Chapter Five : Phoenix Feather
„That one is Ollivander’s. They sell wands. Do you know what a wand is?“
Tom didn’t answer but looked questioningly at Professor O’Hare. She showed him her own wand, a nearly white twelve inches birch and unicorn hair.
“Wizards use wands to do magic. Every wizard has one. You needn’t be scared, it’s quite easy. Mr Ollivander will take your measures and then you just have to try them out.”
They entered the dusty, undecorated store, the smallest and gloomiest in Diagon Alley. Shelves upon shelves with little boxes. And Tom could it feel from inside those boxes: a quiet tickle, like a whispering breeze, electrifying.
“Welcome to Ollivander’s, Maker of fine Wands,” a soft voice behind them suddenly said. Tom jumped and fought the urge to run. An old man with greying hair and eyes that seemed to glow with soft silver in the gloom looked down at him. Tom felt like he was staring at the full moon, transfixed, hypnotised. Then it was over and the man walked past him to fetch something.
“Sit down here.” His measures were taken in silence, and after a while the deputy headmistress said quietly to the boy : “I’ll fetch you in half an hour, I’ll just get your books and all, we don’t have the whole day. Be nice.”
Tom nodded, but she was already gone. Now he was alone with the strange man.
“Which is your wand hand?” Tom shook his head, scared.
“With which hand to you write, then?” The boy held out his left hand. He was trained to write with his right one, but it felt more comfortable to write with the left one. The wand maker nodded.
“Alright. Try this one “ unicorn hair, fourteen inches, ash-tree. You’ll be a tall one.”
He took the long wand, waving it anxiously. And angry crackle issued, throwing white sparks. Ollivander quickly took it away, putting it back to the shelves. He was actually glad that the boy couldn’t see his face right now. He was nervous. Last time he had met a wizard with such quantities of magic inside him to actually destroy a wand by just touching it ... had been more than half a century ago ...
“Well ... not a unicorn person, then. You see, the core of a wand says much about your personality. But it’s not an obvious thing. If you’re an unicorn person, that could mean that you’re nice and soft-hearted, it could also mean strong white magic, it could also mean you’re naive, or even arrogant. It also depends on the wood it is combined with. Try dragon-heartstring. And ... pine-tree.”
That was a cheap wand “ no problem if it was destroyed. Which it was. It started to sizzle and smoke. Ollivander quietly put it away with the other one. Right, he told himself. Let’s try the stronger ones.
“I’ll go fetch some others.” He went upstairs taking out a few special ones. In front of one box he stopped, contemplating a second, then he took it, too. When he returned, the boy had turned his back to him, looking out of the window. He was small, scrawny, looked poor. A nervous set to his shoulders, always ready for defence, for drawing back into himself. Dark hair, and a face that would have been nice to look at if it hadn’t been twisted by fear and a very low self-esteem. And yet, behind that lingered the uncontrolled flare of magic. No harmony. No discipline. Suddenly, the boy seemed to sense his presence and turned around, looking at the wand maker. Ollivander might have been frightened, had he be the kind of person to put up a fright.
Dragon-heartstring, he thought. 13 ¼ inches, aspen wood. A powerful wand, not easily to control. But once it is mastered it will be very reliable.
Unicorn mane. 13 inches, pliable hazelnut tree. A soft one, good for someone who’s frightened of magic. No spectacular results, but very strong capacity for harmony. It would do him good. But the wand would have to choose him ... and it won’t.
So. The phoenix. Phoenix tail feather, yew, 13 ½ inches. Extremely powerful, the right match for him. He’s a yew person ... but I’d never give him Phoenix ... except from this one bird. He donated only one feather, in exchange for ...
Ollivander’s hand was shaking as he unwrapped the wand he had created one frantic Halloween night. The night of the dead souls. A phoenix who belonged to a Dark Wizard. Said wizard had bargained with him, and in exchange for what he got from Ollivander, he gave him a rare thing : a tail feather from a phoenix who hadn't yet donated a single feather. It was important not to use the same donators to often, for it would create too many priori incantatem effects. Ollivander should have been wary of the gift. But something had urged him to create this wand...
He wondered for a moment what might have become of the dark wizard and his bird.
Hadn’t he promised himself to never sell this wand? Shouldn’t he have destroyed it, long ago?
“Try this one, Mr Riddle.”
***
Note: Yes, a lot of this chapter may sound cryptic. I'm aware that Fawkes is currently owned by Dumbledore and that he was the one who donated the feathers. It hints at things yet to be revealed.