Ollivander's
It was taking a frustratingly long time for Stephanie to find a wand, and she was getting tired. Draco, naturally, had gotten his wand first. The beautiful Hawthorn and Unicorn hair wand had been the very third wand he tried, and he had managed to use it to produce a shower of green sparks, much to his delight.
After about five minutes of Ollivander hemming and hawing over Stephanie, Draco had complained loudly to his parents about being bored. Her aunt and uncle had immediately suggested that the three of them go on ahead and leave Stephanie behind. She was to meet them at Madame Malkins when she was finished.
It appeared that it would be quite a while until that would happen. Thus far, with every wand placed in her hand, one of two outcomes would occur. Option one: the magic swirling inside her would retreat into her chest, curling up painfully and refusing to interact with the wand all together. She would flick the wand and nothing would happen. This option was certainly anticlimactic, but she drastically preferred it to the second option.
The second potential outcome was that, as she flicked the wand, her magic would eagerly race to her fingertips and travel through the wand. As it raced out the other side, the wispy colored threads originating from the wand would be torn apart by the metallic black magic which proceeded to run rampant around the shop. Thus far, she had managed to create four new scorch marks on the ceiling, broken a lamp, and ripped a cabinet door off its hinges. As the magic returned to her, it felt as though a million tiny, burning pins were running through her.
Fortunately, Ollivander didn’t seem particularly concerned. After each magical mishap, he simply waved his own wand and restored the shop to order. In fact, she could have sworn that his mood was improving.
“Hmmm tricky customer. Ash perhaps? No, no I don’t think so,” he muttered to himself as he disappeared into the back. He returned with a new stack of wands, proffering the first one.
“Willow with unicorn hair, nine inches, just as your mother’s was, though slightly less flexible.” She took it, somewhat reluctantly, and instantly knew it wouldn’t work due to the hot thorns digging into her ribcage. She tried anyway, and it was immediately snatched out of her hands.
“No, no, no. Oh well, it was worth a shot. Often family members are drawn to similar makes, but not in your case it would seem. Hmmm. Let’s see.” He looked through the boxes he had retrieved and selected one. “Cypress and Dragon heartstring, ten inches, rather rigid. Give it a whirl.”
Immediately, she felt as though her hand was burning, the magic inside her rushing to meet the wand. As she flicked it, the magic that flowed out was almost entirely a deep metallic black, twisting in a violent dance with threads of the same color. There was not a hint of golden purple to be seen, and she was unsure whether it had failed to come out at all or was simply overpowered. The magic that flowed out the other end manifested in a shower of shimmering black dust like finely ground iron. As the magic retreated back inside, it felt more painful than she had ever experienced it, with none of the golden-purple to soften its return.
Ollivander clapped his hands together. “Bravo! Brilliant! Yes, very good, that’s the one.”
It took Stephanie a moment to speak. Her mouth was flooded with an intense metallic taste and she felt dizzy from the pain.
“No,” she said. “No, not that one.”
Stephanie suspected people rarely argued with Garrick Ollivander, given the incredulity on his face.
“Excuse me?” he asked in astonishment.
Stephanie laid the wand shakily down on the desk. “I said no. Find me a different wand.”
“Miss Malfoy,” said Ollivander shaking his head, “Cypress and Dragon Heartstring is a powerful combination. It will serve you well, I’m sure.”
Stephanie couldn’t help the slight, instinctual grimace, although she quickly wiped it away, replacing it with the cool confidence typical of a trueborn Malfoy. She tried to channel that attitude, that firmness and determination that had characterized her Grandfather. The kind of attitude that came from knowing you had the ability to ruin a person’s life if they refused you, with the smoothness that implied that you could just as easily make their dreams come true.
“Mr. Ollivander, I refuse. I want a different wand. Please help me to find one.”
Ollivander frowned, glancing down at the wand on the desk in front of him. “Very well, Miss Malfoy, if you insist.”
It took almost ten more minutes until she found it. She was amazed she was still standing, after all her failed attempts. Her head was pounding, her chest was on fire, her arm was very nearly numb. But she was insistent.
Ollivander looked significantly less pleased this time around, clearly convinced that he had already found her wand. But, to his credit, he still seemed to pick new wands with purpose.
Eventually, he held out a light colored wand, engraved with a spiral of runes, wrapping around it from base to tip. “Fir and phoenix feather, ten inches, supple.”
When she picked it up the sensation was immediately different. Gentle warmth rushed to her hand, the burning needles trailing behind reluctantly. As she flicked it, she watched as the red and gold threads formed a kind of woven net, binding the black, while the comforting golden-purple passed through unimpaired. The golden-purple magic manifested into a shower of light, glowing, bubbles that slowly popped and dissipated. As the magic retreated, it started with a rush of a soft, pleasant tingle, followed by dull pins, not quite as hot or as sharp as before.
“This one,” she declared.
Ollivander pursed his lips. “This one will work for you well, Miss Malfoy. It will offer control and precision, but the Cypress would produce stronger magic.”
“I prefer precision,” she said, the fir wand still in hand. “Thank you.”
He didn’t look happy about it, but he sold her the wand without further comment.