Ravenclaw, Round 8 of the Houses Competition. Themed, Bedtime routine, WC: 544

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An old man stared back at him from between the cracks of the dusty mirror hanging on the wall of his bathroom door. His face was lined and pale, as if the wrinkles had been folded into his very skin, his hair a shock of chalky white. He couldn't remember his hair going from a bold ginger to pearl. Age was certainly catching up to him.

The door latch was more difficult to hold now, arthritic fingers trying to keep purchase it, the muscle spasms and tremor of his left hand trying to prevent him. Long days took it out of him more than ever, old and tired as he was. Within a few more seconds, his own wand had spelled the shop shut for good measure, and Garrick Ollivander was shuffling towards the stairs leading up to his flat. His shoes scuffed on the ancient floorboards, a too-large vest jacket leaving a chill on his blemished skin. Varicose veins on his hands more pronounced in the effort of climbing.

Fifty-seven wands had gone out today. He remembered every single one of them, in all manner of different combinations. He recalled talking animatedly to the customers, jogging from one end of the store to the next in order to trial something new. Taking out the boxes, holding out a wand, feeling the rush of euphoric power as wand met witch or wizard when a pairing was correct. That moment was when he was suddenly vivacious compared to the way he felt when the day ended. At five-twenty, the store was always empty.

At around six in the evening, he was attempting to button up a pyjama vest given to him by his wife many years earlier. The buttons slipped several times, catching on his shaking fingers. At around six-fifteen, rain began to tap and then hammer on the sheet glass windows, creating the comforting racket every British person ought to be used to.

Ollivander tapped the kettle, prompting it to whistle, then directed his attention to the lifeless fireplace. With a single and sincere waves, flames sparked into being.

Food that night was a packaged frozen pasta bake, bought by his daughter several weeks ago and kept chilled in a preposterous 'cool bag'. It was tasteless, but it was food. Coupled with the tea, he felt entirely alone. The apartment warmed pleasantly, but not enough to keep him somewhat awake. Surely this wasn't his destiny?

Lights flickered against the shadowed walls, casting dramatic shapes of darkness to drape over the hunched-over elderly man reading in the chintz armchair closest to the fire.

The mahogany wand possesses some of the most powerful transfiguration qualities. Due to its chemical bonding and mineral compliments, it can produce a stunning capability tending towards Gander's Fourth Law. However, researchers have more recently that when specifically imbuing the wand with such flighted beast combinations as Hippogriff feather and Occamy, it showcases an impressive tendency towards the Dark Arts...

The words would not offer much comfort for a child hoping for a bedtime story. Yet, to Ollivander, they were greatly soothing. Soon after, he fell asleep reading, waking only in the middle of the night to brush his teeth and stumble to bed.

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Ta you beautiful people.