"ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ, ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴀ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀ..."
"ʏᴇᴀʜ?"
"ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʜᴇꜱɪᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ʟᴏꜱᴛ."
― ᴅᴏᴜɢʟᴀꜱ ᴀᴅᴀᴍꜱ, ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛᴀᴜʀᴀɴᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ
Chapter Two: In Need of Assistance
I really can't believe I'm doing this, thought Mafalda Prewett. Well, blame Nymphadora Tonks and her hare-brained ideas.
At least I know my limits, after that debacle with Lockhart in seventh year.
Bartemius Crouch Senior regarded her with a stern, steely gaze. The office around them was as austere as its owner — devoid of decoration, furnished with the Ministry standard. It almost appeared as if he had only recently moved in.
"Why, Miss Prewett, would I require another assistant? My current personal assistant, as you well know, I assume, is your cousin, Percy Weasley."
Mafalda suppressed a reflexive eye roll at the mention of her prissy and much-loathed cousin.
"Rumour has it he's about to be promoted," said Mafalda smugly, leaning back in her chair. "As you well know, I assume, Mr. Crouch."
Crouch's eyebrows became two angry arrows pointing at his nose. "Why should I employ you for this highly coveted position?"
It was Mafalda's turn to glower. She always hated this particular interview question. However, she had a good answer for it this time.
"Because I have the motive, the knowledge, and the means to protect you, sir. I know about Voldemort's infiltration into the Ministry — I know he controls policy through Narcissa Malfoy, and once Umbridge is in place, the government will well and truly fall to him. I know that you're marked for death; I know that you don't do much 'International Co-operation' these days. You were a ruthless enemy to the Death Eaters, and if you wanted, you could be someone to rally around. Political opposition. You're a threat. If Death Eaters haven't tried to assassinate you, they will after the election today."
"Bold words for a girl barely out of Hogwarts," Crouch sniffed, unmoved.
"Accurate words for someone who's fought Death Eaters. How many applicants for this position can say that?"
Now, she had finally managed to rattle him. Crouch could not suppress the automatic lift of his dark, bushy eyebrows.
"Fought Death Eaters? You?" he asked disbelievingly. "And supposing that is the truth — why not apply to the Auror training programme?"
"I have and I did. Narcissa Malfoy personally rejected my application."
"Well, haven't you got answers for everything." Crouch looked pensive. "I will… consider your application."
"Thank you, sir," said Mafalda, getting to her feet, gathering her effects and making her way out of the office.
She knew what a rejection sounded like, and, furthermore, she was in such a huff that she barely acknowledged Percy in the hallway.
If he wants to get assassinated, thought Mafalda, it's his loss!
Unfortunately, continuing to wallow in self-pity was impossible when she reached the Atrium. There was a veritable crush of bodies within, people disappearing and reappearing from the fireplaces, cameras flashing, and, most of all, deafening, raucous voices.
For a second, Mafalda was utterly dumbstruck.
What is going on?
She repeated the question to the moustachioed wizard who had appeared from a fireplace to the right of her, just about to hurry into the crowd with a quill and notebook hovering behind him.
"Order, order has been restored!"
"That's not an explanation!"
The wizard gestured wildly, grinning from ear to ear.
"Dolores Umbridge is Minister for Magic!"
Mafalda had known it was coming — they all did — but yet the confirmation nearly bowled her over.
"Oh," she said, watching the journalist hurry away. "Oh."
She didn't have another second to think about it; the crowd forming behind her carried her into the crush, moving towards the centre of the Atrium. Unable to stop her momentum or her curiosity, Mafalda hurried forward, nudging and shoving her way to the origin of the commotion. The sounds of cameras flashing and overlapping voices grew yet more deafening — scarlet-robed figures were running to and fro — Rita Skeeter's lime green quill could be seen waving in the air — above it all carried a high-pitched, girlish, simpering voice — and through the blooming, buzzing confusion of it all, Mafalda saw the twin peaks of a black velvet bow.
It was only when the Auror in front of her stepped to the side that Mafalda saw her fully — her malicious, toadlike expression, her wet beady eyes, even the horrible pink fuzzy skirt-set with an equally revolting cardigan on top. But her attention was quickly drawn away to the Auror now standing just behind her, his hands folded behind him, likely a finger waiting on his wand holster, scanning the crowd for possible threats. Mafalda looked past the Daily Prophet photographer into the eyes of her former Housemate and colleague, Hassan Shafiq — a little gold badge pinned to his scarlet robes reading 'Designated Security Detail — DMLE.' Their eye contact felt like an icicle stabbed through her stomach.
How could I have been so stupid?
Am I still stupid?
"Minister Umbridge!" came Rita Skeeter's loud, shrill voice, slicing through Mafalda's reverie. "What is your plan to deal with the Dementors?"
"Over here, Minister!" another voice called. "How will this administration interface with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this coming autumn? Will Dumbledore be allowed to continue operating unchecked? What do you have to say about his flouting of all applicable policies and guidelines? Will he remain as Headmaster?"
"What about this newly-created 'Muggle-Born Affairs' office?"
"Minister Umbridge! Look over here!"
For a second, Umbridge seemed to be as blinded and bewildered by the commotion as Mafalda, and then, seeming to refocus, she blinked slowly, her expression growing ever more toadlike.
She raised a hand to silence the crowd, which finally quieted and stilled. The air was thick with expectations.
"Broad, sweeping changes will have to be made. Clearly, the magical world is in a state of imbalance. We have strayed from our old ways, the good ways, from tradition. Don't you remember the world when we were children? The worlds of your parents, your grandparents — a world before You-Know-Who, before even Grindelwald." Umbridge's face lit with delight as discomfort spread through the crowd. "Think about it. When we had a proper pureblood society, there were fewer Dark Lords."
Mafalda was shocked into stunned silence. She inadvertently tried to catch Hassan's eye, but he had tipped his chin up, gazing out over the crowd.
A steady, low murmuring rumbled through the crowd. For a split second, Mafalda's fingers twitched towards her wand, but that was a stupid, useless thought.
Breaking out into a cold, frantic sweat, she turned tail and pushed back through the crowd.
I have to get out.
Ruby thought that she would never, ever get used to Apparating. Somehow, being under the Invisibility Cloak made it worse.
All the same, she stared up at the red lacquer door in front of them, its familiar number '12' and twisted serpent-shaped knocker sparkling in the summer sun. It gave way at a mere touch from Sirius's invisible hand, and they all scrambled into the darkness.
Sirius waved his wand, and at the gesture, the gas lamps lining the hallway glowed with an anaemic light. It was just as dirty and derelict as she remembered.
To her right, Harry was surveying his unfamiliar surroundings, nose wrinkling slightly at the mouldy aroma emanating from the carpet.
Do wizards have anything like carpet cleaners? Ruby wondered vaguely.
"Here, I'll send those upstairs." With another wave of Sirius's wand, their trunks zoomed off into the darkness, and presumably up the once-grand staircase.
Unexpectedly, Sirius pushed open a side door that she'd never noticed.
"Lumos," Ruby whispered, holding her wand aloft. The entry led to a steep, narrow set of stone stairs, again seemingly leading into an abyss.
"Go on, after you," said Sirius impatiently, so she started down the stairs, Harry following. The door shut behind them as they descended into the darkness.
As they did, voices began floating towards them, growing louder and louder. A faint, warm glow emanated from the bottom of the stairs.
Ruby continued down the last step, finding herself in a cavernous room with rough stone walls. The glow had come from a large fire at the opposite end of the kitchen, the walls lined with heavy black pots and pans. A large, roughly hewn table stood in the very middle of the room.
"Wotcher, Ruby!"
It took her a few seconds to recognise the witch perched on the table — after all, she did look markedly different, especially without her Auror uniform. Her hair was a shade of impossibly neon green, and her face was partially shadowed, but the mischievous expression was unmistakable.
"Tonks!"
"The one and only." She grinned and jumped lightly off of her perch. "Ooh, and you must be Harry."
"I'm here, too," drawled a tall, red-headed witch lingering in front of the fireplace. "Andromeda and Moody decided it would be best if they let you settle in first before the entirety of the Order descended on you."
Mafalda cocked her head to the side, regarding Sirius suspiciously. If he had noticed, he didn't acknowledge it, instead putting his hands in his pockets and saying:
"Letting us get all the hard work of cleaning done, are they?"
"Something like that," said Mafalda. "It is an absolute tip in here, as my mother would say."
Last of all, Sirius and Tonks nodded awkwardly at each other.
"How's Andy?"
"Good — Mum's good — busy."
With a jolt, Ruby remembered that Tonks was Sirius's niece. As if sensing the awkwardness of the situation, Mafalda ushered Harry and Ruby down to the other end of the table, which was laden with overfilled plastic bags.
"I thought it'd draw a little less suspicion if we went shopping in Muggle London rather than Diagon Alley," Mafalda explained, levitating a bag of oranges into the icebox. "But for a half-blood, Tonks really draws attention to herself."
"Really," Harry said in a slightly jaded tone, helping himself to a stick of gum.
Ruby could imagine what he was thinking. "Could we help you get supplies next time?"
"Moody says no," said Mafalda sharply.
"But the Dementor attacks have stopped," Harry pressed.
At that, Mafalda gave him a stern, fearsome glare, permanently shutting them both of them up. The twins resigned themselves to helping Mafalda unpack.
"Tonks and I already gave the kitchen a once-over, but neither of us is very good at household spells. … I don't suppose I can trust either of you with a knife?"
Ruby held out her hand, and Mafalda started, her jaw dropping open.
Oops. I forgot.
Though her hands had finally healed, no longer sore and flaking, but her palms had been permanently stained blood red.
It was a small piece to pay for her life and her sanity, Ruby supposed, but an awful reminder of that night in the dungeon, of Mordred's grip pulling painfully on her hair, of being forced to See.
"Never mind," muttered Ruby, putting her hands in her pockets.
"I won't ask."
Just then, Sirius sauntered up, Tonks at his heels.
"Shall we make dinner? The kids are probably hungry."
That made Ruby sit up straight; beside her, Harry had stopped chewing gum all of a sudden. They were both almost fifteen, yet Ruby couldn't remember ever being casually referred to as 'kids.' In fact, the thought left a weird, uncomfortable lump in her throat — probably, she imagined, because it sounded like something a parent might say.
"Sounds sensible," said Mafalda. She waved her wand at the kitchen knife, as if expecting something to happen, but it didn't budge. "Strange. When Aunt Molly does it, it always works."
Harry made an exasperated noise, snatched up the knife, and began deftly peeling a potato.
"Well," said Tonks. "That's sorted."
While Harry and Ruby had settled down to chop vegetables, the others had begun to talk in low tones by the sink. They weren't doing a good job of whispering because Ruby could tell that they were talking about Umbridge being appointed Minister and how that had correlated so neatly with the apparent end to the Dementor attacks. No one had seen one for weeks. According to Mafalda, Umbridge was in Voldemort's pocket anyway, and in her opinion, the whole matter had been a plot to manoeuvre her into power, but Sirius said there were always multiple reasons when it came to Voldemort.
Harry seemed to have descended into one of his infamous moods, storming up past her to snatch a pot down from its hook.
"Aguamenti." A steady stream of water poured into the pot.
Sirius broke off from his conversation to announce: "I taught him that!" and ruffle Harry's already unkempt hair for good measure, eliciting a grimace from the latter. Tonks waved her wand at a skillet, and to Ruby's misfortune, started sautéing onions, and then everyone pitched in to help, the conversation about Umbridge and the Dementors forgotten for now.
Ruby wished they would carry on with talking once it was in the oven, but no-one could be goaded into it, instead waxing poetic about what needed to be done in the house. Apparently, there was a Boggart in the study, and several doxies had taken up residence in the bedrooms, not to mention the cleaning.
"Where is that miserable elf," Sirius groused.
"Hiding, likely," said Mafalda. "I think he spies on us."
As if Mafalda's words had somehow summoned him, with a pop like fireworks going off, a very old and malevolent-looking house-elf appeared, glowering at Sirius with grey, watery eyes.
"I see Master has returned," said Kreacher sardonically. "Master's dirty blood traitor friends were here first— "
"Oh, dinner's burning," said Tonks, as if to distract from the situation at hand.
"Not gotten round to much cleaning, have you?" asked Sirius.
"Kreacher is cleaning," the house-elf insisted with wounded dignity. "Kreacher lives to serve the noble house of Black—"
"—and it's getting blacker every day; it's filthy," said Sirius, without a moment's hesitance. He got up with uncharacteristic awkwardness, and walked stiffly over to help Tonks.
Kreacher shot Sirius a nasty glare, but something else quickly turned his attention. He had his large, watery eyes fixed on Harry, glowering at him with an air of mild dislike and great affront.
Harry glowered back.
"Harry Potter, this one is. Kreacher can see the scar, so it must be true. They say he stopped the Dark Lord, Kreacher wonders how a filthy little boy like him could have managed it."
"That's enough," Sirius barked, brandishing his cane threateningly. "Back to your hidey-hole, Kreacher!"
Kreacher threw Sirius one last long look of loathing, but turned and shuffled up the stairs.
There was a large (and quickly flattening under its own weight) portion of shepherd's pie for everyone. Dinner itself was rather quiet, as tiredness began to set in, with smatterings of a discussion of how to proceed with the cleaning. The Boggart and doxies would have to be taken care of immediately — Sirius had offered to deal with the Boggart and Tonks and Mafalda with the doxies, whereas Harry and Ruby were told to 'very carefully' declutter the drawing room. Once the dishes were collected, Ruby felt her eyelids start to droop.
After much trial and error, Tonks figured out the self-washing charm (at least somewhat; water kept sloshing onto the floor), and Sirius beckoned them back up the stairs. It was clearly a great deal of exertion for him, and with a sort of shudder, Ruby thought that the curse damage was unlikely to heal on its own. They went up the house-elf-head-lined stairs, through the mould-scented foyer, and then finally down a dark hallway.
"This is yours," said Sirius, pushing open a door and beckoning Ruby inside the room.
Unlike the rest of the house, it looked only lightly cobwebbed. Though the wallpaper was yellowing, it could still pass for off-white, with little pale gold swirls. There was a large bay window that looked out onto the street, which was now dark blue with twilight. There was a bed with a yellowing lace skirt and a matching armoire and vanity, the latter of which had a vase filled with dried flowers. Her trunk was already propped against the wall.
"This was where Narcissa would stay," said Sirius. "It's not the best guest room, but many of the others had… problems."
"It's amazing," said Ruby, who'd never had her own room before.
"Well — I'll let you settle in. Long day of cleaning tomorrow. Harry's in the room opposite, and I'm down the hall."
Once the door had shut behind Sirius, the sound of uneven tapping receding down the hallway, Ruby sunk down onto the squishy mattress and sighed. She stared down at her red palms, and bile rose in her throat. Curling her fingers in, she glanced over her shoulder at her reflection in the spotty mirror above the vanity. Even from here, she could see the redness around her eyes, as if she'd just been crying or rubbing her eyes.
Osculum divinitatis. It's a legend from back when it wasn't uncommon to use wizards or witches under the age of majority as scrying mediums; it was said that it was impossible to hold that much information in your body and remain unscathed, that the power would burn you.
All of a sudden, she remembered the crystal ball catching fire in her Divination final, and laughed, and then the laughter turned into sobbing.
Something warm and soft brushed her arm — and Ruby lifted her head to see Hephaestus beside her, as if he had sensed her distress. She ran her hand over the cat's warm, fluffy head, and hiccuped. The tears ran down her cheeks, dripping off of her face.
If she could just forget those terrible, ice cold eyes. Maybe someone could do a Memory Charm on her, so she wouldn't have to remember.
Just then, someone knocked on the door. Ruby hastily rubbed the tears off of her face, cleared her throat, and said: "Come in!"
The door slowly creaked open; it was Harry, holding his lit wand aloft with a sheepish expression.
"I thought I heard crying."
"Well," said Ruby, setting Hephaestus on the floor, "you didn't."
Harry made a face, but didn't recede from the doorway. Instead, he let the door creak shut behind him, trudged over to the bed, and sat down heavily. The springs gave way with a low, plaintive groan.
For a second, it seemed as if he were about to say something, but he shut his mouth again. Then, he turned to her, all in a rush, and said:
"You have to tell me what happened after Mordred Stunned me."
"No!" Ruby choked out, whirling around, biting down hard on her bottom lip to stop the tears from falling. "I don't!"
"I know he made you scry something—"
"You don't know anything."
Harry tried but he clearly couldn't suppress the look of hurt on his face, and Ruby instantly felt guilty. She stared determinedly down at the patch of floor between her feet.
They sat there in silence for a while.
And then, the mattress dipped again as Harry got to his feet, said "Goodnight" crossly, and the door slammed shut behind him.
Ruby stared at the thin crack of light under the door. And then, she opened her trunk and reached for one of the small vials of Dreamless Sleep Potion that Madam Pomfrey had given her.
Three quick, tentative knocks.
Voldemort knew whom they belonged to. He had seen Severus Snape coming up the drive from the very highest room in Malfoy Manor.
"Come in… Severus."
The door was thrust open, and before it, very nearly trembling, stood Severus Snape.
"My Lord, I—"
"Sit," Voldemort interrupted, his voice betraying no emotion.
He fears each breath will be his last, thought Voldemort as Snape did as instructed.
He need not worry if he has been true.
"So you have come back to me," said Voldemort, once Snape was seated.
Snape looked up, his lank hair hanging on either side of his miserable face. "I could not go to you, My Lord. Dumbledore would have been suspicious—"
"—And you still wish to spy for me, to spy on the Order of the Phoenix, and more importantly, Dumbledore?" Voldemort leaned forward, his red eyes widening.
"I do," said Snape unflinchingly. His expression, his manner, his mind — they all were the image of the same single-minded, transparent dedication Lord Voldemort so admired.
"Have you not developed a fondness for your Headmaster? You have known him for far longer than you knew me."
Lifting his head to look directly into Voldemort's eyes, Snape said: "I swore an oath, My Lord, an oath to you and you only. Now that the Ministry has forced Hogwarts to close for the summer, I may move about freely."
Voldemort regarded him in silence for a long time.
"Good," he said finally. "That is very good, Severus." And then, "What of the boy?"
"Potter," spat Snape with obvious distaste, "is hidden with the Order."
Likely under a Fidelius as well as the blood protection. But that is not the boy I meant. Let us see: will he catch on?
"—And you-know-who has vanished somewhere with Dumbledore."
Now this was strange news — the idea that he would go off anywhere with Dumbledore! But it was good that Severus knew, almost instinctively, that the Horcrux needed to stay between them. Could Severus know of its true nature?
No. The magic was too obscure, the books long banned from even the Restricted Section, the possibility of finding an apparently singular copy of a Dark magic manual too unlikely. Not even Dumbledore could have uncovered its true nature. Dumbledore was, and had always been, a man afraid of his own power.
"What of Dumbledore's intentions with the boy?" asked Voldemort slowly, carefully.
Snape's face twisted in confusion. "It is … difficult to tell. At times he has suggested … drastic measures, but sentimentality stays his hand."
Ah. It is as I had hoped. So, the old man shows his weakness.
"Sentiment is one of the greatest of humanity's vices."
"On that, I agree, My Lord," said Snape. But his manner was not obsequious, one instead, of quiet, knowing understanding.
Voldemort smiled. "It is a good thing you are on our side, Severus. You understand perfectly."
Snape seemed relieved, his posture relaxing.
"Dolores Umbridge becoming Minister… the lack of Dementor sightings in the past four weeks. Would I be correct in drawing a connection?"
Yes. So many of his Death Eaters were tiresomely slow. What a relief to be in intelligent company.
"You would."
"Ah." A pensive look had come over Snape; he tapped a finger to his chin, his brain working behind his eyes. "But she is not the only reason for the Dementors. The general public is terrified. Confused. Betrayed."
"Irrational," Voldemort finished.
"And, My Lord… will you try to remove Dumbledore from Hogwarts again? Umbridge could—"
"No," said Voldemort, bile rising in his throat at the thought of his failure at the Siege of Hogwarts. Grindelwald was contained in Nurmengard. Azkaban, a prison far more impenetrable, was a pit that not even the most loyal of my Death Eaters could escape. But Dumbledore — always Dumbledore — he found his way out, past the considerable amount of Dementors I had left behind. Without him, Hogwarts would have fallen. I would have found a way to dispose of Harry Potter. The prophecy would be fulfilled.
The path is clear. He has interfered for far too long. He has poisoned my endeavours, destroyed my Horcrux, and shielded too many from their day of judgement.
Albus Dumbledore cannot be allowed to live.
The two brass bells hung over the door jingled as it swung open, clattering loudly against the wall. Inside, the shop was nearly pitch-dark. The windows were boarded up haphazardly, as if the owner had left in a hurry. The normally crowded shelves were bare, and a thin film of dust had collected on them.
Dumbledore threw back his hood and ran a finger through it, rubbing them together as if to test something.
"Ollivander!" he called, but the shop rang emptily around him. "Ollivander!"
"Professor Dumbledore," said Tee, still blanketed by his cloak, "I don't think he's in."
If Dumbledore had heard him, it was not evident.
Abandoning the shelves, he walked deeper into the recesses of the shop, pushing aside a curtain cordoning off the back of the shop. This room was far more dusty, causing Tee to sneeze. While he was incapacitated, Dumbledore continued his explorations.
"Ah-ha."
Tee looked up to see Dumbledore waving his wand at one of the drawers. It shot open, the false bottom tumbling out. Both wizards leaned forward. Staring down at the drawer, to Tee's surprise, the secret compartment held a ten foot deep compartment, which seemed to lead into a small room. A wizened old man with tufts of white hair peered up at them through his large, cloudy spectacles.
"Shall I help you up?" asked Dumbledore, peering into the drawer.
"No, that's quite all right," said Ollivander, a thin hand wrapping around the lip of the drawer as he clambered out, leaping down surprisingly lightly for such an old man. "Dangerous times, Professor Dumbledore, one can never be too careful. If I may ask, how did you suspect…"
Dumbledore smiled graciously, eyes twinkling. "Not a shabby job, I must say. However, my dear Garrick, Death Eaters would really not be quite so neat."
At that, Ollivander looked sheepish.
"I am afraid I must trouble you for a favour." Dumbledore gestured towards Tee. "This young man is in need of a wand. The one he has is… borrowed."
Tee flinched as Ollivander's gaze turned to him, regarding him curiously. So long ago, Ollivander had put a wand in Tee's hand and told him he was destined for greatness, that he would make his own fate. What would he say now?
"Your cloak, Tom," said Dumbledore gently, and it was with great reluctance that he revealed his face.
For his part, Ollivander did not seem to recognise him, surging forward instead with a look of curiosity.
"Ah, let me see," said Ollivander, now almost unbearably close. He shut his eyes and sighed deeply, smiling. "Yes, I remember this wand. I remember the very day I sold it. Thirteen-and-a-half inches long, slightly yielding, yew wood, with…"
His voice trailed off.
"A phoenix-feather core," he finished, barely louder than a whisper.
Oliivander's expression contorted with rage and fear.
"Get out of my shop!" he shouted, shaking his own wand at the hooded figure. "Begone! Whatever it is, I won't tell you — I'd rather die—"
Tee stood rooted to the floor, unable to move.
"He will not harm you, Garrick! Be calm—" Dumbledore strode towards Ollivander, resting a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
Alu. The charm word was on the tip of his tongue.
But Dumbledore Summoned a bottle of brandy and two glasses from one of the cupboards, conjured two chairs and a table, and in the blink of an eye, both were seated. Ollivander sipped from the glass in his hand, the colour slowly returning to his face. Tee shrugged off his cloak and leaned against the cabinet, watching silently.
"Am I correct, Dumbledore," said Ollivander, studying the amber liquid in his glass. "Is it him?"
Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Yes and no. It is complicated, to say the least. Tom has promised to help me, and he is in need of a wand in order to do so to the best of his abilities."
Ollivander glanced shakily over his shoulder and blanched again.
If only he knew what the job is, thought Tee, with a twinge of amusement.
With what seemed a herculean effort, Ollivander said: "Well — Dumbledore — if I must. It is a strange request — it is strange that he stands there, looking as I imagine he did fifty years ago — these are strange times indeed."
"I would be most grateful."
"Just a moment," Ollivander muttered, and then he clambered into the drawer, leaving Dumbledore and Tee alone.
Is this a good idea? wondered Tee. Lockhart's wand is fine.
But that was a lie. After all, Ollivander had said that a wand of restrained power would not do. He missed the phoenix feather singing under his fingers, the yew wand's magic resonating with his own. Sometimes, the cherry wand felt leaden in his hand; he might as well be forcing the magic through an ordinary stick.
Unfortunately, Dumbledore was right to bring him here.
Ollivander re-emerged with a stack of boxes, placing them in a messy pile on the counter.
"H-Hawthorn and unicorn hair, ten inches."
Dumbledore, and particularly Ollivander, watched with quiet interest as Tee gave it a tentative flick. Ollivander's abandoned glass rose shakily and then clattered down unimpressively back onto the table.
"Oh," said Ollivander, a look of familiarity, interest, and horror spreading over his face. Yes, no wands of restrained power. I recall. Here—this one I have yet to find a match for—twelve and a half inches, silver lime and dragon heartstring."
Tee waved it, and Dumbledore's lights flicked out. Once they had been relit, he noticed that Ollivander looked crestfallen.
"I had thought… never mind. A wizard of your power may produce passable results with any wand, but a true match…"
Time oozed by as Ollivander had Tee try wand after wand, even returning to his hiding place to retrieve another batch.
"Curious."
"Strange."
"How irritating."
"Most contradictory."
"This ought to have fit."
"Shall we ever find it? I am not certain there is a wand made for you, whatever you are."
Finally, hours later, Ollivander disappeared into his hiding place for a remarkably long time. Tee was beginning to think that he and Dumbledore had been abandoned when Ollivander hopped out of the drawer, bearing an ancient, dusty box.
"I believe I've got it," he said breathlessly. "Ailm — or Scots pine, sister of yew, and phoenix feather, thirteen inches, surprisingly flexible."
He had all but given up at that point, despite Ollivander's endorsement. Tee reached for it, and the touch was like an electric shock burning through his blood. He reached out for it again; this time, his fingers wrapped around it. The weight felt reminiscent of his own wand, like it belonged in his hand, but it felt, all the same, different.
And then, the wand sang with a long, clear note, the tip igniting with a pure white flame.
"Ah…" Ollivander seemed to glitter with joy, and Tee could not help but admire his passion for his craft. "A wand of loners and individuals, of those who will walk their own path and adapt to the changing of times. The beginning of things approaches; it is a good omen. Have you recently undergone a transformation? I think you are about to discover a great deal of inner strength." Some bitterness came into his voice. "No, do not try to pay me, Dumbledore. My charge is that he uses it better than he did his last."
The chastisement stung, and Tee held back a sneer.
"You will keep this between us, Garrick?" asked Dumbledore.
Ollivander scoffed. "Of course. Who would believe me?"
After thanking the wandmaker, Dumbledore and Tee exited the shop, drawing their cloaks back over their heads. The loose crowd, so different from the vibrant, bustling throng that Tee remembered, was cold and quiet. Ollivander's was not the only shop that had been boarded up, some having clearly fled the Dementor scourge. Instead, several opportunists had set up stalls, shilling useless trinkets as 'protective amulets' and 'Dementor-repelling artefacts.'
"How can anyone be stupid enough to be taken in by them?" Tee burst out, unable to help himself as one of the sellers haggled with a tired-looking witch for some clumsy-painted, and clearly not genuine, nazars.
"They are desperate," said Dumbledore. "For nearly two long years, the threat of the Dementors has hung over them, while we have been safely cloistered in Hogwarts."
Tee bit back a retort. Then, he thought of the Dementors in the library, the Dementors at the Siege of Hogwarts, the cold, creeping, spirit-breaking hopelessness of their mere presence. He did know what desperation did to the mind. It was the very reason he was here.
"Dementors haven't been sighted for weeks," said Tee.
Dumbledore smiled wryly. "Now, Tom, you do not really think it is all over. Do you know yourself so little?"
Is that why he keeps me alive? As something to measure his decisions by?
Out loud, he said: "Clearly, they're not needed anymore. Everyone's already afraid."
After all, he knew the feelings. Fear travels in the blood. Fear cleaves to the flesh. Fear claws at the stomach. Fear mates with the bone. Fear lives in the nerves.
"A mind weakened by fear is ready to accept whatever it is told," said Dumbledore, gliding serenely. "I am curious what Voldemort's message will be."
Tee watched a child stare longingly at a glossy broom in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, only to be unceremoniously pulled away with an admonishment.
"Just curious, Professor Dumbledore?"
"Very well, very well. I confess it. I am anxious. Perhaps, even, a little fearful of what the future holds."
Dumbledore had stopped walking, and Tee did too, gazing at the boarded-up shopfront of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. It had clearly once been vibrant and well-cared for, but the pastel displays were now faded and dusty.
"Will you fight him?" asked Tee. "Like you fought Grindelwald?"
Dumbledore's face twisted in discomfort.
"I cannot fight someone who does not want to be found."
"Cannot, or will not?"
"Enough!" Dumbledore whirled around, his expression fierce. "You know as well as I do what stands between him and his death."
"There are more—" Yes, Mordred had suggested.
"Desperation, Tom, desperation. You know that it drives the human mind to the most destructive of places."
And with that, Dumbledore turned on his heel, and Tee followed suit, leaving only empty cobblestones behind.