The Wandmaker
The bell above the door jingled as Vi stepped inside the dimly lit shop. The moment she crossed the threshold, a strange sensation prickled at the back of her neck, like the air itself was humming. It was a far cry from the lively chatter of the streets outside. Here, it was quiet—too quiet. Dust mites floated lazily in the air, illuminated by the faint glow of candlelight.
Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with hundreds—maybe thousands—of identical, narrow boxes. Vi swallowed. Each one held a wand. Her wand. Somewhere.
Powder gasped, eyes shining. “It smells like magic in here.”
Vander gave a low whistle. “Smells like old wood and dust to me.”
Before Vi could say anything, a voice interrupted from the shadows.
“Ahh. A new student.”
Vi flinched, turning sharply as an old man emerged from between the shelves. He was tall and thin, with wild white hair and sharp, knowing eyes. His long fingers twitched slightly as he clasped them together.
“Ollivander, at your service.” His pale gaze flickered over her, assessing. “Miss…?”
“Vi,” she said automatically, then hesitated. “Uh—Violet Lanes.”
“Lanes,” Ollivander murmured, as if tasting the name. He turned away, moving toward the towering stacks of wand boxes. “Well, Miss Lanes, let’s see what we have for you.”
He plucked a box from a high shelf and removed the wand inside—a simple, polished stick of wood. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Hawthorn, ten inches, quite flexible. Unicorn hair core. Give it a wave.”
Vi did.
The wand barely twitched before Ollivander snatched it back. “No, no, that won’t do.”
Another wand. Then another. Each time, Ollivander grew more intrigued, his eyes narrowing as he muttered under his breath.
Vi’s palms started to sweat. Was this normal? How many wands was it supposed to take?
Powder nudged her. “Maybe you’re broken.”
Vi shot her a glare. “I am not broken.”
Ollivander chuckled. “Oh, no, no. Quite the opposite. The right match can be… elusive.” He scanned the shelves again, then paused, eyes glinting. “Ah.”
Slowly, he pulled down a long, thin box, wrapped in deep blue ribbon. He opened it carefully, reverently, as if revealing something special.
“This one,” he said, holding it out. “Ebony. Eleven and a half inches. Unyielding.” His voice softened, eyes glimmering with something Vi couldn’t place. “With a core of dragon heartstring.”
Vi hesitated before wrapping her fingers around the handle.
The moment she did, a warmth spread up her arm—strong, steady, like something clicking into place. A faint crackle of energy danced in the air around her, and for the first time since stepping into the wizarding world, something felt right.
Ollivander exhaled, nodding. “Fascinating.”
Vander raised an eyebrow. “That a good thing?”
Ollivander smiled, but there was something unreadable in it. “Ebony wands are powerful,” he said, studying Vi with renewed interest. “They choose witches and wizards who will carve their own paths. Who will not be swayed by the expectations of others. In my experience the ebony wand’s perfect match is one who will hold fast to his or her beliefs, no matter what the external pressure, and will not be swayed lightly from their purpose. Who may, perhaps, shape the world around them, for better or for worse.”
Vi’s grip tightened on the wand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ollivander’s expression didn’t change. “That, Miss Lanes, is up to you.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Powder blurted out, “Can I have a wand?”
Vander barked a laugh. “Not today, kiddo.”
Vi forced herself to relax, tucking the wand into its box. It wasn’t like she believed in all that destiny crap anyway.
But as they left the shop, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.
Something big.
And she wasn’t sure yet if that was a good thing.