J. K. Rowling and the Lawsuit of Doom, coming soon to a bookstore near you!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jezebel Rosier worked full time at the Ministry, in the Department of Magical Education's tiny Squib Opportunities Office. Basically it was her, the Office Head, and a part-time clerk, trying to provide for an estimated 2800-4300 Squibs. Evenings and weekends Jezebel did administrative work for the Society for the Support of Squibs and helped run the Oakby Centre Library.
That woman didn't have time to be a terrorist. She barely had time to sleep.
The meeting with Neville was easily the most confusing in either of my careers. Even worse than the interdepartmental fight after the incident with the women's volleyball team and the chess society. At least there was firewhisky at Neville's place. With nothing really sorted out, Neville left promising to speak to Galilea and Fairbairn. I left for my interview with the Ollivanders.
I'd expected a more upscale shop. The Ollivander Family weren't Pureblood, but they were a very old and well established family. Most witches or wizards bought their wands at Ollivanders, and had them repaired or modified there. But the chief arms merchants to Wizarding Britain operated out of a narrow little place across the street from a junk shop. Behind a door with peeling paint I found a dusty little shop with aisles squeezed between rows of racks. And on those racks were long thin boxes, and cloth wrappings, and brown paper envelopes.
I had the oddest sensation of being watched by those packages. I wondered how the children felt in this dry, quiet place.
A little old man with no hair smiled at me as I came through the door. He leaned on a cane with one hand, and in his other he held a newspaper. The special edition of the Daily Star, I realized. He squinted at me, dark eyes peering out of a face like a dried apple. Then he grinned. ''Glinda! Professor Tight-Breeches is here to see you!''
Rita Skeeter must die.
''Yes, hello, you've read the article, eh?''
''Nope! M'eyes aren't worth a damn these days!'' He stomped his cane and laughed. ''Nothing works the way it did, once yer past it! But you'll learn that soon enough!'' Still cackling he limped away, banging his cane on the floor with every step.
A white-haired woman stepped out of a little door near the back of the shop. She came up through the aisle, yelled genially at the old man to show some respect to guests, and stopped in front of me. White haired and dressed in plain black clothes, but not as old as my first impression. Maybe ten to twenty years older than me, it was hard to tell. She had a pale complexion and obviously had never spent much time in the sun, sparing her skin a lot of damage.
''You'll have to forgive Gran'da,'' she said. I recognized her accent as that of someone who'd been raised in Hogsmeade Village. Think of an East Anglian accent, with some Received Pronounciation in the vowels and bits of Scottish slang thrown in. ''He's been playing at old coot for thirty years now, and it's starting to go to his head. Glinda Burke, but I use Ollivander in correspondence.''
We shook hands as I introduced myself. Glinda had blunt fingernails and tool-calloused hands. Wandcraft was not an academic pursuit.
''I'm not sure what we can do for you, Professor Hunter.'' She looked me up and down as she spoke. It wasn't elevator eyes. It was more like she was measuring me for a suit. ''So far as I know, none of my ancestors have ever kept diaries or any sort of historical journals.''
''But you do keep business records. And an interview with your grandfather would probably be very profitable.''
''These days, his favourite resting place is that café across the street. The young women there think he's sweet, the stupid things. Buy him a pot of tea with a little extra in it and he'll talk your ears off. Wait here.'' She went into the back of the shop. I amused myself by looking at the few wands on display, thin sticks of wood in little racks. They looked like miniature pool cues waiting for tiny players. I kept my hands to myself. Galilea, Neville, Isgar, Rubeus, and three portraits had all warned me about touching wands.
Glinda came back with a young man in black clothes. He looked about the same age as her, but had darker salt and pepper hair. They each carried an armful of small boxes. ''Professor Hunter, this is my cousin Grimward. Come over to the counter please.''
''Call me Ward,'' said the thin-faced man. ''Try this, please.''
He handed me a long cardboard box. ''Are you related to the Grimward family?'' I asked.
''My grandmother was a Grimward. Of course you work with my cousin Gally. Please, try the wand.''
Gally? Really? That was actually her nickname? I couldn't wrap my mind around that one.
I looked at the box in my hand. ''Are you sure that's safe? I've been warned about picking up wands.''
Glinda spoke up. ''There are no aspected wands in Ollivanders. If the person rejects a wand that has imprinted on them we will, sadly, recycle it.''
''Right. Well...'' I opened the box and unwrapped the wand inside. I picked it up. Well, it was a wand all right. Wood. Sticklike. I switched it over to my left hand. Yep. Still a stick.
''I don't want to be a stick in the mud - ''
''Ha,'' said Glinda.
''Sorry. Couldn't resist. But I'm a Muggle. I can cast spells about as well as a Squib.''
Ward took the wand from my hand and repackaged it. ''Yes, but you're a Muggle who sees through Anti-Muggle Charms. We've never tried to pair someone like that to a wand before.'' He rubbed his hands together. ''This is a challenge. Pairing First Years is rush work, but it's hardly challenging. Here. American Hickory, twelve inches, unicorn hair.''
When you want information from people, it never hurts to indulge them. And honestly, wandlore looked like the key technology in Wizarding Britain. I decided to play along. I took the wand in my left hand and swished it a bit.
''Are you left-handed, Professor?'' Asked Glinda.
''Call me Geoffrey. I'm cross-dominant, actually. I write with my right hand, but I shoot right. Ah, sorry. Hockey-speak. Means I'm a southpaw, if that makes more sense. I use my left for physical tasks - Throwing, catching, stuff like that.''
I'd had the opportunity to take grenade training once. I'd been so nervous I'd forgotten to mention that little detail to the Master Corporal prepping the grenades. Long story short, he punched me out.
''Oh,'' said Glinda. She grabbed about half the boxes they'd brought. ''These are out. Ward, let's find a few helix-cores.''
''And the coils, I think.''
IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIO
''Holly, twelve inches long, three-quarters of an inch thick. Dragon heartstring in a helix core.''
You know those really old cartoons? The ones where a woman has gone shoe shopping and she's surrounded by boxes of shoes that she's rejected? After twenty minutes of trying to fit me to a wand, Ollivanders looked a bit like that. We'd dragged some chairs over to the counter, and Glinda and Ward had settled into a routine. They'd pass me a wand, I'd swish the wand, the wand would do nothing for me, they'd write notes and make significant noises. Then they'd pass me a wand...
It was a lot more interesting than it sounds. I was learning quite a lot about wandlore.
''Let's try a coiled core next...''
IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIO
''It's all ratios,'' Glinda told me. ''Nine times out of ten, everything you need to know is right there in the face. Length of nose, depth of philtrum ridges, general complexion...''
''Body type is important too,'' put in Ward. ''Broad-boned, light-boned. Height. Not so much weight, that changes too easily.''
''Here. Oak, eleven and three-quarters. Fluted handle.''
IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIO
Ward was starting to look a bit sick of it all. I hoped I could escape soon, but Glinda still seemed enthusiastic.
''Leo,'' she said. ''A fire sign, and one of the four Fixed Signs.''
''But not dragon heartstring,'' said Ward. ''We've determined that.''
The shop door opened and a young woman came in. She looked familiar, but I couldn't place her. Of course, I'd spent last evening staring at the adolescents of the Wizarding World, so it could easily be a family resemblance.
''I've got this.'' Ward left to help the woman.
Glinda tugged her jacket sleeves back a bit. ''Right. Let's try a complete shot in the dark... '' She rummaged in her pile of boxes for a minute. ''Vine. Unicorn hair.''
Picking it up was like... Licking a battery. All over your skin. I put it down immediately. ''No. Just... No.''
''Yes. Charm is not your forte. How does your arm feel?''
I rotated my shoulder a bit. ''Like I slept on it. Not completely numb, but it's not a good feeling.''
''Hm. Outright rejection. Well, that leaves us with phoenix feather. That should be easy, we don't carry many of those cores. Battle magic, typically. You were a soldier... ''
''No, I was a Log Wog. A bookkeeper. I just worked for an employer with a strict dress code.'' There's a reason I usually don't tell people about that job. Civilians have trouble grasping the difference between being a real soldier and just being in the Armed Forces.
''Professor Hunter?'' Glinda and I both looked up at the interruption. The familiar woman stood a few feet away, watching me. A brunette, a bit short, slim but still nicely curvy. ''Why are you looking at wands? I thought you were a Muggle?''
''I am,'' I said, stalling for time. ''But the Ollivander family is giving me a bit of a crash course on wandlore. It's obviously an important subject if I want to understand Wizarding society.''
Hair, beads, cornrows, foot corns - Cornfoot! Right, she'd sat next to me at the formal disaster. ''And you, Miss Cornfoot?''
''Oh, I dropped my wand. I was afraid I might have cracked the wood?'' She looked to the back of the shop. ''That man is having a look at it. I hope it's not damaged.''
She looked worried. I couldn't say I blamed her. A wand is a witch's entire toolkit, general purpose appliance, complete lifestyle accessory, and weapon. Being without a wand left you functionally handicapped in Wizarding Britain.
Welcome to my world, Miss Cornfoot.
IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIO
''It's not just the length of the wand,'' Ward had told me earlier. ''The ratio of core to wand is crucial, as is the style of the core. Helical, coiled, straight... Straight is the simplest of the cores. Harry Potter himself had a very straightforward wand, despite its famous kinship with Riddle's wand. That one held a simple wand as well. Nice straight core, basic three and a half ratio, nothing too tricky about the wand wood.''
''The properties of the wood subtly alter the wand-core ratio, and its resonances with the bearer.'' Glinda explained. ''Here. Willow, with a phoenix feather core.''
''I like this one.'' It looked a bit like a letter opener, or a blade of grass.
Both their faces had lit up.
''Ah, sorry. I mean, aesthetically? It's pretty.''
''I'll break out the grass-blade wands.''
More boxes piled on boxes.
IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIO
Ward returned from the back of the shop, carrying Cornfoot's wand. ''Little more than a nick,'' he said. ''I won't even charge you for cleaning that up.''
Her face lit up. She looked like a woman suffering from bad cramps, right at the moment when the painkillers have kicked in and she realizes there's a fresh tub of ice cream and a hot bath waiting for her. She breathed a sigh of relief and took her wand from Ward. He led her over to a display to try and sell her a wand-pouch of woven willow bark. ''Very restful for unicorn hair cores,'' he said.
Glinda brushed her hands off on her pants. ''Well, Professor Hunter. I hate to admit it but you were right. Unless you'd care to try our speciality line... ''
''I'll pass. I've got a busy day ahead of me. Still some work to do for classes Monday, and I've got a date tonight.'' Bragging? Moi?
We both stood. ''Somewhere nice, I hope?''
''A Muggle restaurant. I've never been there, but it has great reviews.''
''That's good,'' said Glinda. She raised her voice a bit. ''Some men will take a lady any old place. Like the Witch's Brew.''
''I was nineteen,'' said Ward. He and his customer exchanged glances.
''Family,'' she said, rolling her eyes.
I drifted away from this display of familial warmth and loyalty, thinking about tonight. A quiet Saturday night with a beautiful witch would be the perfect way to prepare for next week. I needed to get a gift. Something compact, flirty, and packing a punch. Gifts, like wands, should match the recipient. Clothes were out. Galilea had a unique dress sense, not quite witchy but not quite Muggle, and I didn't know her size. Wine or jewellery were clichéd, and honestly I didn't know her well enough to know her taste.
Well, I had two witches here. Why not ask the experts? ''I need a gift. What would you recommend for a first date?''
''A nice restaurant,'' said Cornfoot. ''Not some dingy old pub in Witches Abbey.''
''I'll never live that down, will I?''
''I found a nice one,'' I assured her. ''A Spanish place, El Gran Comprobar.''
Glinda made a thoughtful noise. ''Don't go overboard. And nothing that rushes things.''
''I'm not buying her lingerie, if that's what you mean.''
''Good,'' Glinda said. ''Does she like jewellery? Something small might be nice.''
''She does, but I'm not sure what she already has.''
''Books?'' Asked Cornfoot. ''Is she a reader?''
''Oh yeah, definitely. Her office is packed. There's barely enough room for the portraits with all the bookshelves.'' Actually, books hadn't been the only thing on her shelves...
''That's it! Thanks for your help, Glinda, Miss Cornfoot.''
I left Ollivanders in search of small miracles.