Three Up Two Across
"But one day when I was sitting quiet and feeling like a motherless child, which I was, it come to me: that feeling of being part of everything, not separate at all. I knew that if I cut a tree, my arm would bleed. And I laughed and I cried and I run all around the house. I knew just what it was.”
- Alice Walker, The Color Purple
They stepped into the bustle and colour of Diagon Alley with a well practised ease. Rosalía dusted the traces of ash off her robes and licked a finger, rubbing a splotch of the soot from Ixchel’s cheek.
“Yech!” Ixchel scowled as she hastily wiped her face.
The Eztlis moved out of the path of the floo and stepped into the crowd of wizards and witches, Rosalía muttering to herself in Spanish as she looked over her daughters’ school lists. Ixchel and Socorro tagged along after their mother, walking through the stream of people and passing the shops and vendors so familiar to them.
“Alright, we’ll go to Ollivanders for Ixchel’s wand first,” Rosalía stated over her shoulder, “I doubt we’ll be able to get you to stand still through anything else if we don't.” Ixchel felt a shiver of anticipation pass through her. Her very own wand. She stopped swiping at her cheek and quickened her pace.
“When are you meeting your friend today?” Socorro asked, eyes gazing longingly at a rather chic dress robe in the window display of Twillfitt and Tatting’s.
Ixchel thought of their last letter and the strange, sullen boy who wrote to her. “We agreed to meet outside of the Leaky Cauldron in a few hours.”
She thought back to his letters explaining that Professor Dumbledore had simply left him with directions on how to get to Diagon Alley and seen himself out, and wondered what would have happened if serendipity hadn’t placed her and Tom in Hyde Park that day. Would they really expect him to venture into magical London for the first time alone?
“Why didn’t you invite him to go shopping with us?”
“He’s not exactly polite.” Ixchel hedged.
Socorro shrugged, unperturbed and gave a teasing smile. “That, and you didn’t want him to see that you’ll be the first witch in history to not be chosen by a wand. How embarrassing for you.”
“You’re such a pillock.” Ixchel grumbled halfheartedly.
“Coco, stop antagonising your sister.” Rosalía placed a hand on Ixchel’s shoulder and a kiss to the crown of her head, “You should be much more concerned with none of the houses choosing you.”
Rosalía and Socorro snickered as Ixchel raised her arms with an exasperated huff and stormed ahead to the wand shop.
She opened the door with more force than she intended, and was fortunate no one was inside the narrow shop to be hit by the door in her overzealous entry.
Ollivanders looked and smelled the same as she remembered. Thousands of boxes were stacked precariously to the ceiling and dust motes danced in the air, visible in the sunlight streaming through the dingy window. The air was perfumed with the woody scent of countless wands, and the spindly chair remained in its solitary pose. Those years ago when Socorro was matched with her chestnut wand, Ixchel had sat in that chair and looked upon her sister with such envy she was shocked she hadn’t been stained green ever since.
The door chimed softly as her sister and mother came in as well, smiles still on their lips, making the slender shop feel quite crowded.
Garrick Ollivander chose then to appear, and stood behind the dark wood desk. “Ah, the Misses Eztli!” His silvery eyes shone in his young face. “Springy, nine and a half inch chestnut wand with unicorn hair,” he said to Socorro before turning his gaze to Ixchel. “I suppose your Hogwarts letter came this year, child. As the muggles say, time flies.”
Rosalía hummed in a nostalgic agreement.
With the wave of his wand, Mr Ollivander sent a measuring tape flying and twisting around Ixchel, measuring her arm, palm, the distance between her nostrils, and the circumference of her head in a dizzying array.
Ixchel stood before the desk, trying to appear poised, but she wanted to wring her hands in suspense. ‘What if there’s no wand for me? Will they still let me into Hogwarts?’
When the measuring tape fluttered limply back down to the desk, finished with its task, Ollivander began to rummage through boxes, picking out wands, sometimes lingering then shaking his head and placing them back into their stacks, before depositing a selection on that old darkened desk.
“The wand chooses the witch, Miss Eztli.”
“That’s my concern.” Ixchel mumbled, dryly.
Ollivander placed a pale wand in her hand. “Cedar, dragon heartstring, nine inches and three quarters, nice and supple.”
Rosalía and Socorro offered encouraging looks as she gave a sharp flick of the wand.
“No, no, no, not right at all!” Ollivander cried, and before Ixchel even had a chance to blink, another wand was placed in her grasp.
“Try again. Sycamore, unicorn hair, nine and a half inches, swishy.”
That wand was also added to a growing reject pile.
Ollivander paused for only a moment after he had handed her an elm wand. “Hmm, nearly, very nearly, but it doesn’t sing . I suppose I could try…” he trailed off, searching through the boxes whilst looking pleased.
“Cypress, 10 inches precisely, dragon heartstring, unyielding. An interesting wand indeed.”
With her palm sweating around the richly grained wood, Ixchel gave a confident swirl of the wand. A slight hissing noise - like the sound of a fizzy drink being opened - emanated from the wand and a curling stream of sparks shot into the air. Her heart pounding in her ears, she watched the sparks flutter softly down to the floorboards and dye the spots they landed a deep fuchsia for a few moments.
Socorro whooped and Rosalía gave a delicate clap before fishing into her purse for the galleons needed to pay.
“A distinguished wand you see.” He intoned, silver eyes focused on her. “It’s been noted in the past that cypress wands choose heroes.” Ollivander quickly continued upon seeing Ixchel’s deep frown, and laughed. “No, no, please don’t worry Miss Eztli, no one is expecting you to fight dragons or dark wizards. That was hundreds of years ago, a much more vicious time and a bit of an exaggeration no doubt. It is a great honour, though. You are the partner of a wand associated with nobility and depth of character.” His gaze traveled to the fine wand she held reverently, “That is a wand that will hold you accountable to be your best, and won’t accept anything less. Should you be unafraid to confront the shadows in your nature there is nothing that wand won’t do for you. I wish you luck.”
Tom carefully unfolded Professor Dumbledore’s instructions, taking the parchment out of his trouser pocket, and stepped into the shabby pub only he seemed to notice. The Leaky Cauldron was as grubby and sour smelling as Ixchel had described. Cigarette smoke weighed down the air and clung to the furniture, and the patrons seemed no more tidy than the building. But he felt like he had returned to an old friend after reading Ixchel’s letters so often the ink seemed to have faded, and the undeniable magic as soon as he stepped across the threshold brought goose pimples to his arms. His mind reeled 'Yes! This is it! This is where I am supposed to be! ' dispelling any trepidation he may have been carrying.
A bald, bulky man stood behind the counter, talking to an old woman seated at the bar and filling a pint glass. Grudgingly, Tom walked up to the bar, letter in hand.
"Are you Tom, the barman?"
The man looked over to him, setting the pint of lager down and sliding it towards the patron. "Aye. You here for Hogwarts, kid?"
Tom gave a short nod.
With a stretch of his shoulders, he stepped out from behind the bar and ushered Tom to follow. "This way, then."
He led the boy through the greying pub into a small, walled garden and pulled out his wand. Tom eyed the length of wood. As soon as he got to this Diagon Alley, he’d be able to have his own wand. The first thing he’d ever own that was just his . Not a hand-me-down, not a donation. His.
"Watch and remember so you can do this yourself next time, son." He said, pointing his wand against the rough brick. "Three up. Two across." The bricks rippled like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone and then slid out and away until a tidy passage was formed
Tom stared greedily at the alley that presented itself to him.
Behind the rough brickwork of that dilapidated pub, Diagon Alley stood before him. It was sublime. Throngs of people wearing robes of all colours, textures, and patterns from plain, to subtle, to outright outrageous busied along the street. They went into shops, chatted with others, or eyed window displays. Diagon Alley was packed like sardines with witches and wizards and all the more wonderful for it.
Tom didn’t say a word to the older man, not even a thank you, as he stepped into the street and merged into the crowd. His eyes darted from shop to shop, trying to commit it all to memory. There was an apothecary with the name Slug and Jiggers written above the door that sold furs, brightly coloured flowers, strange curling feathers, and bubbling, viscous brews in thick glass bottles. There was a pet store that offered cats of all colours, Jack Russells with two tails, owls, bats, and birds with feathers so intensely pigmented they looked jewelled.
Never one to resist temptation, Tom cut through the crowd to look into the window of the pet store, eyes finding the snake display. On the glass of one of the tanks was a tag written in curling handwriting stating Brazilian Rainbow Boa. A beautiful snake with an iridescent shimmer to its scales, sat inside, curled under a heat lap. It raised its head, staring at Tom, and flicked out a forked tongue to taste the air.
“I sssee you, boy.”
Tom opened his mouth to respond when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It took him a moment to recognise her; last time she had been wearing that silly cartwheel hat and a posh day dress. Now dressed in cerise robes, Ixchel stood before him. Those dark eyes looked from him to the rainbow boa and he could feel a knot tighten in his stomach, remembering the look Professor Dumbledore had given him when Tom asked about the snakes.
She smiled softly and the anxiety dissipated. “Hi, Tom.”
He thought back to her first letter, ‘You catch more flies with honey...' and pasted on a pleasant expression, “Hello, Ixchel. How are you?” He asked rather politely.
Ixchel frowned and her brow furrowed. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” She asked bluntly.
“What do you mean?” Tom questioned, defensive and taken aback. Her advice had done him well, he thought. Even at Wool’s, things had become easier for him by sliding into that sticky, plastic persona. He had practiced painting a smile on his face in the mirror and combing his hair just so. And whilst he seethed that such a simple facade could change things, he kept to it. Tom was no fool.
“Why are you playing false with me?”
“What are you on about? I’m being polite! You’re the one who told me to!” Tom scowled, crossing his arms.
“Ah, there you are!” Her smile was one of relief.
The pleased curve of her lips dispelled, and her face turned serious. “You don’t have to do that with me. Not to me. I already know.” Ixchel said with such solemnity he felt the hairs rise on his arm.
“Okay...” He mumbled, and something that felt like static shock sparked between them, giving his words more weight than intended.
Though she must have felt it too, Ixchel didn’t say anything on the matter and instead pulled out a length of warm toned wood for him to inspect.
“My wand.” She said almost smugly. “I wonder what yours will be like.” She recited a word in Latin and the tip of her wand began to glow, “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Envy and longing welled within him as he watched her casual display of magic. “So magic families get a head start.” He stated flatly, “How is that fair?”
She faltered and grew thoughtful, thinking over his question. “I suppose it’s not. Nox .”
The moment lay heavy until Ixchel clapped her hands, and the tension sunk and faded into the cobbled streets. “Alright. I have to meet back for home at quarter to six. Mum’s at Pucklechurch’s Paints and Coco’s going to be with friends at the teashop for ages, so let’s get your things.”
They walked through the crowds together, Tom marveling over the Yew and Phoenix feather instrument in his hand. It seemed to shine like ivory.
He hadn’t let go of it since the wand had chosen him in Ollivander's ‘Capable of a great and terrible power, Mr Riddle’ , and he was begrudgingly grateful Ixchel had only given him that cool, knowing look and helped carry his supplies. She matched his steps, and carried the books she had not only helped him find, but books not on the school list she insisted he would like, and he could feel the confusing swirl of anger at being indebted to this girl, and the quiet joy he had met her and she was his.
Her steps slowed outside of a small, sloping building dotted with outdoor seating. It was an ice cream parlour with the largest array of brightly coloured sweets he had ever seen. He could feel the collar of his shirt stick to his neck in the August heat, and the emptiness of his stomach after a small breakfast of beans on a slice of toast made itself known.
“Would you like to get ice cream?” Ixchel hummed, eyes traveling the selection as well.
He thought of the few remaining knuts rustling in his pocket. “No, I'm not hungry.” he gritted out.
He could feel her gaze resting on him, but didn’t turn to look at her before she shrugged the bag higher on her shoulder and grabbed his arm, “Well, I am.” Ixchel glided into the shop, Tom in tow, and the cool air hit him with relief.
“Sit. I’ll be right back.” she said as she waved him towards a small booth.
Without a look back at Tom, Ixchel strolled to the counter to place her order.
If she hadn’t been carrying his belongings, Tom would have stormed off then and there. He had no interest in seeing her rub it in that she can buy things whilst he was limited to the charity of the school!
Before he could get up and demand the bag still on her shoulder, she slid into the seat across from him and silently handed Tom a second spoon before digging in.
For a moment he sat, staring at the girl in front of him eating her vanilla and cherry ice cream. This girl who was the first to tell him he belonged to magic, lxchel had answered his questions, guided him through his new world. She helped him with seemingly no goal in mind. He didn’t understand.
“Thank you.” Tom took a spoonful of ice cream, and was glad Billy Stubbs wasn’t around to hear him.