Outside, November snow was falling. The shop had been closed all day; no point staying open this tim

Outside, November snow was falling. The shop had been closed all day; no point staying open this time of year, there’d be business enough come summer. Ollivander poured his tea and flipped open the Daily Prophet, automatically discarding the outer few pages. Politics, Foreign News, Quidditch, and there. He settled into the chair, pushing his glasses a little further down his nose. Christian Knotts (unicorn hair in oak, pliable, meager seven and a quarter inches) to wed Lilian Simons. Simons, Simons… must be foreign or muggle. No interest. Celebration of the nuptials of Maryellen Flint (unicorn hair in ash, ten and a half inches, unyielding) and Mr. Edvard Hornby (dragon heartstring in willow, precisely twelve inches, resilient), interesting, interesting. No phoenix feather for their offspring, surely. Likely a unicorn hair, isn’t that how these things always go, but nothing too heavy. Cypress? Silver Fir? Or perhaps one of the redwoods, from the Welsh foal in ’46. There were two left, both quite long. And the one accounted for, hadn’t it also gone to a Flint? That blonde child, her name was changed, something with a ‘V’, no children to speak of…. The tea splattered onto the desk as Ollivander lurched quickly forward, holding the page a little closer to his face. In celebration of the engagement of Felicity Louise Goshawk (phoenix feather in elm, thirteen inches, pliant) to Rodrick Bartholomew Carrow (phoenix feather in ebony, eleven and a quarter inches, rigid). So! The niece of the author of the Standard Book of Spells was to marry the pureblood son of an ancient line of dark wizards. Talent to spare and two phoenix feathers—two!—both in hardwood. He pushed off from the table, tea forgotten, and stumbled down to the shop. That North African bird, in hickory or black maple, but both so short. The bird from Glasgow, the green one, exceptional quality, but no, there was only the one wand left, and he wanted so badly to test it on the Flitwick girl, she’d be of age any year now. Not the olive, not any of the poplars. The nine inch rosewood perhaps? A beautiful instrument, yet still too common. He slowed his pace, holding the lantern high above his head and working backward through the shelves. At least a hundred of these wands would choose such a child, given the chance. But this could be a witch or wizard truly capable of greatness, of power. It was not an opportunity to be wasted. Setting his jaw, Ollivander pushed open the door to the workshop and dropped the lantern on the back of the workbench. Immediately his eyes fell on the German yew. An ancient tree, from the Black Forest, harvested at the apex of last year’s floods. Strong, yet lithe. There was enough of it for six wands at least and yet he had been waiting for the right pairing. At first he’d thought dragon heartstring, there were rumors of a Horntail due for harvest this spring, and yet. Ollivander ran his fingers over the grain, testing the density, the weight of it. A phoenix could work, but not just any phoenix. His lips broke into a crooked smile. The Norwegian bird, he had only ever managed the one feather, but hadn’t it once resided in Dumbledore’s own wand? It would be a bit of travel, and he certainly wasn’t owed any more favors, but he had time enough to try his luck. Eleven years at least. Ollivander whistled quietly to himself as he slowly climbed the steps back to his living quarters. It wasn’t an accident that Britain had seen most of the greatest wizards, both good and evil, of the century. The wand chooses the wizard. But Ollivander–Ollivander makes the wand.I’m always thrilled when a submission from littleredspaces shows up in my messages box. Their pieces are the perfect combination of picture, tone and subject and I hope to be able to post many, MANY more pieces from them! -- source link
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