viii. wand of elder

When the hysterical tears ran dry, Harriet wiped her eyes—and her nose—and took a breath.

She knew she wasn't terribly clever; rather, she was intelligent but lacked that spark inherent to those of true cleverness, that intuitive sixth sense that allowed those more brilliant than her to assimilate their environment and find information with ease. Sometimes Harriet had to be told things twice, and sometimes she didn't have to be told at all. What a life with the Dursleys had taught young Harriet was that one got by on a lack of cleverness by using cunning, and by taking stock of their situation while they could.

The goblins, she guessed from their behavior, didn't much like witches and wizards, so she asked them questions, confident they wouldn't send her off to that welfare office Mafalda had mentioned because they simply didn't want to deal with the hassle. Griphook grumbled and grunted and sneered while he spoke, but a coin or two placed in his hand loosened the goblin's tongue well enough.

He told Harriet that the gold coins were Galleons and the silver were Sickles and the bronze were Knuts. He wasn't sure how the Potters had died but knew that James Potter, despite his vast fortune, had been an Auror—which was a bit like a Muggle policeman—so Griphook assumed he and his wife Lily must have been offed during the war. When Harriet asked about the war, he told her she'd best go to Flourish and Blotts and buy a bloody history book because he didn't have all day to tell stories to nasty little wizarding brats.

Harriet was apparently the head of the "Noble House of Potter," which wasn't as great as being in a "Most Noble House" or in a "Noble and Ancient House" or even a "Noble and Most Ancient House." When Harriet asked if there was such thing as a "Most Noble and Most Ancient House," Griphook told her not to be ridiculous. What the designation boiled down to, she understood, was that she had a seat on the Wizengamot, which was a bit like a magic conclave that Wizarding families applied to so they could sit in on very boring political meetings about laws and whatnot and have their voices heard. It cost two hundred Galleons per annum to retain a House's seat, and one of Harriet's ancestors had apparently paid the fine up through the next one hundred and fourteen years.

Sounded barmy to Harriet, but there it was.

The Potters had an estate—the Stinchcombe House—which was a modest manor out in the Gloucestershire countryside. It was "entailed," which meant the house belong to Harriet's family and not really to Harriet herself, and she had absolutely no access to it because it was part of the fortune secured and locked away in Vault Six Hundred and Eighty-Eight. Vault Six Hundred and Eight-Seven was a trust fund set aside for the Potter heirs for their personal use, kept separate from the main estate in case something catastrophic were to happen to the family's fortune. Griphook had a nasty grin on again when he told Harriet about all the Wizarding families who had bankrupted themselves in the past.

While goblins didn't seem very nice at all, they did prove informative, and when plied with gold, Griphook was quick enough to mention useful things to Harriet. He pointed out a spelled trunk with an extension Charm that was most likely illegal now and would be excellent for Harriet's use at Hogwarts. The goblin noted her keen interest in the Stinchcombe House and commented that the Leaky Cauldron could take on longterm boarders if necessary. He told her that if she wished to be smarter than the average stupid witch or wizard she needed to buy more books than were on her school list, and if she wanted anyone to take her seriously, it didn't matter if she had a bag filled with Galleons, she needed to go to Twilfitt and Tattings and get some bloody better clothes.

So, once Harriet loaded a purse with coin and took hold of her family trunk, she finally trundled out of Gringotts into the hot afternoon sun and took a left upon the alley to venture down the Southside. She ambled along with the strange crowd, feeling loads more confident now that she had real Wizarding money and knew, without a doubt, that she was a witch, her eyes taking in all the peculiar sights with hungry attention. Newspapers at a stand outside a building called the Daily Prophet read themselves aloud to passersby. A pair of twin red-heads came out of Gambol and Japes with wide grins. Shady characters lurked near an arch proclaimed the entrance to "Knockturn Alley" and Harriet kept well away from there.

Harriet paused at the post office to send off her acceptance notice to Hogwarts, then entered Twilfitt and Tattings and was almost immediately set upon by a snooty witch who didn't seem to believe Harriet was, in fact, a paying customer. Logically Harriet knew Griphook had been correct in his assumption that no one would take her seriously when she dressed like a beaten rag doll, but it was still annoying to be judged solely based off her appearance. The witch eventually changed her tune—after much cajoling and purse rattling—and Harriet walked out of the shop an hour later with a new wardrobe. She wore an emerald sun dress that had a neckline high enough to hide most of her scar, and a Charm in the hem meant to prevent it from tearing or becoming dirty.

Harriet had never owned anything new before, let alone something so pretty.

Magic oozed through the alley and Harriet found herself quickly becoming enamored with it. It was such a marvel; every little thing could be accomplished with a spell or a Charm or a Hex, witches and wizards whipping out sticks—or wands, as she learned they were called—to shrink their bags or levitate them, changing their cloaks from blue to green to red, popping in and out of existence with a quick turn of their heels, or jabbering on as they carried cauldrons and books and owls and moving papers. Harriet felt like she was in a dream and she never wished to wake from it.

After Twilfitt and Tattings she returned to the Northside of Diagon to find Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, where she would have to buy her uniforms for school, according to the snooty witch at Twilfitt. Harriet found the shop and poked her head inside. A small bell chimed.

"Hogwarts, dear?" asked an older witch with red cheeks and curly hair. She was much nicer than the other witch Harriet had met, and she smiled when Harriet quickly nodded, then led her farther into the shop where two other students were already being fitted for their own robes. Harriet was ushered onto a stool next to a bushy-haired girl about Harriet's age while a pale, drawling boy on the girl's other side continued to drone.

"—honestly, Granger, how you expect to manage at all when you can't even recognize which of the houses is greatest—."

The girl, Granger, flushed an irritated color and, when she spoke, did so in a rush of very precisely enunciated words. "None of the houses are greater than any of the others," she insisted. "The book states clearly that each has it failings and its accomplishments. Slytherin is not the best, nor is Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff."

"Don't let father hear you saying that. He might chuck you back to the Muggles," the boy snorted. He seemed to realize someone else had appeared, because he looked past Granger to Harriet and said, "Well? What do you think?"

Harriet blinked as a shop assistant jerked a standard black robe over her head and started in on the magic pins. "What?"

"Which house do you think is best?" he demanded.

Harriet hadn't the faintest clue what he was asking, so she looked to the other girl for help. "Err, I think you're right," she said. The boy was being rather rude, and Harriet decided it was best to give the other girl some support. What houses is he going on about? Slithered in? Huffle buff?

The boy scoffed. "You haven't a clue what I'm talking about, do you?" When Harriet didn't respond, he straightened himself and stared into the mirror before him with an unpleasant scowl. "Bloody Mudbloods everywhere nowadays…."

"Draco!"

"Do shut up, Granger. Try to show some dignity."

Granger turned her shoulder to the boy—Draco—and ignored him. "I'm Hermione Granger," she said to Harriet, sticking out her hand. "I'm a Muggle-born, too. You are going to Hogwarts, right?"

"Right," Harriet replied as she shook Hermione's hand, her brow furrowed. She didn't think she was a—what did she call it? Muggle-born? Griphook had said "Muggles" were the non-magical people out in regular London, and Harriet's dad had been a wizard, and she was fairly certain her mother had been a witch—or maybe not, considering Aunt Petunia was about as mundane as a person could be. Mundane as cheese. Maybe Harriet was Muggle-born. There was so much she didn't know. "I'm Harriet."

"Are you excited to go to Hogwarts?" Hermione asked, going on before Harriet could open her mouth. "I personally can't wait. Magic is so very fascinating. You really should think about getting Hogwarts: A History before you go. It has all kinds of information about the Houses and all the classes that have been taught at the castle over the centuries and the separate modifications it's gone through. Draco insists that Slytherin is the greatest, but I think it has more to do with your personal values and qualities. You can't truly think to rate a House based on the virtues of ambition or loyalty or wisdom—."

"Take a breath, Granger. For Merlin's sake."

Unfortunately at that moment Harriet was brought down off the stool, her robes finished, and so she waved a quick goodbye to Hermione and Draco, feeling a bit irked she hadn't been able to have a decent conversation with either. She loaded her purchases into the top drawer of her trunk, careful not to drop anything into the cavernous lower drawer, then moved on to her next stop.

Harriet purchased a pewter cauldron at Potage's Cauldron Shop, picked up a standard potions kit at the rather smelly Apothecary, ogled the fancy flying brooms at Quality Quidditch Supplies, then stepped into Flourish and Blotts. She remembered Griphook's advice and selected several other books aside from the ones on her school letter, including one on goblin wars, one about magical creatures, another containing a multitude of ways to curse your enemies and hex your friends, and Hogwarts: A History. In the end she was glad she had taken the trunk along, as it seemed to be Charmed almost weightless as well as big and roomy.

She was on her way back to the other end of the alley when Set jabbed her in the ribs again, this time gesturing at a brightly lit sweet shop stationed near Gringotts. Only then did Harriet realize how very hungry and thirsty she was, her head dizzy and her feet aching from walking on the hard cobblestones, so she stopped at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour for a blueberry and mint flavored treat, as well as a tall glass of something called "pumpkin juice." Harriet wasn't sure if she liked the drink, but she assumed it would grow on her.

She came at last to the shop she'd been most looking forward to: Ollivanders. It didn't look like much on the outside. The sign proclaiming that they'd been in business since 382 BC was faded and peeling, the gold letters of the name crinkled at the edges, and the display window held only a single stick—wand—on a faded purple cushion. From all the conversations she'd overheard snippets of, Harriet knew it was the very best place in all of Britain to buy one's magic wand—and Harriet was ecstatic to purchase her own.

She'd never been to a church before, but she rather imagined it was a lot like stepping into Ollivanders; a hush pervaded the tiny shop, a palpable sanctity that clung to the place as surely as the thick layer of dust. Long, slender boxes filled the shelves from floor to ceiling with very little room to spare. There was a counter with an ancient register sat atop it and one spindly chair with the stuffing poking out the sides of the cushioned seat. No one was in sight.

Set flickered and curled about Harriet's feet, waiting.

"Hello?" Harriet called, setting her trunk down by the chair. "Is anyone here? I need to buy a, er, magic wand?"

"Hello," echoed a man's voice. Harriet let out a startled swear when the old man slipped quietly from the shadows, his wide, pale eyes watching her with all the eerie uncanniness of two uncovered moons. His gray hair was wispy and wild about his head. "Ah…Harriet Potter."

Harriet stared as the elderly wizard came slowly forward, gradual as creeping mist, tingles prickling along her spine. "H-how do y'know my name?"

The wizard smiled. "You've your mother's eyes," he said. "And your father's poor hair, I'm afraid. Ten and a quarter, Lily was. Willow, excellent for Charms. And James…eleven inches, Mahogany. Pliable. Perfect for Transfiguration. I remember every wand I've ever sold, Miss Potter, though I don't always know where they end up."

Harriet failed to find her voice, overwhelmed as she was by the sudden jolt to her system. Really, she liked to think she didn't normally lack control over her emotions, but the day had been quite long. Harriet had seen many marvelous things, and she'd also learned a high volume of stressful information. She'd never seen a picture of her parents. She had no idea that she mirrored Lily's eyes or James' hair.

"I sold the wand that did that as well," the wizard murmured as his fingertips grazed the side of Harriet's neck over the thin veins of scarring that curled about her throat. Harriet jolted out of her stupor. "Thirteen and half inches, yew. A powerful combination. Very powerful indeed." The briefest flicker of contrition passed through those pale eyes. "Perhaps, in hindsight, I should have known better. Making a wand like that. Power does so often call to the Dark—or perhaps the Dark calls to power? Who can say?"

"You—you said a wand made my scar?" Harriet asked, fidgeting with her glasses.

"Of course. Very distinct, curse scars. I am, of course, in the minority that believes He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named cursed you directly, but fools will believe what they want to believe."

He who what—?

Harriet's mouth was dry. Her head was spinning again. "I was told I got it in the car accident that killed my parents."

"Car?" the wizard frowned. "For certain you received the scar when Mrs and Mr Potter died; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could have hardly cursed you without going through your parents first." He seemed to realize he'd said something insensitive, because the wizard covered his mouth and urged a swaying Harriet to have a seat on the spindly chair. He rushed on before Harriet could ask questions. "Ah, well—where are my manners? I'm Garrick Ollivander, Miss Potter, and it is very nice to meet you. Now, let's see about getting you a wand, shall we?"

Harriet let him get on with it while she tried to gather her wits. Blown up, Aunt Petunia had said. That's what magic does to people!

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement still deposits payments out of Potter's pension benefit. He was probably an Auror met a sticky end in the war.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could have hardly cursed you without going through your parents first.

Someone…someone had killed Harriet's family. James and Lily must have been mur—.

"Oh dear, not that one."

Harriet looked about and had a chance to glimpse the wand that had been shoved into her hand before Ollivander jerked it away. Another replaced it, then another, and another. On and on Ollivander went to the teetering shelves only to return with more wands that he summarily rejected. Harriet tried to reclaim the joy of the moment, and yet her excitement remained tame in the light of this newest revelation. Perhaps it should've been obvious after all the small hints and outright claims she'd heard so far, and perhaps Harriet had ignored the hints, had buried her head in the proverbial sand to escape the terrible, terrible news. Perhaps she hadn't wanted to know.

"Yes, this one," Ollivander said as he returned once more, this time only holding a single battered box in his pale hands. "I have a very good feeling about this one. A very good feeling. Holly, eleven inches, nice and supple. Go on, Miss Potter. Give it a flick."

Harriet lifted the wand—and immediately felt a ticklish kind of warmth spread beneath her skin, pushing aside the wounded feel of her saddened heart. Smiling, she did as Ollivander suggested and gave the wand a swish, gasping when a burst of silver sparks poured from the wand's tip. Magic. Harriet had done magic, easy as you please.

"Excellent!" Ollivander cheered, clapping. "A wonderful bond, Miss Potter. Curious, though, very curious."

"How so?" she asked as she tucked the wand back into the box and Ollivander took it toward the register. He opened his mouth to answer, then came to an abrupt halt, looking down upon short Harriet with her bruised neck and thin face and tired eyes. He turned the box, thumbs hooked along the lid's edge, and simpered.

"Nothing at all, Miss Potter. Nothing at all. That will be seven Galleons, and…here."

He reached below the register to a shelf that held a collection of weathered tomes coated in the same saintly dust as the rest of the shop. Ollivander withdrew one of the books and handed it to Harriet along with her wand when she extracted the seven coins from her purse.

"The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts," she read aloud, puzzled. "What's this for?"

"A small gift. You will find it…informative." Ollivander smiled again, just the slightest twitch of the mouth. "I will expect great things from you. Great things indeed. Good luck, Miss Potter."

Harriet was shooed from the shop then, her trunk laden with magical purchases trailing at her heels, a fat book under one skinny arm and a wand box in the hand of the other. Few witches or wizards wandered this far end of the alley, and Harriet wagered it was because buying a wand wasn't an everyday occurrence for most. The sun was dipping low along the crooked roofs belonging to Diagon Alley's many shops, and Harriet decided she had best return to the Leaky Cauldron and see about that extended boarding Griphook mentioned. Harriet wasn't sure how she'd manage without an adult.

She made to stop and tuck her new things away—when her wand was jerked from her hand.

"Hey—!"

Harriet's breath left her in a gasp when she saw Set—more corporeal than she had ever seen him before—crack the box between his spidery hands and retrieve her wand from the plush velvet. The stick of holly spun between fingers comprised of shadow and air as the box fell to the cobblestones, forgotten, and the wand turned in ever quickening circles.

"What are you doing?!"

The wood lightened until it was as pale as ash, the shape changing, new grooves forming where Set's tapered fingers traced funny designs. The tip lengthened beyond the original eleven inches. Set flicked the wand into the air and, on instinct, Harriet reached out to catch it. The wand slapped into her palm as if summoned.

The warmth that answered her touch was not the same; no indeed, the tepid satisfaction became a soaring inferno, and the sadness imparted by learning her parents' fates was incinerated beneath a wave of confidence that thrummed like a heartbeat in Harriet's small hand. It sung. For a girl who had never owned anything of her own before that day, Harriet felt uncommonly attached to that wand now. Like it was a part of her arm and she'd sooner lose a hand than let it go.

As Set returned to her shadow, the young Potter girl marveled at how much she loved magic.