounded like he was making a to-do list.

Calliope felt annoyed and insulted, but not so annoyed as to stop paying him attention. At once in the train of babble she heard him say, "Grindelwald."

She sat up again. "What about Grindelwald, Monsieur?"

He did not answer her. But, she remembered her mother's advice to relax her mind's ear. When she did, she heard "shtick," which she knew was German for "wand," followed directly by the word "Alder." Now that sounded familiar…Was he talking about the Elder Wand?

She took the parchment and put it into her pocket.

Gregorovitch turned on his heel and said, all brusqueness and business, "I thank you kindly, Mademoiselle, for your trouble in coming out here, and your care to warn me. It is not without deliberation that I refuse your offer – for now. I will let you know if I see fit to change my mind, or if I find anything that may… interest you. Bon journée."

Calliope continued to try and convince Monsieur Gregorovitch that he was in much more danger than he seemed, but he appeared immovable and gave her his word that he would implement extra security measures. She took her leave, and when out of the house, Apparated to Geneva, and took the late evening Portkey to Bristol, all the while quietly seething with the frustration of a wasted day and a stubborn, foolish man. As she stood under a street lamp, holding out her left arm to summon the Knight Bus, her right hand closed in her pocket around the piece of paper salvaged from Gregorovitch's. However mysterious the triangle, circle, and line were, she was certain she could decipher it before long. Books had never been her enemies, they would help her now.

With a screech the Knight Bus pulled up. "Name, please," demanded the new conductor, a man selected as much for intimidation, Calliope thought, as conducting. "You must provide evidence of your identity. New regulations. Chop-chop 'ere, we haven't got all night." Calliope sighed and pulled out her passport.

Servaas Ollivander awoke from his nap to find that the shaft of moonlight was piercing his small cellar. It was a calming light, and he was starting to reach for his notebook and pen when he realized he was not alone there. The moonlight reflected brightly off of a basin filled with water. Bent over the basin was Turpentine, his warden.

He saw Servaas moving out of the corner of his eye and looked up. Servaas clenched his jaw, thinking that Turpentine would tie his ankles and wrists again, or perform some other kind of torture, but Turpentine did nothing of the sort. He simply said, "Would you like to have a look at what I'm doing?"

Servaas didn't move.

"Oh, come on, you don't think I'm going to torture you, do you? You might be interested in what I'm doing."

Servaas sat up, realizing that his wrists and ankles were free. He stood up shakily, feeling weak and hungry, and walked over to the table bathed in moonlight. He saw that the basin was half-filled with a transparent potion (possibly cut with water,) and that a large mirror lay at the base of it, soaking in the potion, which smelled slightly bitter. The moon was gibbous in the sky, and silvery-white.

"You see, Mr. Ollivander," the seated man began, "I enjoy experiments – pushing the boundaries of knowledge farther and farther out. And I tell few about my experiments, but I like an audience. Sit, sit."

Servaas, feeling that the situation was not a little absurd, sat.

"See, here, I'm attempting to enchant a mirror. Have you heard of the Mirror of Erised?"

"I had the good luck to study it closely some years ago."

"So have I. A marvelous experience."

"Are you trying to re-create it? Or something like it?"

"Something like it, yes. And I'm beginning my experiment now because, well, you know the full moon helps a plain mirror reflect magic, leaving it unenchantable. A gibbous moon means some magic will soak into the glass and frame. And the more the moon wanes, the more I'll be able to work on it." He took a drink of some hot tea that was sitting nearby.

"Fascinating." Servaas' eyes were wide, and did not leave the cup of tea on the table.

Turpentine followed his gaze. "Ah! Well… ahem. Anyway. I've bought a book recently that covers the enchantment of mirrors like the Mirror of Erised in some depth. I'm about halfway through it now." He saw that his captive was still staring at the cup of tea. He frowned and rolled his eyes. "You might want to borrow that. The book, I mean. I wouldn't mind it. I hate to see a book go to waste. I have so many, they seem lonely sometimes"

Servaas looked at him but didn't say anything.

Turpentine stood up. "Fine, I'll get you some tea." In response to Servaas' questioning stare, he'd said, "I am a very accomplished Leglimens. Don't be surprised."

Servaas said nothing, only thinking that this was far more hospitality than he'd ever expected from a Death Eater.

Servaas, left alone in the cellar, leaned over to see if he could look into the mirror. In the dim glass, he could see his own face outlined by moonlight. However, in the inch or so of potion that flickered and teemed between the mirror and the air, he thought he could see other faces – familiar ones, faces from his past. He involuntarily bent forward, his hand on the edge of the basin. But then he restrained his hand: these were only illusions.

By the time Turpentine had returned, levitating a tea tray with a hot cup of tea and a single biscuit (but no cream or sugar – Mr. Ollivander wasn't a guest, now, was he?), Mr. Ollivander was staring into the depths of the potion with rapt attention.

"Ah." Turpentine put down the tea tray and offered a cup to his ward. "I see you are interested in my project."

"Rather."

"It's all just a preliminary stage, of course… there is much else to do. But I feel I'm close to some kind of breakthrough." He coughed, and said with a haughty mien, "I shall leave the book I'm using with you tomorrow. You shall read it, and I shall test you on it that night."

Servaas took a grateful sip of the hot tea, but could not help saying "I did not realize that you would be both a library, a schoolmaster, and a jailer."

Turpentine flashed a rather cold smile as he bent over the potion again, adding a single drop of distilled essence of rosemary. "Oh, don't think that I don't have an experiment in mind for you, too, Mr. Ollivander. Wait and see. Wait and see."

Turpentine left shortly after these comforting words, leaving his mirror to soak further in the brew, and leaving Servaas to shiver in the cellar, wondering exactly what experiment he meant.

However, true to his word, the next day Turpentine did leave a book behind on the table in the cellar – a small but thick volume bound in blue and silver, with a small mirror set into the cover, offset by the illustration of a melancholy-eyed nymph. There had also been a rather creaky, but suitable desk lamp left behind, so that Servaas could clearly see the book's name: 'Mind's Eye, Soul's Reflection,' by Timothea Glace.

Dora Tonks had only been 'home' – 'home' being her Hogsmeade flat – for an hour, and, feeling too restless for tea, had set to work making the flat a habitable place rather than an arbitrary set of rooms. Her old Snidget alarm clock was set on the mantle, and as it chimed a quarter past one a knock came at the door. Dora hurried to it, hearing also the jangling of a key. She called, "Security question!" She poised before the door. There was a silence on the other side. Then, from outside, "We didn't establish these."

"No. We didn't. But that's no excuse."

"Fine. What was your nickname our third year at Hogwarts?"

Dora paused, one hand over her mouth. "Very good," she managed. "Wasn't that when I insisted on being called Fadora?"

"Yes," came the voice from outside. "Now can I come in?"

"As good a question as that was, no, not until – hm! What was the final score of the Quidditch game in which you played Seeker? And name the teams."

"That score was 190 to 150, Ravenclaw's win over Slytherin. The next game was against Gryffindor, and the actual Seeker for the Ravenclaw team felt well enough to get pummeled, leaving me, the reserve Seeker, to watch and cheer from the stands."

"Very good! Come on in." She checked the peephole (just in case) and then opened the door for Calliope. When she had stepped in, Dora peered into the darkness before shutting the door and locking it. "No Gregorovitch?"

"No. He was for some reason insistent that he could deal on his own, and then he insisted on speaking in German. Cor, I hate the new security measures." She slumped into a chair. "Nice decorating, though," she said, glancing around. "Why are you up so late?"

"Insomnia. Mostly. Too much to think about. Let me show you your room…"

"I'm not going to bed just yet – "

"But you should see it, I picked the view especially for you, c'mon…"

The two women left through an inner doorway, turning off the lamp as they went.

Hector Gibbs stood outside the courtroom, flooded in the tintless light from a torch blazing above – Proman's Registered Trademark Torch no. 47, to be specific. Hector shifted in his blue cloak, fastened over a black business suit – and heard a tramping sound to his left.

He turned to see a man in Muggle clothes (jeans and a dark red shirt with the large words "U Penn" on it), escorted by a security guard (human, thank goodness), approaching him. The guard flanked the man like a prisoner; as he approached Hector noticed that he had not shaved and that he had a large, though faint, bruise on his jaw. Yet he nodded courteously to Hector as he was stopped next to him.

After a minute's pause and a glance at his guard, the Muggle leaned over and asked Hector, "Are you a wizard?"

Hector, not used to answering this question, replied a little stiffly, "Yes."

"Wow. Wick-ed," the Muggle responded, separating the syllables. A little silence, then he enthusiastically inquired, "So! Have you been a wizard all your life?"

"Ah – yes, I have been a wizard all my life." Hector glanced down the corridor, both ends. Would somebody come?

"So you were born a wizard, is what you're saying."

"Yes, my mother and father were both wizards from wizarding families, in fact my mother's line traces very far back…"

"Is that the only way to be a wizard?"

"What?"

"I mean, to be born one." Despite having both of his arms restrained, the man could gesture quite dramatically with his shoulders and head.

"Well, yes. You don't have to have magical parents, but you are born with magic."

"So an average Joe like me couldn't gain magic. Am I right?"

"Ah – right, sir." Please, he could not be doomed to be alone in the hallway with this – this Muggle. Wouldn't the security guard say something?

"No matter what I do?"

"That's – right. No matter what you do."

The Muggle settled back, looking a bit put off. Hector let out a quiet breath of relief before the Muggle resumed with, "So what do you do for a living?"

Hector clutched his attaché case tightly and coughed. "Well, until recently, I was studying the crafting and selling of… um, magic wands."

"Magic wands?" The Muggle's whole face lit up. "And you make them?"

"…Yes?"

"Wow. Out of what?"

"… Wood?"

"I kind of figured that, yeah. And anything else?"

"Well, um… there's three options there, there's unicorn tail-hair…"

Fortunately at this point the door to the courtroom swung open, otherwise the Muggle might have gone straight into ecstatic cardiac arrest on that last sentence. The guard pulled the Muggle in. Both entered at once, with Hector meekly following.

They had walked through a black door which closed behind them into a starkly lit courtroom. The Muggle was deposited in a heavy iron chair by the guard, who then retreated into the stands. Hector saw a thin wooden chair set aside, before a matching table. He glanced at it hesitantly before a thick male voice sounded: "Be seated, if you please." Hector perched himself into the chair and looked up.

The clearest figure on the bench was a round-headed man with fat hands; that was all Hector could see of him, but it was enough to recognize Pius Thicknesse, the newly appointed Head of Magical Law Enforcement. "All members of the defense and expert witness being present and seated, we'll now begin. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," came the answer from the court scribe, a young, handsome black woman poised over the parchment like a runner over the starting line.

"Hearing on Thursday, August 30th," Thicknesse began in a relatively routine voice, "into an infarction against Wizarding Common Law, that is, the carrying of a wand by a non-magical being, committed by Mark Emory Printzen, a Muggle of Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America. Interrogators: Pius Frollo Thicknesse, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Eliezar Chancery Smith, head of the Muggle Relations Office – " a thin man shifted in the seat next to Thicknesse in a self-assured way, "Dolores Jane Umbridge, Junior Undersecretary to the Minister… Court Scribe, Agatha Michelle Zabini, expert witness, Hector Irving Gibbs. If everyone is ready, we'll begin."

"Excuse me, sir," said the Muggle, now identified as Mark Emory Printzen. The attention in the room focused on him like a lens – except for the court scribe, who kept writing.

"Yes?" Thicknesse said.

"Sir, I don't think that woman – "

"Which woman?"

"The one on your left – should be allowed to interrogate here."

Hector saw the plump and flaccid form straighten up beside Thicknesse as though hit with lightning. She leaned forward and asked, in a high-pitched voice that did not sound like any little girl Hector had ever met, "And why not?" An iron curl, having escaped from its pink snood, bobbed in the light.

"Because she's a biased juror!" Mark Printzen replied. "She asked for my arrest, she was there when I was captured, by all rights she should be on the floor with me, not passing ju—"

"By all rights," Umbridge over-rode him, "that is, by the rights given me by the Minister, by Mr. Thicknesse here, and by every other case over which I have presided, I have the authority here to stay where I am."

"But –" Mark Printzen started, but now it was Eliezar Smith who spoke, not unkindly: "This court system is in an inquisitorial court, where we, the judges, ask the questions to determine the truth, unlike the court of opposition, which you may be used to, where a defense side and a prosecuting side haggle over questions until the jury or judge decides which is right. That's the American way of doing it, right?"

"Thank you, Smith," Thicknesse nodded. "And now that that has been sorted out, we'll begin." He cleared his throat. "Mark Printzen, is it true that yesterday, the 29th of August, that you, an admitted non-wizard, attempted to force entry into the Leaky Cauldron?"

For a moment the Muggle did not answer, and then, when Hector glanced over at him, he said, quite clearly, "I refuse to answer."

"Excuse me?" This from Thicknesse, unbelieving.

"I refuse to answer until I am given, by the court, an advocate to represent me. I readily admit I'm not a wizard. I didn't know for sure wizards existed until yesterday. I am thoroughly unsuitable to represent myself here. I demand legal counsel."

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Thicknesse turned and leaned to face Smith, "Is he able to demand that?"

"Yes, I am!" Mark said. "As a citizen of the United States, the 1963 case Gideon vs. Wainwright gives me the right – " (Smith groaned, "Don't tell me we'll need to get the International Relations in here too…") Over him, Mark repeated, "I'm a citizen of the United States, and my rights apply to me here as well as –"

"Don't speak until spoken to!" Umbridge spat.

Thicknesse's monotone voice cut over both. "Mr. Printzen, you realize that if we refuse to answer, we can assume that the facts lie to the affirmative, as in, yes, you did try to enter the Leaky Cauldron. We will renew your right to answer with each question, but if you persist in this vein…"

"Wasting the court's time," Umbridge added in a hiss.

"Your conviction is virtually assured."

"Give me legal counsel and time to consult them, and I'll answer anything."

"You should know, Mr. Printzen, that as a Muggle you can gain no representation except that which volunteers to help you. Do you have any friends, any connections, at all, in our world?"

A silence. Mark Printzen looked down.

"Do you, Mr. –"

"None that I know of for certain." Mark snapped.

"Well, then," Umbridge said, as if explaining to a slow child, "you can hardly expect a Magical Law Enforcement official to come rushing to your aid out of the goodness of his heart, now can you?"

"Therefore," Thicknesse sighed, "we will continue with the trial as before. Mr. Printzen, you retain the right to answer or to refuse to answer, as you wish." There was a shuffling of paper. "Mr. Pritnzen, is this wand –" a cabinet opened in the wall before Mark, revealing a glass case with the white wand inside of it, the splash of blood on the handle faded, but still clear, "the one that was in your possession when you entered the Leaky Cauldron?"

Mark leaned forward and, after a short pause, said "Yes."

Then Thicknesse said, "The chair calls Hector Gibbs to the stand." Hector stood up immediately.

"Will you please identify this wand to the best of your ability?"

"Yes, sir," Hector replied, and he approached the case carefully. After looking up at the judges for approval, he opened the case and gingerly removed the wand (the blood made him grimace, at first). "Approximately eleven inches," he muttered, and then repeated, louder, "Approximately eleven inches," for all the court to hear. In the same recitation voice, he continued, "The light color especially, but the light weight and fine grin indicate this to be of lime, also called linden, wood. Linden wood is, um, a very reliable wand wood, yes." Now Hector had set his briefcase on the table and he opened it, taking out (some by hand, some by magic) a peculiar balance, in which both "scales" were narrow tubes, and one tube was weighted down with battered little metal coins. Hector took a vial of clear blue potion out from the briefcase and carefully poured it into the weighted tube.

With great precision, he put the wand into the empty tube. The balance, however, remained on the tube with the potion and coins. With his own wand Hector carefully removed the metal coins, one by one, and set them aside. With the removal of each coin the balance slowly evened itself. When twelve coins where left floating the balance was made.

Hector straightened up and said, "This wand has been in use for twelve years, almost twelve and a half. I must say, it's in very good condition for its age. And as for the core –"

Hector took the linden wand out of the tube and tapped the balance with his own wand. It shrank and folded itself back into his briefcase. Hector heard a little gasp from Mark Printzen. Feeling quite the professional, the wandmaker took the linden wand between his palms with fingers extended. He rubbed it there a couple of times and then pointed it forward and said, "Coerum Montay."

At once a high, sweet note filled the chamber, and from the wand's tip blossomed a crimson and gold firework of a giant, elegant bird. It flew once around Hector and Mark, still singing its pure melody – as Hector watched it, he saw Mark was gaping at it with a child's delight – and the two suddenly made eye contact and smiled at each other with camaraderie. The phoenix firework made a larger turn about the room, now encompassing the judges' bench (Umbridge looked like she might be ill). With that turn done, the phoenix swooped to the middle of the room and, giving one last note as sublime as a bird's pipe could give. Then it dissolved, sparks flaring before going out into nothing, leaving not even steam.

"Well," Hector said after a pause, when the note's echo had at length faded, "the core then is phoenix feather."

"Phoenix?" Mark Printzen repeated, astounded. "Was that a phoenix we just saw?"

"Don't speak until spoken to!" Umbridge snapped. To Hector she said only, "Continue."

Hector swallowed. "I would say with reasonable certainty that this wand in my hand was made by Oll – by my family's wand shop." With a barb of dread, Hector recalled that the shop's name might need changing soon.

"And to whom was it sold?" Umbridge leaned forward, nearly upstaging Thicknesse.

There was a silence wherein the court scribe's quill scratched rapidly and then quieted after a moment.

"Me?" repeated Hector.

"Yes, your uncle could recall a wand's owner just by looking at it, can't you?"

"I'm not my uncle! I've only been working summers in the shop until last year!" Hector brushed his pale hair out of his eyes. Exasperated, he added, "Haven't you noticed?"

Umbridge's pasty face was flushed now with anger, and she began to say, "You will not speak – " but she began to wheeze out of nowhere. She slumped back, panting, and Thicknesse sprang up to pull her chair back. "Dolores, don't get overexcited now." Eliezar Smith took the floor. "This hearing has been postponed until tomorrow so as to give Hector Irving Gibbs time to research who bought a wand answering to that description. Mark Printzen, you will be escorted back to the Sycorax Wizard Jail for the remainder of the day. Court dismissed."

That afternoon, Hector, very bravely (he thought) sought out the Obliviator's division of the Ministry of Magic. He found Linus' office by asking after 'that bespectacled fellow with the black hair and goatee.' Upon finding it, with Linus bent over his papers diligently, he entered.

Linus looked up. "Hector? What are you doing here?"

"Listen, Linus, I need a minute to talk. Have you got one?"

"Sure, sure, come in, just a minute, what's the matter?"

"Well…" Hector sat down in the only other seat, "you see, yesterday I was summoned to be the expert witness in a case – this really peculiar case, too: a Muggle who knew nothing about magic or anything of our world managed to acquire a wand and was trying to enter the Leaky Cauldron, though he couldn't see it. His stuff's all been taken into the court's custody and everything."

"Why not just modify his memories?"

"Because in the Leaky Cauldron at the time was Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, Dolores Umbridge. You know her?"

"A little."

"She's forceful, Linus. And I think her stint at Hogwarts really tweaked with her head. And she hates Muggles. And this Muggle is an American, too, right, so he's also insisting – insisting – on his apparent Constituent right to representation provided by the court itself."

Linus stifled a scoff. "Good luck to him."

"So, he's refusing to answer questions which he does not think he is competent to answer. He knows he could be incriminating himself, but he thinks ignorance is worse than silence. And I'm the expert witness, I'm not supposed to really feel for the guy, but I do, I feel sorry for him, and so… I was wondering…"

"What, Hector?"

"Would you please come to the court tomorrow as witness for the defense?"

Linus' facial expression did not count as a response.

"He can only get defense that will volunteer itself, and it has to be a member of the Wizengamot or Magical Law Enforcement – "

"And you immediately thought of your good cousin. Thanks, but have you forgotten, as a witness, you can't just bring in defense for the accused, you'll look biased!"

"Biased? Me? I tell who the shop records say bought such and such a wand, for Ptolemy's sake, I can't possibly express bias on this case. It's impossible."

"But – "

"And, as an Obliviator, you get to retain anonymity even in a court of law, if you're an interrogator or counsel. Or expert witness. See, I've studied!"

"See, that's the other thing: Obliviators like me typically enter cases to force a confession."

"All he needs is someone to be his legal counsel – inform him of the choices he has, the possible convictions he could face, stuff like that. Help him form his defense. You can totally do this, Linus. Please, you get paid leave of absence from your work –"

"My job is important, Hector—"

"But this guy needs help and no one else can do it! There's no one I can ask! What will it cost you, a couple of days out of the office? (Monotony is unhealthy, you know.) To clear this guy's story, clear his name, and send him home. Wow. Big sacrifice there."

"Don't try to guilt me out –"

"I'm not! This is a friendless Muggle who is perfectly sane and doesn't have a Snidget's chance unless you help him, because I can't help him, and I'm just informing you of his existence. In case you care. The trial tomorrow – I just got an owl – is at one in the afternoon. He's staying at the Sycorax Jail under the Thames, I understand, and your status as an Obliviator should garner you entrance to it. If you know the prisoner's name that'll get you in, too, it's Mark Printzen, remember. Okay, I'll stop taking up your time."

"That's all you have to say?"

After a little pause, "Um, yeah."

"Bye, then, Hector."

"Bye, Linus." Hector closed the door like he closed an argument, nodding cordially to passerby.

"Foolishness," Linus muttered when he'd gone. "Like I need something else on my plate." He resumed the filing of the Knowledge authorization form for the parents of eleven-year-old Nettie Griswold, and brushed stray crumbs from his lunch off of the desk. He paused. The Sycorax, while nowhere near the absolute hell that was Azkaban, had been subject to some investigations for the poor quality of its food. One unlucky prisoner had sickened and died before he even saw his trial day. These investigations were usually dropped half-heartedly, because after all – they were only criminals.

Linus resumed his work, but his quill paused often, and he seemed visibly distracted until he elected to leave work early that day.

The basin of memory potion and the mirror had been moved, possibly to a room which would afford better moonlight. At any rate, it was clear that Turpentine had moved on to a new 'experiment.'

To Servaas' line of sight, the table in Turpentine's basement had been moved more prominently to the center of the room. After one more hour of carving into it with his wand, Turpentine had stepped aside, satisfied, and gone upstairs, presumably, to rest. He had come down two hours later carrying a box in his arms.

The box, set beside the table and opened, yielded nine perfectly clear crystal vials, of uniform shape and size (all small and cylindrical), which were then set in a circle around the rim of the table. Some of the bottles were clear, but at least three which Servaas could see glowed with some silvery-blue substance from within, which seethed and curled. After placing each of these bottles precisely equidistant from each other, Turpentine called to Servaas. "My good Mr. Ollivander, do you know what I am doing?"

"No," croaked Servaas meekly from his pallet.

"Good. Do you feel homesick, sir?"

Servaas, stunned by the incredulous question, did not answer for a moment, but rejoined, "Is this a joke?"

"Not at all. I wonder, are you homesick?"

"Well – well, yes. I do miss a soft bed, and, oh, freedom to go where I like…"

"Is there a person whom you miss?"

Another pause. "Of course. Lots of them."

"You think on them often, I suppose?"

"Well, it's better than reflecting on you and your company."

"Hmph. I don't suppose all those you remember are still living – you probably recollect many a departed friend from days long ago. They tell me, sir, that you can recall the make and materials of any wand you have ever sold, as well as the recipient. Is this true?"

"Indeed it is." Even in his binds and darkened corner Servaas sat up straighter.

"Could you describe for me the Dark Lord's wand?"

"Thirteen inches," Servaas said quietly but clearly. "Yew and phoenix feather. A powerful wand of unyielding but erratic character."

"Fascinating. I'll remember that." Turpentine ambled over to where Servaas sat. "Could you, perhaps, describe the owner of a cinnamon wood wand, ten and a half inches in length, with a dragon heartstring at its core?"

Servaas could not answer this one so clearly, nor so quickly. "That would be the wand that belonged to my brother's daughter, Philomel Ollivander."

"Did you make that one?"

"No, actually, that wand had sat for nearly a hundred years before finding a suitable candidate."

"Quite impressive memory, but do you remember who owned a wand made of cypress and unicorn tail hair, almost but not quite ten inches? I'm very interested in the answer."

A long silence followed that remark. When Servaas trusted himself to speak, he said evenly, "That belonged to Philomel's first born… Benedicte."

"That was all that was ever recovered," Turpentine said airily. "The wand still clutched in her right hand. Such a tragic tale of young loss… it must have broken your family's heart, to have never known her fate… I, of course, was studying in America when all of that fell out… great interrogation techniques I picked up from the House Un-American activities, I wouldn't be where I am now without them… but I understood the media made quite a to-do about it. Even with all the other disappearances and things, Benedicte Ollivander – Benedicte Ollivander! Just stuck in the public's mind. Like certain killings in the Muggle press – horrible things happen to young women, never known exactly for certain, and nobody forgets them."

Turpentine sat down on the floor before Servaas, not letting his conversational tone waver. "But there was a group of people who knew Benedicte but didn't remember her death. Strange little control group, yes? They were Muggles."

Servaas' eyes widened in the darkness. He did not remember this.

"You see, in what seems to be a degradation of what had once been an upstanding bloodline, the Ollivanders and the Crouch line, too – the last child of that generation actually dressed up as a Muggle and, for one summer, worked on a play which mocked and aped wizardry, the lowest point to which a wizard could sink – she actually created the costumes and sent up the trapeze and in all other ways served this mockery!"

He paused. "Are you still following me?"

Servaas nodded carefully.

"However…" Now Turpentine smiled a little, getting up and walking back to the table, "It did leave a wealth of memories for the picking, simple Muggle memories which suit me just fine for an experiment I'm running. You see, Mr. Ollivander, you and I are something alike, we're both Ravenclaws, seeking to know more and illuminate the very deepest secrets of magic."

He walked around the table, "Here's –" he tapped one filled bottle, glowing slightly like dandelion heads, with his wand, "a nice little chain of simple but pleasant encounters with Benny the stage hand, provided by the play's various cast and crew members…" He set his hands on the neck of the second bottle, whose contents seemed more unified, "a rich summer's afternoon, flavored with a trop to the grocery store and a ride on those Muggle contraptions, bicycles, which belonged to the girl who played the lead in that horrid play… here are two evenings backstage, sharing a bottle." The third filled bottle tilted at his touch. "And this bottle – you'll like this one, this doesn't come from the play at all, this is courtesy of Rodolphus Lestrange. He was close to your niece shortly before her murder – why or how, I didn't ask – but provided an out-of-the-box memory of your niece pre-mortem, which I think will serve me just fine, and here – oh, sadness, five empty bottles left. And I exhausted my source of reliable friends of your niece, unless I want to incur suspicion… unless you would be willing to help?"

Servaas had now an inkling of what Master Turpentine's profession was, and a few dark phrases surfaced in his mind as to his intentions. But Servaas was calculating what this man knew and how he, the wandmaker, might resist interrogation. Finally he said, "You'll have to convince me that this is a valuable experiment to try and get me to sacrifice my own memories. They're irreplaceable, you know."

"This is a very valuable experiment, Mr. Ollivander."

"Are you – are you even an professional, or is this just a hobby? My nephew –"

Servaas was interrupted by a loud nasally laugh. "Don't bring up your nephew in comparison to me. Do you want to know if I'm a professional? I'll tell you my title, my hard-won title within the Ministry of Magic: I'm an Omniamnist. It's hard to pronounce and harder still to gain. That is the highest possible title that one can win in the field I work in. I am the best of the best. Your nephew, he may be an Obliviator, but me – do you know what Omni-Amnist means? It means 'All-forgetting.' That is my business, that is my work. Don't think I'm not a professional."

He advanced towards Servaas, two empty bottles in one hand, his wand held aloft in the other. The wand flicked and an orb of persistent yellowy light as from a lamp flared above Servaas' head. Servaas blinked at the light and sprang back: Turpentine's face was just a few inches away from his.

In the mustard-colored light, Servaas studied his captor's face intently: He had a slightly crooked nose and very high color in his cheeks, as opposed to the rest of his face, which lent him a blotchy appearance. He was thin, but, after muttering a spell that forced Servaas to look into his eyes, he stared at Servaas' face with a frightening intensity.

Servaas felt a wand press into his temple and, in a desperate fear, tried to shift his mind away from what he knew the man wanted. He heard Turpentine mutter, "Leglimens," and, in a reflexive spasm, tried to twist away – think –

A perfectly innocuous day, a picnic on the isle of Skye with his family, before his niece was born, let alone her children – was easily spun forward in time, Philomel's father and mother, newlyweds, laughing together about a rain-spoiled picnic – their voices changed to the hollers of five-year old Philomel running through the sunlight – the sun shining through a church window as Philomel held a baby positively swamped in white eyelet –

"No!"

"Onspiros!" Turpentine hissed.

Servaas felt a pain like a needle that seemed to strike through his head, deep into his brain. A shock jarred his entire body and then Turpentine pulled his wand away, a string of white and silver fog pulling from Servaas' temple. He felt the tension, and gave a faint moan when Turpentine tugged, and it broke off. When that happened Servaas was allowed to fall onto the mat, limp with shock.

Turpentine looked at him, not unsympathetically, and said, "The first time is by far the worst. Your brain gets a little accustomed to the spell, though, that's what all the books say." Then, turning away, he pulled from his pocket a peculiar tool, which resembled a pair of stoneware tongs, only instead of gripping utensils at the ends, there were two rows of interlocking teeth like the mouth of a fly-eating plant. Into these closed teeth Turpentine carefully placed the fog-line of Servaas' memory. Now, quite heedless of the shuddering form behind him, he grasped the handle and opened the teeth.

Between the open teeth the memory stretched out and showed, as on a screen the length and breadth of a handspan. No sound came from it, except a tinny, tiny copy of the conversation between Philomel, her husband, and the baby's godparents before the Naming of Godparents ceremony began. Turpentine stroked the teeth of the upper comb with his wand and the Lilliputian scene blanched, whitened, and reshaped itself to the image of a very proud godmother –a pale-haired flower of a woman who smiled at the infant gently – leading the rest of the company to their luncheon.

Turpentine clicked his tongue. "This is good… this memory adds variety, family affection, it's just what I need… you've done quite well, Mr. Ollivander. So I'll reward you."

He closed the tongs, took the memory out with his wand, and deposited it gently into an empty bottle.

"I'll give you a whole day to rest and recuperate now. Maybe you'll even get some tea before the next session. Rest your brain. Gather your thoughts. Sleep now." He waved his wand with the last words, and, unwillingly but irresistibly, Servaas' eyes closed and he drifted into his own unconscious, a far more scattered and troubled place than it had been that morning.

The next morning, a figure in an unfastened grey cloak could be seen standing by the street entrance to the Sycorax, which was a stone the size of a man set into the bank of the Thames. A slot in the lamppost above slid out; a tinny voice echoed out, "Who are you and what do you want?"

"I am L.F.O., an Oneironomist –"

"A what?"

"An Obliviator with the Ministry of Magic. I'm here to speak to Mark Emory Printzen."

Rain. Don't know the day. The entire floor damp. Coughing now. T. seems eager to test my memory with the book on mirror enchantments. Has experiments. Stole a memory from me earlier. Benedicte Clemence Ollivander. Benedicte and her second cousin Barty Crouch were close. When they were young. Grouped together at family reunions. Benny was a Gryffindor like Philomel. Very good with her hands. Loved to collect figurines of animals. Her bedroom was all painted in red and gold she did it herself and she studied the Chinese Zodiac and Egyptian symbols and any sort of craft she could do. I MUST REMEMBER.