The Extraordinarily Bad Day
Garrick Ollivander was an exceptionally patient man. He had spent numerous years of his life learning, and eventually mastering his family trade of wand making. He knew the value of keeping his temper in check, the value of keeping a positive outlook towards life. One required it after all, in his profession. He had learnt early on that an excellent wand maker sources his materials on his own when he could, and an impatient man could never charm a unicorn long enough to obtain even a single hair from its tail, or lull an aging dragon into a sense of security long enough to slay it for heartstring. He knew that one must wait years before taking an axe to a tree, to allow magic to permeate its wood. After all, that is what differentiates a good wand from a perfect one. He had spent decades with numerous wizards and witches selecting their first wand, waiting for their perfect match. This too demanded patience, hours and hours of matching wands to wizards, till the wand was matched to its true owner.
But as patient as he was, Mr Ollivander was still human.
And it had been an exceptionally terrible day for Mr Ollivander. He had an unusually unpleasant morning, with his old ailment of heartburn troubling him more than usual and a runny nose. He fumbled around, his frail frame hunching over with age, searching for the vials of Pepper-Up Potion he kept in his cupboard. With trembling hands he uncorked the vial, tipped his head back and poured the contents down his throat. His cold relieved, but heartburn still persisting, he sat at his desk and started going through his letters.
‘Mr Ollivander,
I’d like to swing by your shop next week. We’ve found a wand with unusual markings and wondered if you recognised it. Please send a letter confirming what time would be convenient for you.
Regards
Auror Harry James Potter
Department of Magical Law Enforcement’
‘Holly, 11 inches, phoenix feather’, Mr Ollivander reminisced fondly. He remembered Harry as an eleven year old, wide eyed and curious, a scrawny waif of a child. The Boy-Who-Lived wasn’t like what he had expected. Timid, but brimming with inquisitiveness, the boy had been paired with a wand whose core was shared by his prophesied enemy. It had been quite a curious event, perhaps fated even. Mr Ollivander scrawled back a quick reply and sent off the letter with his owl.
Sighing, he set a kettle of water to boil for tea and started evaluating his inventory. ’Holly, yew, oak, fir, need to restock acacia and aspen’, he muttered. Wand wood was hard to acquire. It was difficult to differentiate a magical tree from the mundane, it was an art wandmakers took years to master. Wood lent the wand its true temperament. Applewood would never benefit an aficionado of the Dark Arts. Cedar would only serve a master with unyielding loyalty well. Blackthorn would be ill suited to one who picks diplomacy over a duel. These were things passed on from generation to generation in the Ollivander family, making them the oldest wand making family in Europe, and the most prestigious. Now, all that was left of this glorious heritage was Mr Ollivander himself, with the rest of his family succumbing to war, and other branches dying off decades earlier. He never had been much interested in marriage and other affairs of the sort, Mr Ollivander thought pensively. His father had often urged him in his youth to find himself a wife (or a husband, if he were so inclined) but he never found it in himself to actually pursue someone. He had been content with learning his family’s craft, and found marriage and children unnecessary and unappealing. He didn’t regret being the last scion of his family, but wished he had someone to pass on his legacy to.
Wheeeeeeeee!
Mr Ollivander jerked, his wide eyes rapidly glancing across the room, till his eyes landed on the kettle, rousing him from his thoughts. His heart racing, he sank into his chair attempting to calm himself. The war had left more damage than he had previously thought. Being kidnapped from his shop, living in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, torture by crazed Death Eaters and being questioned by Voldemort himself had been a harrowing experience. Panic attacks had been common after his ordeal, but he had learnt to deal with it now. Settling with his cup of tea, Mr. Ollivander began his day. He began whittling the wood into shape.’Cherry’, he pondered, ‘quite a temperamental wood. Quite powerful when paired with dragon heartstring’. As he began crafting the wand, he felt a strange painful sensation up his arm. He reached out for his tea and leaned back for a moment. ‘Am I getting too old for this?’, he grumbled. Shaking off this thought, he reached out for his jar of dragon heartstring, ready to bind the core with the wood.
Thud!
Ollivander looked down to see his cup shattered to pieces on the ground, the jar not too far off also in pieces. Muttering to himself about interaction of volatile magic, he bent down to pick up his wand, only for it to pass through his fingers. Frowning, he attempted it again, unsuccessfully. He whirled around, only to come to a halt to the sight of his body slumped over his desk.
‘By Merlin, this is upsetting’, said Mr Ollivander calmly, floating two inches above the ground while surveying his own cooling corpse, ‘I need to find a protégé’.