The Raven's Call

Maker in the Making

"You should shave." Luna spoke up as she walked into the bathroom. I'd just finished brushing through my hair, pausing mid-motion as her voice broke the quiet. "It makes you look old," she added with a small grin, stepping lightly across the tiled floor, barefoot.

I glanced at her through the mirror, my hand moving instinctively to the hair along my jaw. "Old, huh?" I smirked faintly. "Figured it made me look rugged. Distinguished." "It makes you look like you haven't been taking care of yourself," she said simply, as if stating the weather. Her tone wasn't teasing anymore. Just honest. Gentle. I looked at myself again. The dark circles under my eyes. The bruise near my temple. The rough edges I'd gotten used to. "Maybe I haven't," I admitted.

Luna stepped beside me, our reflections standing shoulder to shoulder now. She reached out slowly, brushing a thumb along my cheek—just enough to feel the coarse hair growing in. "I like your face better when I can see it," she said softly. That made something catch in my throat. I didn't say anything at first—just stared at her, unsure if she knew what moments like this did to me. "Alright," I murmured eventually, reaching for the razor. "For you, I'll shave." Luna smiled, then perched herself on the edge of the bathtub like she was settling in to watch something important. "I'll make sure you don't miss a spot."

***
Freshly shaven, Luna and I make our way downstairs. "It's beautiful here." She spoke as admired the home, her voice light as she took in the gentle curve of the walls and the way the early sunlight filtered through the curtains.

"It was our aunt's," Bill Weasley said from in the kitchen, his tone soft but proud as he moved around the kitchen, setting the table for morning teas and coffees. The mugs didn't match, but they felt lived-in—warm with memory. "We used to come here as kids. The Order uses it now as a safe house. What's left of us at least," he added solemnly, his eyes flicking to the window, where the sea stretched wide and grey.

Luna drifted toward the hallway, her gaze catching on a homemade windchime dangling near the ceiling. It clinked gently in the breeze, its seashell pieces spinning lazily.
"Muggles think these things keep evil away. But they're wrong," she said, studying the shells like they held secrets.

The front door creaked open, and Asteria walked in with Harry, both of them quiet. Something unspoken passed between them—exhaustion, maybe, or the kind of bond that only comes from shared near-death experiences. "I need to talk to the goblin," Harry said simply, his voice low. Bill nodded, setting down the sugar bowl. He then leads Harry, Ron, and Hermione upstairs.

Asteria, Luna, and I stayed behind in the kitchen with Fleur. The scent of salt air and warm tea lingered around us. "You and Harry alright now?" Fleur asked gently, her accent thickened slightly by tiredness. "Yeah. I think so." Asteria smiled, small but real. 

"So—" Fleur uttered into her morning coffee, her fingers curled around the chipped mug. "What do you think you'll do?" she asked, her tone casual but loaded with meaning. We exchanged puzzled looks. "Well—are you going to go home to your families? Or back to school?" "Oh, well... I want to go back," I said, my fingers wrapping around my teacup. "Me too!" Luna smiled, grabbing my hand. "I'd rather not go back to the Dark Lord at my house, so yeah, school. Since I'm not allowed to live with Fred and George, let alone visit them," Asteria rambled, flopping into a chair like the weight of the world had followed her through the door. There was a quiet moment between us. Tired, fragile—but hopeful. Like we were starting to breathe again.

The morning had stretched on, soft and slow, the way days do after surviving something unspeakable. The cottage was still. I stood in the hallway, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath my feet, the scent of salt and tea lingering in the air. Most of the others were in the kitchen or resting upstairs, but I'd noticed Ollivander sitting alone by the window—wrapped in a thin blanket, staring out at the sea like it was speaking to him.

I didn't know why I walked in. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe I was just tired of pacing and silence. He turned slightly as I approached, his pale eyes meeting mine. "Mr. Grey-." "Gaunt, Sir," I said, giving a small nod. He studied me for a moment—no wand, no sudden words, just... observation. It made me feel like a puzzle he was half-finished solving.

"Come to keep an old man company?" he asked, voice soft and dry. "Something like that," I murmured, stepping closer to the hearth. I hesitated, then added, "Or maybe I came to ask you a question." "Mm," he said. "A dangerous thing to offer a wandmaker." That made me almost smile.

There was a long pause between us. Comfortable, somehow. Then he spoke again. "I imagine you're wondering what comes next." I nodded. "You're not going back to the shop, are you?" His gaze returned to the sea. "No. My time with the craft... is nearly done. My hands no longer do what they once did. And my heart is too heavy to work wood and core without shaking."

I didn't know what to say to that. There was a quiet sort of grief in his voice, but not bitterness—just truth. "I'm sorry," I offered. "No need," he replied. "But someone must continue. The craft is older than any of us, and it's not meant to die with me." He turned to face me again. Really looked at me. "I watched you, you know. In the cellar. And here, at Shell Cottage. There's something in the way you move, how you notice things. How you hold a wand."

My throat went tight. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying, Mr. Gaunt... if you're willing, I will teach you." I stared at him, pulse suddenly louder than the waves outside. "All of it," he said. "The wand woods. The cores. The failures. The subtleties no book will ever capture. Not many are suited for this kind of knowledge, but I believe you... might be." For a long time, I didn't speak. I thought of the wand in my hand. I thought of what it meant to carry something forward that wasn't destruction. To build, not break. To know what made magic work—not just how to cast it.

"I'm willing," I said. Ollivander smiled—faint but genuine. "Then kneel." I hesitated, unsure, but followed his instruction. He rose shakily to his feet, reaching into the folds of his cloak to retrieve a thin, carved wand I didn't recognize. It was older than him, somehow—its surface worn smooth by decades of use.

"This wand," he murmured, "was my father's. And his father's before him. It has passed through many hands... and now, it will pass its knowledge into yours." He placed the tip gently against my forehead. At first, there was nothing. Then—heat.

Not painful, but deep. A strange, golden warmth that spread from the point of contact through my skull, behind my eyes, into my chest. I gasped softly as images and feelings—memories that weren't mine—began to flood my mind. Woods. Bark. Resin. Shavings curling off a blade. The sound a wand makes when it accepts a core. The hum of a phoenix feather in contact with sycamore. The temper of yew. The patience of ash. Hands—Ollivander's hands—working, whittling, testing.

The memory of joy when a wand sings for the first time. Knowledge not just in words, but feeling. It ended just as suddenly. I blinked, breath caught in my throat. Ollivander had sunk back into his chair, pale and shaking, but smiling still. "It is done." I sat back on my heels, stunned. Something ancient lingered inside me now. Not a burden—but a purpose.

"What was that?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "A gift," he said. "Wandlore is not just taught, Atticus. It's lived. And now... it lives in you."