Once there was a boy who flew to greet the Sun.
The Sun, startled, sent him to the Ocean's embrace -
And wept.
CHAPTER ONE
He looks down at the water, the only boy on the edge of the world, and it churns, white waves clawing their way up the cliff. The sun glints, hardly over the horizon.
He chews the gillyweed slowly, without relish, swallows -
And jumps.
...
"You're late."
He pauses, one foot on the stairs, and looks through the kitchen door at his father.
"You said we weren't in a hurry."
The man looks up from the day's copy of the Daily Prophet and raises a slender black eyebrow.
"That wasn't permission to spend the entire day by the beach," he says, "go wash off, Fish-Boy, we've got things to do."
He sticks out his tongue, bolts up the stairs, and crosses the narrow hallway to his bedroom. He chucks his dirty towel on his desk chair, followed by the few clothes he'd worn out, and heads into the bathroom for a shower.
By the time he returns to the kitchen, his food's lukewarm, his father's nowhere to be seen and the backdoor is wide open.
He shovels the food down in seconds, rinses his plate, and goes out to find his father poking around the larkspur with a scowl.
"We have slugs. Go check the dittany - they might've gotten in there."
He checks, halfheartedly, and doesn't find any. It takes another ten minutes, and several combthroughs of the garden, before his father is satisfied enough to leave.
"Slugs," his father says, placing a hand on his shoulder, "I'd rather have gnomes."
There's the tug - the crushing, black darkness of apparition - and the blaring wail of an ambulance interrupts his efforts to keep his food down. His father watches him, black eyes glittering in amusement.
"I'm sure the gnomes up at Mr. Lewisham's farm wouldn't mind a visit," he manages.
"Shame I'm not keen on houseguests," his father drawls, slapping him lightly on the back of the head, "now go on. Remember to meet me back here in three hours and don't -"
"Spend all my money on stupid shit. Yeah, I know, Da."
He steps quickly out of the alleyway, to avoid another slap, and onto a busy pavement. Then he crosses the road, goes through the packed Leaky Cauldron, and into the tiny backyard.
Channeling a little sliver of magic into his index finger, he stretches to tap the brick his father had told him about. It disappears, followed quickly by the stones surrounding it, and he steps through the archway onto a cobbled street.
Even though his father's instructions are churning on repeat in his head, he finds himself wandering into the apothecary halfway to Ollivander's. He leaves, fifteen minutes later, with a small bag of fairy wings and a vial of salamander blood. It's not stupid if it's gonna be used, he tells himself, as he finally approaches the wand store and thanks the olive-eyed boy holding the door.
The bells tinkle softly as it shuts behind him.
"Hello," says the man behind the counter, "Hogwarts too, I suppose?"
"I -" he looks around the room, trying to avoid the man's watery gaze, and finds a jersey tiger moth hovering by a gaslamp, "yes."
The man - Mr. Ollivander, he assumes - steps out from behind the counter, unraveling a long tapemeasure with silver markings.
"Your wand arm, please."
He lifts his left and the tape measure stretches itself out to start measuring.
"They come every summer," Mr. Ollivander says.
He blinks, dragging his eyes away from the moth to look at him. Mr. Ollivander smiles a little.
"The moths. This one's been here a few days now."
"Oh," he says, "nettles."
"Pardon?"
Idiot.
"They like nettles," he says, as the tape starts measuring his head, "in the pupal stage. And dandelions. There's probably an untended garden nearby. That's why."
"Ah," Mr. Ollivander murmurs, wandering away to search the shelves, "that would be my fault, I'm afraid. There's a small one in the back. I haven't...I don't believe I ever caught your name, Mr -"
"Icarus."
"Icarus?" the tape clatters to the ground as Mr. Ollivander sets two worn boxes on the counter before going back for more, "No last name, then?"
"Sørensen," he rubs at his nose, "sorry - Icarus Sørensen."
"Here," Mr. Ollivander appears once again from the shadows, holding out a wand, "oak and unicorn hair, nine and a quarter inches."
Icarus barely touches it before it's plucked away and replaced by another.
"May I assume one of your parents is magically inclined?" Mr. Ollivander asks, giving him another.
"My dad," Icarus says, taking it.
He flicks it. There's a loud bang as at least a dozen boxes fly from their shelves. He sets it down quickly, ears burning.
Mr. Ollivander studies him curiously, before disappearing again. He comes back with several considerably older boxes.
"Wand lore is commonly misunderstood," he says quietly, "most people believe they can twist or manipulate a wand into channeling magic it doesn't want to. They fail to understand that wands have an awareness of their own. My job isn't just to make them but to make sure they find the right witch or wizard with whom they should belong. Sometimes it happens in days, sometimes in decades."
Icarus sets another wand down in the slowly growing pile.
"I primarily use three cores in my craft - unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, and phoenix feather - but, of course, the wands here span generations and sometimes my own work doesn't fit well with my customer. Please, try this one -"
He opens the last box on the counter and holds it out to him.
"Hawthorn and thestral wing, ten and a half inches, slightly flexible. Made by my Grandfather, if my memory serves me well."
Icarus takes the wand, expecting nothing - or, at least, another explosion - and shivers as warmth travels up his arm to wrap around his chest. The tip of the wand sparks, blue and green, like the flames of a driftwood fire.
"Fascinating," Mr. Ollivander stares at him, eyes wide, "simply... Mr. Sørensen…it is a most unusual…"
Icarus glances back at the gas lamp, uncomfortable. The moth is gone.
"I look forward to seeing what you might achieve," Mr. Ollivander says, deciding against whatever it was that he was going to say, "with such a wand as yours."
…
The cauldron starts to tip as he sets it down and, in a scramble to catch the crystal vials he'd balanced on top of it, he almost falls too. A hand grabs him by the back of his shirt and the cauldron freezes in place, before righting itself.
"Thanks," he grumbles, as his father lets him go, "could've used some help like, way back there, though."
"Mmm," his father says, taking the cauldron's handle in one hand and resting the other on Icarus' shoulder. They pop into existence in the middle of their garden. "I can't decide what to have for dinner."
Icarus stumbles after him into the kitchen and slumps down at the table.
"I'll take the stew," he says, "the one without the frog eyes, preferably."
"I thought I got rid of that," his father says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a small cauldron. He lifts the lid and peeks inside, before setting it down on the counter and reaching for the other one. The fire roars to life on the other end of the room. "Shut up."
"I -"
"Shut. Up."
The second cauldron floats over to hang on the hook above the fire and the first is tossed in the sink. His father sighs, ties his hair into a low ponytail, and drags the school supplies into the living room.
"So," he huffs, shooting Icarus a knowing glance, "Ollivander's, huh?"