Chapter Eight : Hermione's Wand
„Dear Miss Granger,
thank you very much for your thoughtful warning. I’m glad to be able to inform you that further damage could be averted. Mr Potter is safe within our care.
Yours sincerely,
A.P.W.B.D.”
Hermione looked at the letter and couldn’t tell apart the feelings she had : gratitude that Harry was safe, pride because of the answer she had received from Dumbledore but also worry about Harry. What was ‘safe within our care’? Grimmauld Place? Hogwarts? The Burrow? Somewhere else?
The next day, Hermione took the train to London. She knew that it was somewhat risky, but everything was risky these days and she had decided that being intimidated was the wrong thing. She was going to do some shopping in Diagon Alley for Harry’s birthday and she would look for some books. Because now that she knew about the prophecy, she wanted to know more. And there were other things to know, other things to do.
She got there without problems. She entered through the Leaky Cauldron and no one noticed more than a young witch. It was common for young wizards and witches to wear muggle clothing, and even if it hadn’t been, Hermione wouldn’t have tried to mask the fact that she was muggleborn. It wasn’t so much a matter of actual pride, as some kind of defiance and stubbornness.
Diagon Alley was much less crowded at the beginning of the summer break than it was at the end of it, but the atmosphere was tense and nervous. People were looking strangely at each other, with a mix of fear and suspicion, they were talking with hushed voices or too loud and fast. Everything felt awkward, jangled, disrupted.
Hermione’s first stop was Gringotts. The goblins had put a huge troll by the door in addition to their usually more subtle security measures. While she waited in the queue, she listened to the wizards and witches around her. In front of her, a witch with a mint green petticoat and a golden monkey on a leash was waiting.
“Why is this taking so long?”, she demanded with a shrill voice. “I’ll be standing here until tonight and a sensible witch wouldn’t be out late in these times!” As if on cue, the little monkey started to jump up and down on her shoulder, swishing his long golden tail like a leash.
“I think they are having problems with giving out the money,” an Indian gentleman answered politely. “Too many people are trying to leave Britain and redraw their money. Some are even closing their accounts.”
“Ha! Morons, all of them! Where are they hoping to be safe, anyway?” A stringy wizard behind Hermione interjected in a dark voice. The Indian wizard turned around and eyed him above Hermione’s head. He was about Sirius’ age.
“People like you are responsible for You-know-who gaining all that power,” the Indian man said coldly. “You and those who run away like cowards.”
“Cowards!” The petticoat witch called out in a tremulous voice. “Calling us cowards, did you hear her? I want to see you, when You-know-who comes to get your children ...!”.
But then it was her turn at the counter, and soon it was Hermione’s. She changed a small amount of her money into wizard currency, then she left Gringotts.
Her next station was Flourish and Blotts. The store was relatively empty, the only other two customers where searching the shelves with books about Defence and Security. The dusty air was dry, hot and stale. The manager was restocking shelves, his face was red and beads of sweat shone on his forehead. When he spotted the girl watching him, he started ranting.
“Look, that!” He waved a grey and serious looking book in front of her face. “The classics are coming back!”
‘To be or not to be : the fine art of warding your house,’ the title read.
“I almost threw them away “ but it seems they’re getting a renaissance now! You can say what you want, but war sells.” Hermione scanned the other titles.
‘Defence 101 “ a hundred and one spells and counter-hexes.’
‘The roots of terror. Analysis of the Dark Arts.’
‘Dark Wizards through the Ages. The sordid details.’
The manager caught her disapproving frown and laughed. “Not the most useful ones, I guess. But they hit a nerve. What are you looking for?”
“Books on prophecies or divination. But serious ones, please.”
“A school assignment, huh? Well, look over there, behind that shelf, there’s a couple of them.”
Hermione went to where he had shown her and started looking through the books. Most were rather superficial or too specific for her purposes. She was looking for a book that told her not how to see into the future or how to interpret predictions, but she wanted to know how it worked. How someone could really see the future. Her scientific reason told her that you could not. The future wasn’t determinated. But still, there were real prophecies.
What Hermione needed to know was : is there a fate? Of course, books on divination implied that there was, indeed, something like fate. But she needed an explanation, a rational foundation, not esoterical babble. Finally, she gave up. There were no serious books on divination. She was right to hate the subject.
“Didn’t find anything?” the shop manager asked. “Should I help you?”
“No, thanks. But do you have books on ... um ... the ministry?”
“The ministry of magic? Like ... a history? Of course!”
“No, not a history. Something about its tasks, about the Departments.”
The manager raised a brow but led her to another shelf. He picked out several books and gave them to her. None contained a chapter about the Department of Mysteries. Just like in the Hogwarts library. Hermione decided to just ask him.
“I’m looking for one Department in particular,” she explained. “The Department of Mysteries.”
“Mysteries? There is no Department like that.”
“There is, I’m sure. I’ve been there.”
He laughed and turned away, to do something else. Hermione stared at the books. She was frustrated. A minute later she stormed out of the bookstore without buying anything “ a highly unusual thing “ and turned towards her last stop, the Apothecary. She was going to restock her potions supplies and buy some extras, for she was planning some advanced potion brewing during her holiday.
The shop windows were as always crammed with hundred of samples, beetles, roots, claws and frog legs, hides and pulverised stones, leaves and colourful liquids in filigrane bottles. She admired them for a second and then opened the door, which caused a jingle-jangle of little bells. But before she could even make a step inside, the shop manager shot out of a dark corner and stopped her. He was a gaunt and tall man with a lined but not too old face. Looming over her with a sour expression, he asked :
“Are you a witch?” The question was so completely hilarious that Hermione needed a moment to answer it.
“Of course I am. But ““
“Are your parents wizards?” Some people in the shop were looking up curiously, some were looking away as if ashamed.
“No, they aren’t,” Hermione answered suspiciously. “But what’s the ma ““
“Can’t you read!” the manager bellowed in a harassed voice. “No muggles. No mudbloods.” He hit a square sign at the door with his index finger several times, each time more aggressively. Hermione’s eyes widened and she felt the blood drain from her face in cold fury.
“You don’t dare,” she hissed at the Apothecary. “You insolent .. p-p-pretentious ..!” But before she could manage to finish her insult, the door was already shut in front of her face, and the shop owner and customers were continuing their business. She was still shaking from unconsummated fury, when she felt a small, cold hand being placed on her shoulder. A shiver ran down her backside. Her fury mutated into electrifying fright.
She turned, and looked at an old wizard, in black robes which once must have been expensive but where dusty and old-fashioned now. He was rather short, so that their gazes met directly, and Hermione was startled by a pair of perfectly calm but stunning silvery eyes gazing at her.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “It’s of no use.” Then she recognised him. It was Mr Ollivander, the wand maker. Hermione hadn’t seen him since she had got her first wand almost six years ago and it was a rather blurred memory.
“But how can they do that?” she asked meekly. “Isn’t it illegal to ““ she gestured at the abominable sign “ “do things like that?”
“Even if it was, they’d still be afraid of the Dark Lord’s influence,” Ollivander answered. It was strange, he spoke completely emotionless and also his feature betrayed no feelings, yet Hermione felt he was on her side. He turned away from the Apothecary and quickly walked down Diagon Alley. It was getting late, and he walked in the opposite direction Hermione wanted to take, but she followed him nevertheless.
“Ash, 10 3/4 inches, dragon’s heartstring. Pliable and versatile. A rather old one, I remember selling it “ six years ago,” he told her without a shadow of doubt in that calm voice of his. Hermione was amazed, this was exactly her wand.
They stopped outside the very small shop that was Ollivander’s. It looked exactly the same as always. Perhaps it hadn’t changed for a hundred years. “May I see it?” Ollivander inquired. Hermione needed a second to understand and then quickly retrieved her wand “ she always had it with her, even though she wasn’t yet allowed to use it during summer break “ and gave it to the old wizard.
He examined it with sharp and keen eyes, stroking the wood, swishing it in the air once or twice. “Very nice,” he murmured. “You kept it extremely well. You’re Harry Potter’s age, aren’t you?”
“I’m his year,” she said cautiously. He gave back her wand and she put it away.
“I think I remember Dumbledore talking about you,” he stated and entered his shop. She followed him, not knowing exactly why. Maybe simply because he hadn’t ended the conversation, and certainly because she was dead curious now.
“You know Professor Dumbledore?” Did Professor Dumbledore really talk about her? She was so excited.
“Ever since he bought his first wand. 1851 ““ Ollivander stopped, as if he would have continued to rattle down the wand specifics of Dumbledore, but didn’t want to. The shop was completely empty but for the counter and a spindly chair, and the hundreds of shelves with dusty boxes looked untouched. The twilight drifting into the room through dirty windows made it look like a very old attic on a late summer afternoon.
“You wanted to buy potions supplies? I might help you out with some things. Follow me.” He opened a door that blended in with all the dust and old wood so well that Hermione hadn’t noticed it before and led her up a wooden staircase to the first floor. It was quite amazing in contrast to the store : except a small dark chamber, everything was alighted by a window that made up half of the ceiling. It looked like the atelier of an artist. There were tables and more shelves, but these weren’t dusty. They were untidy, though, as if somebody was constantly working on them. Small silver and pewter kettles with foreign materials stood there, and satchels and bags, and extremely precious wooden boxes which contained each a single feather or a number of silver hairs or the powerful heartstrings of dragons.
There were tools that reminded Hermione of a muggle joiner and small brushes, pots with lacquer, scales and completely foreign devices. She understood that the making of wands was a complicated and delicate art, and it intrigued her. She would have loved to ask a million of questions, but Ollivander opened a huge cabinet for her that ranged from the floor to the ceiling and was filled with potions ingredients, nearly as complete as Professor Snape’s own. She was a little embarrassed to take something.
“Thank you very much, Sir, but I really can’t ““
“In the old days, refusing a gift was considered a grave insult,” Ollivander informed her with an impassive face but a sly voice. She sighed and quickly took the most necessary things. He had managed to completely embarrass her by now.
But he was very kind, even though he was so strange. Slowly, she was feeling less uncomfortable in his presence. A very small bit he reminded her of Professor Lupin, who had been strange and mysterious, had kept secrets from them, but in the end had proven as a kind and loyal friend. Also, Hermione wondered whether Ollivander, if he was a friend of Dumbledore’s, might be in the Order, too.
“Do you create all these wands by your own?” she asked instead.
“The hair of unicorn is gathered by virgin elf maidens, the Phoenix feathers are gracefully donated by their owners, the Dragon’s are slain in honourable and perilous fight by great and adventurous warlocks. The wood is cut by shamans and wise people from all over the world, the lacquers are brewed by potion masters from far away. I only put them together in the right way.” His voice let no doubt that ‘putting them together in the right way’ was far more difficult that slaying dragons and everything else. Hermione, knowing a thing about magic, believed him entirely.
“Each year, only a handful of wands are completed. They are the most powerful, the most essential tool of a wizard. In fact, they are the key to magic.” Hermione hoped she understood.
“The wand channels the magic of its owner, doesn’t it?” She supplied eagerly, trying to show her understanding. “Is that why every wizard needs a different wand, because their magic is different?”
Ollivander’s moon-like eyes kind of glimmered for a moment. A ghost of a smile appeared on his usually emotionless face.
“You might put it like that.” Ollivander closed the cabinet, slipping the little golden key back into his robes and Hermione put the ingredients she had taken into her bag.
“So, are you interested in potions?” the wizened wizard asked. His voice was very soft, yet penetrating in a barely noticeable way, like the sound of a breeze through silvery aspen leaves. Hermione felt like his question was important.
“Amongst other things, Sir” she replied. It was true, potions were interesting, even thought the lessons were mostly unpleasant. But there were so many fascinating subjects.
“How about Arithmancy? Magical Theory? Transfiguration, charms? I reckon you’re good at those, Miss Granger?”
“ You know my name?” Hermione gasped.
“People say I have a formidable memory.” While they talked, Ollivander was always busy, putting boxes onto shelves, cleaning tables, closing lids, opening others. It appeared to Hermione that he was cleaning up, closing things away, like he was preparing an extended leave from the store. Then he stopped, turning to look at her, and his eyes sent shivers over her arms. They weren’t human.
“The wand chooses the wizard,” Ollivander said in an almost formulaic way. “Normally, one wand chooses one wizard. Keeping a wand for your children, inheriting a wand “ that is a big mistake. Our magical abilities don’t only run in the blood. It’s the soul which is much more important. That is why I never believed in a essential difference between purebloods, half-bloods and muggleborn wizards. But very rarely it happens that a wand chooses a second owner. If a wand owner has no heirs, the wands go back to me, and if they’re still intact, I keep them, because they might choose a second owner. Yours is one of those.”
Hermione blinked. She felt that she was being told something very revealing about herself, as if she was being prophesied a fate.
“Your wand has been created by one of my ancestors, who created it for himself. He was a wand maker like me. Talented wand makers are very rare. The Ollivander family has kept this tradition for more than a thousand years, and often talented wand maker would be adopted so the trade would continue to run in the family. It is hard to find those rare talents, also because few wizards even consider being a wand maker an option. I don’t have any children, and I won’t have any. I’m the last Ollivander, and I’m nearly two-hundred years old. When I saw the wand of a wand maker choose you, I felt that this might be an indication about your talents. And I was delighted to hear from my friend that you were a promising witch indeed.”
Hermione felt that this was too much to grasp. What was Ollivander expecting from her? That she would agree, right here and now, to become his successor? But she couldn’t. Of course, the work of a wand-maker seemed fascinating, but it wasn’t what she aspired. It was too solitary, too insignificant for society. She wanted to help people with her work, and to work with people.
But Ollivander wasn’t finished.
“You’re strongly magical, and also intelligent. You remind me of the young Albus Dumbledore, although he was even more exceptionally talented. But fancy spells and charms isn’t what a wand maker needs. A wand maker needs intuition, and a innate comprehension of magic. And I’m not sure whether you possess that. You seem to think a lot, but rational thinking would be an obstacle to any wand maker.” It was a strange mix of flattery and reprimand, comparing her to Dumbledore but also telling her she didn’t possess enough intuition. It triggered her self-esteem, made her want to prove herself.
Even while she was listening “ and she was listening hard “ Hermione noticed another strange thing about Ollivander. He didn’t get short of breath. He talked and talked, but even though he was old, his voice remained always soft, always smooth, and he didn’t stop to catch breath. It was as if he didn’t breathe at all, in the same way he didn’t seem to blink. Eerie. And caught up in this observation and the strangeness of it all, what he said and did slipped by her and suddenly -
Ollivander abruptly turned and walked over to a smaller cabinet in the far corner of the room. Inside, there were many old parchments and books. He took out a small one, that looked like a diary or a time planner, and was bound in blue silk. The blue was dimmed by dust and faded at the edges. He came back to her and showed her the book.
“This was written by my ancestor, the first owner of your wand. Maybe it’ll help you to decide whether you’re interested or not. You can keep it, but if you don’t want it anymore, please send it back to me.”
As she took the book, her fingers brushed over the old wizards hand. It felt, for the fleeting moment the touch lasted, like cool parchment, paper-thin, smooth, and altogether not human.
“Thank you,” Hermione murmured absently.