Wands
Henry woke to Sirius gently shaking his shoulder. “Happy Birthday, pup.”
Henry blinked in the near-darkness, his head muddled from sleep. He knew that they had an early morning appointment at Ollivander’s–with the aim of avoiding nosy reporters or worse–but the appointment wasn’t so early that he needed to be woken before dawn.
“Pads? What time is it–what’s going on?”
“It’s a bit after midnight. I thought–I thought we might visit Godric’s Hollow a bit before going to the Alley. Say hi to your folks on your birthday. Just the two of us.”
Henry frowned. It was a nice enough thought, but why not do it later in the day?
“Are we sneaking out? Why?”
Sirius squeezed his shoulder. “Do you trust me kiddo?”
I trust that you care about me, but I don’t know how far to trust your judgment. “Of course Siri… but I’d still like to know what’s going on.” He offered a sheepish smile. “Not the biggest fan of surprises.” At least not since the shock of waking up in your godson’s body, anyway.
Sirius let out a small sigh, and sat down next to Henry on the bed. “I hate feeling like I’ve let them all down. James–he was like a brother to me, and Charles and Dorea made me feel more at home than mine ever did. And James–James loved the Potter magick, its fierceness, its warmth… I just want to give you the chance to grow into it, to burn as righteously as he did.” Sirius reached out to stroke Henry’s wild hair. Henry remained rigidly still, not daring to interrupt. “The Potter magick will always be in you, but you’ve spent most of the past few months on Black lands, exposed to the Black magicks. I worry…” Sirius cut himself off again before shaking his head and withdrawing his hand. “We don’t have access to the Potter estate or artifacts, but I thought some time near your parents, in their village, would help even things out a bit when it came time to get your wand. Give the Potter magick more of a fighting chance to influence the match.”
“And I take it Lord Black disagrees?”
Sirius smiled grimly. “Bingo. His primary duty is to the Black line. He’d be pleased as punch if you tied your magical development to a wand that favored our magicks above others.”
Henry frowned again, considering. Wandcraft was an obscure art, and despite his readings over the past few weeks, he felt like he was compelled to stumble into a decision without sufficient preparation. One thing he did know is that a phoenix-feather core seemed better matched with the fiery Potter magick than the Black’s cold steel. Did he want to carry the canonical Harry Potter wand, the wand whose core was twinned with Voldemort’s? In the books, wielding that particular wand had saved Harry’s life once. But would accepting that wand tie his destiny even tighter to the Dark Lord?
“...is it possible to get more than one wand?”
“A second wand is expensive, but it’s bloody useful to have a spare in battle…” Sirius stopped abruptly, and then he looked at Henry for a moment, considering. “But that’s not what you’re asking, is it? Are you wondering whether it’s possible to bond with more than one at the same time?”
Henry nodded.
“Shit, Harry, I’m not sure. It’s theoretically possible, of course.” Sirius shifted a little on the bed. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard of a pureblood or two who’ve done it. Ones who inherited from all four grandparents and wanted the challenge of a second set of core and wood to expand their magical repertoire. Two cores and two woods, one tuned each of the four magics they’d inherited. But you gotta understand, Henry, it’s supposed to be incredibly difficult to balance the allegiance of two wands at once. The only examples I know of were powerful, adult wixen. I don’t think it would work for a child. I imagine it would confuse your magical development, set you off kilter.”
“I wondered if it might be a bit like being raised bilingual: a little slower to learn to speak, but eventually getting native fluency in both languages.”
“Huh. Guess that’s possible.” Sirius rubbed his neck and then straightened. “I’ll tell you what, pup. Come with me to Godric’s Hollow, and I’ll talk to Cass and Grandad about getting you a second wand under the table. And if you end up bonding with a wand better suited for Potter magick than Black, it’ll be that much easier to sell the value of a second one to them.”
Henry wasn’t sure what the odds were that the elder Blacks would agree, or even whether they should, but the chance for a secret second wand tipped the scales enough for him to stop over-thinking the decision. I wonder whether a wand acquired under the table would get around the trace. “Deal.”
Sirius gestured to a pile of clothes he had left on the armchair next to the bed. “Godric’s Hollow’s a mixed village. Figured I’d grab us some muggle clothes as a disguise.”
Henry eyed the Star Wars t-shirt and converse trainers. “And muggle clothes wouldn’t be carrying any Black magick, either, right?”
Sirius chuckled a bit, ruffling Henry’s hair. “Shit, kid. Not much slips past you, does it? Truth is, I’d love to kit you up in some of James’s stuff, give that ol’ Potter magic an extra boost, but it’s been a headache and a half getting permission to retrieve anything from the properties or vaults.” He smiled a bit forlornly. “Managed to round up a bit, though. I’ll show you later.”
* * *
The apparation point in Godric’s Hollow was at a dead-end alleyway, tucked away just off the village high street. Located only a few paces away from the Potter memorial statue at the entrance of the village green, the point was conveniently situated for shoppers and pilgrims alike.
Henry had visited the village once before, an impromptu visit a few weeks before when Sirius had expressed nostalgia for the whortleberry and cheddar scones for which the village was known. Henry had liked the quiet village (and its scones) well enough, but the memorial had made him uneasy. On the one hand, it was hard not to be touched by the sentiment behind the clearly personal offerings left at the base of the statue. On the other hand, the idealized representation of the Potter parents with their infant son felt uncomfortably similar to statues he had seen in his former life that exalted patriarchal family values. He felt like an imposter and dreaded the thought of a lifetime as an icon.
Henry and Sirius froze as they turned the corner from the alleyway to the high street. When they had visited before, there had been a small array of flowers and handwritten notes at the statue and an otherwise empty village green. The collection of gifts had exploded since then, and there were a few dozen wixen lingering near the foot of the statue. Most of them were young adults in artfully casual muggle clothes, but there were a fair number of middle-aged wixen in unintrusive work robes, and even a couple of families with small children. Behind them, the village green was filled with streamers and tables as if in preparation for a larger celebration.
“ Jesus,” Henry murmured, dismayed at the prospect of having to run a gauntlet of gawkers to get to the cemetery. He had known about the celebrations in his honor at Sahmain, but hadn’t counted on one for his birthday.
“Shit, kiddo. The mayor assured us that there wasn’t going to be a celebration this year. Guess that didn’t stop an unsanctioned one–maybe capitalizing on tomorrow’s Mabon games.”
The two of them were unglamored–to avoid carrying traces of Black family magick–and even in the semi-darkness were beginning to attract attention.
“What now?” Henry whispered.
“Now?” Sirius straightened and waggled his eyebrows. “Now we channel our inner Gryffindors and walk to the cemetery like we own the place.” He squeezed Henry’s hand, and gently nudged his godson forward before adopting a swaggering stride.
Henry matched his pace, eyes resolutely focused on the back of Sirius’s leather jacket. He imagines that he can feel the weight of the crowd’s attention on his shoulders, their magic, their breath, brushing against his own. For a moment, it seems like they will pass through without incident, but his relief is short-lived.
“Happy birthday,” a little girl blurts out, breaking the dam of silence. Henry is suddenly inundated with fervent birthday wishes and a steady stream of camera flashes. Before the crowd can call out questions, the pair halt their forward momentum, and raise their hands in tandem, a choreographed effort to tame the throng.
The only way out is through, and they will be satisfied more quickly if I am the one to speak. Henry swallows and pivots to face the girl who spoke first. “Thank you for the birthday wishes,” he begins. His eyes dart around to meet a few others, before retreating back to the little girl in an effort to avoid being overwhelmed. “We hadn’t expected company tonight, but we are,” he pauses a moment, scrambling for something safe to say, “honored by your goodwill. We had planned to spend a quiet moment with my parents, and we hope that you will, uh, respect our privacy so that we can… ask for their blessing in peace.” He looks up to meet Sirius’s gaze, flushing at the mixture of pride and bemusement on his godfather’s face.
“You heard the birthday boy. Give the kid some bloody space.”
* * *
Half an hour later, they’re leaning back against the Potter headstones, shielded from the crowd by a low stone wall and a canopy of yew. Sirius is sprawled out on the grass nursing a can of Shandy Bass, while Henry sits cross-legged, a nearly empty bottle of Ribena at his feet. It’s a scene of intimate irreverence that Henry thinks James would have appreciated. Henry soaks in the warmth of the evening, feels the damp earth against his palms, the dew wicking into his jeans, and thinks about the difference between running away versus running towards.
“Why do you hate the Black magick so much?” The words form on his lips, but despite the gentle softness of the moment, they go unspoken. It seems he spent what little courage he had navigating the crowd. And even then, I fled from an opportunity for connection. So much for my‘inner Gryffindor’.
“Tell me something,” he says instead, mumbling towards the grass. “Anything. Maybe about the Hollow?”
Sirius took a slow sip. “Your dad and I didn’t spend a lot of time in the village–we stayed on the estate when we were younger, and tended to go further afield when we were old enough to slip out on our own. Still, when we came, we’d usually end up here, in the graveyard.” A smile blooms across his face. “James called it visitin’ miss Marjorie.” He tipped an imaginary hat towards a tombstone in the distance. “Different families honor their dead in different ways, but Hollowers have laid their families at this site for centuries. All those years, all those families–it’s left layers of protections here. It’s said to prevent anyone from entering with ill intent, or disrespect.” He smiled again, a bit more wistful. “James figured that it made a good place to sneak a drink or brew things in secret, that sort of thing. He made a point of talkin’ to the gravestones, like Miss Marjorie over there, letting them know what we were up to. He argued that if he were dead he’d be happy for the company, so it wasn’t disrespectful. I guess it worked, since we were always able to come, and nobody ever seemed to catch on.”
“A bit like we’re doing now, then.”
“Sure is, kid.”
* * *
Climbing up the stairs in the Harbourhouse an hour or so later, they are greeted by Lord Black and Aunt Cass in the dining room. There’s a pot of valerian tea and a pitcher of steaming milk on the table, next to the early edition of the Prophet. Henry can just make out the headline ‘Boy-Who-Lived Seeks Birthday Blessing’ as it scrolls in step with a photograph of himself and Sirius striding across the page, the memorial statue standing steady in the background.
“Bit early still for breakfast, Grandad,” Sirius offers glibly.
“Hence the tea and hot milk instead, Sirius,” Cassiopeia huffs in exasperation. Lord Black rolls his eyes, rapping his knuckles against the folded-open paper. “Not too early for you and I to discuss this downstairs, I think, while Cass readies Henry to go back to bed.” He grabs the paper, his hand brushing against Henry’s shoulder as he leads Sirius downstairs.
For his part, Henry is tired to the point of being overwound, and he recognizes that a calming drink might help him fall asleep more quickly. Yet before he yields to rest, he wills himself to dredge up the courage that had left him in the graveyard. It’s easier, somehow, to ask his Aunt than Sirius directly. “Do you… know why Sirius isn’t, uh, fond of the Black magick?”
Sighing, Aunt Cass, in her typical fashion, starts with the academic rather than the personal. “The Black magick is of depth and distance. It separates and isolates. It shields and severs ties.”
“That sounds like something I might need,” Henry responds slowly, pushing down a nauseating urge to rub his hands against his scar. Not a horcrux. Please God, not a horcrux.
“The family magick is strong, but can be dangerous to wield. Those who embrace too much of it are swallowed up by loneliness and apathy; those who struggle against its current risk drowning in rage and madness.”
Henry closes his eyes, thinking of Sirius’s dual inheritance: Orion, the absent father; Walburga, the screeching mother. “How does one manage it, then?”
“As with all magic, and most other things besides: caution, discipline, focus,” Cassiopeia recites. “You must carefully balance the two sides–stoking just enough passion to anchor to your will, while yielding enough of yourself to the ice and distance to retain perspective.”
“How do you know whether–”
“Henry.” Cassiopiea slides a steaming mug in his direction. “There will be plenty of time to learn how to balance the Black magick, and you will be exposed to many other magical forms at Hogwarts besides. While my brother is eager to share the secrets with his heirs, I believe that mastering a diverse set of practices will provide you with a firmer foundation. As long as you apply yourself as you already have, you need not worry. The control will come.”
“You don’t… mind, then, that we went to Godric’s Hollow?”
“Not at all,” Cass confirms. “I am pleased by your desire to honor each aspect of your magical heritage.”
“And… if my wand favors Potter magick over Black?”
Cass looks at him shrewdly. “Do you wish it to?”
Henry studies the mug in his hands. “I don’t know.”
“Then que sera, sera, child.” Whatever will be, will be. “I am confident in your abilities and in our capability to equip you with whatever instruments you might need, be it a second wand or a full fleet of alternative foci.” She smirks a moment, as if to say that he is far from the first child she’s met to dream of wielding dual wands, and Henry blushes at the transparency of his desire. “I’ve often thought that the modern European emphasis on wands was misplaced. They’re convenient, to be sure, flexible to support a wide range of spellwork and fast in combat, but other conduits have their advantages too.” She looks at Henry meaningfully, and they’ve had enough lessons at this point for Henry to recognize the invitation to summarize from his readings.
“Besides wands, the most common conduits here in Britain are staffs and rings. Staffs can direct greater power than wands but are unwieldy for intricate spellwork; rings tend to be overly specialized but can be used in combination with other foci.”
“And the Black magick?”
Henry thinks of the privacy ward Lord Black raised in the ministry. “Grandfather has a ring?”
“Ah yes, his obsidian ward-ring. Very good. What else?”
“You said that our magic separates and severs–perhaps a knife or sharp weapon of some kind?”
A tempestuous smile breaks across her face, and Henry’s great-aunt reaches into her robes to reveal a silver-sheathed seax. “All daughters of the house of Black are taught the arts of the blade from a young age, and most of our sons, too. Tell me, why do you think Sirius is reluctant to teach you?”
Henry frowns and stifles a yawn. His godfather is too laid back to be ruffled by the thought of an eleven-year-old handling a blade, and while their defense lessons have emphasized dodging and disarming, he clearly has no compunction introducing Henry to the combative reality of interbellum Britain.
“Typical ‘light’-party prejudice.” She shakes her head, seeing her nephew is still at a loss. “Edged conduits are especially prized for their role in blood magic, Henry.” She looks at him with a tired fondness. “But I think that’s a discussion for another time. Up to bed with you. And–Happy Birthday.”
* * *
As they approach the shopkeeper’s door in the early morning light, Arcturus feels a smile tug at his lips as he tastes the slightest wisp of Potter magic still clinging to the boy. He’s brought back to his childhood, of the old customs and superstitions–the families that avoided exposing their children to magic for days before the wand-binding, their ostentatious pilgrimages to Ollivander’s via muggle means, the ritual cleansings and declarations of faith that the wands could not choose wrongly. He remembers their scorn of the weaker families, the families struggling to produce suitable heirs, the families that would truss up their children with heirlooms in the desperate hope to sway the match.
The rational voice within himself, a voice irritatingly like that of his sister, reminds him that wands are just a means to an end. That what matters are the boy’s choices, not the type of magic he wields. Yet he can’t help but feel a bit of smug satisfaction that the boy has already demonstrated an affinity for the Black magick, irrespective of whatever wand he ultimately bears. He sees that Sirius has recognized this too, and feels a bubbling amusement at the thought that when desperation struck, his tradition-defying grandson tried to stack the deck in the same manner as the old families.
A bell tinkles as the three of them enter, Sirius and himself a mere step behind Henry. He watches Henry react to the space and once again feels a spark of satisfaction: despite the lead-lined cabinetry, the child clearly can hear the orchestral hum of a thousand wands yearning to be heard. For a moment, Arcturus glances at a ritual basin by the door–another artifact of his youth–but dismisses the thought. There’s something in the cornucopia of magical flavors surrounding them that reminds him of the magical residue coating the child when they first met, a cloying taste of honey chased by lemon and bitters. The child spent a decade where his only exposure to magic was Dumbledore’s wards. At the thought, he reflexively pulls a shroud of ice over his rising nausea and rage. He wills himself not to care whether the child’s wand will blaze so strongly with the Potter flame that it would struggle with the Black ice. He’d endure many indignities if it meant that the child never again reeked of honey.
“Good morning,” said a soft voice. “Harry Potter, is it?” Henry stills.
Arcturus catches Sirius rolling his eyes, and exchanges a nod in amused solidarity. They made an off-hours appointment, who else would they be? Even if Harry wasn’t instantly recognizable with his bangs swept over his trademark scar, Ollivander has more than a passing acquaintance with the Black family.
“...errrr, yes,” Henry fumbled in response. The wandmaker had leaned in to inspect Harry, getting so close that they were almost nose to nose. Arcturus frowned. While Garrick could be unsettling, surely Henry had shown that he’s made of sterner stuff?
“Mmmmmmm….” Ollivander hummed, his pale eyes unblinkingly boring into the boy. “Yes, I suppose you do have Lily Potter’s eyes. Why, it seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.” He shifted back slightly, bringing out a tape measure from his cloak and began his measurements. “James Potter, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say that James Potter favored it–it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”
Ollivander leaned forward again, brushing Henry’s bangs away, his fingers lingering on the lighting scar on Henry’s forehead. “And that’s where…”
Arcturus cleared his throat.
“Well, now–Heir Potter-Black. Hold out your wand arm. That’s it.” Arcturus let himself tune out a bit as Ollivander led Henry through the motions of selecting a wand. He relaxed as Henry tested wand after wand, the child’s hesitant questions slowly blooming into a fervent exchange about wandlore.
“... tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere–I wonder, now–yes, why not–unusual combination–holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”
Henry froze a moment, before lifting the wand out of its case. Compared to the last several wands, his movements were more deliberate. More cautious perhaps, or perhaps more reverent. As his fingers gripped the handle, Arcturus could feel the child’s magic drawn taut, the resonance slipping into place more cleanly than any of the previous wands… If Arcturus’s attention hadn’t been captured yet, it certainly was now.
In a swift motion, Henry raised the wand above his head, and brought it swishing down through the dusty air. A stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light onto the walls. Henry’s face flushed, a puzzled expression on his brow. Was he surprised at what had happened, or surprised at how it had felt?
Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious, how very curious…”
It looked like Henry was preparing himself to respond, but Sirius beat him to it. “Curious?”
“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Heir Black. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in Heir Potter-Black’s wand, gave another feather–just one other. It is very curious indeed that he should be destined for this wand when its brother–why its brother gave him that scar.”
Henry swallowed. This time, Arcturus jumped to speak first. “What’s that, Garrick? I thought Phoenix feathers were found in the wild, not collected from the birds themselves?”
Henry closed his eyes, still tightly gripping the wand.
“Yes, yes, to be sure, Lord Black, to be sure. That is how it is usually done. I source the finest feathers collected from faraway mountain peaks, as you know. Truly, few can claim to have successfully tamed the pride of the phoenix… and yet, Albus Dumbledore is one of that few. Fawkes surrendered the feathers when Albus registered the bird as his familiar all those years ago, and from them I crafted two wands. The wand held by Heir Potter-Black there, and its brother, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew.”
There was a moment of silence as they digested that news. Arcturus’s head was spinning, somehow disturbed less at the connection to the fallen Dark Lord than the fact that the two wands were so tightly tied to Dumbledore. “Curious indeed how these things happen,” Ollivander offered. “The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Heir Potter-Black. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things–terrible yes, but great.”