#180 in Fanfiction || #1 in Hermione ||
In the language of literature, there exists a seemingly-concrete, antonymous relationship between good and evil, light and dark, hero and monster. And yet, we often disregard the transition from one to anothe...
The old Wandmaker looks particularly sickly and dreary as the quartet of young heroes enter the room, door closing to preserve the only privacy they can clench. From the way that the light plays across his face, Ollivander's age is present, like it once was masked by his bright blue eyes. But like with most people, the terrors of Lord Voldemort hang over his irises, diluting their once potent color into the exemplification of scars upon the brightest of wizards. His once curly hair that was once piled on his head, now hangs loosely in slight and untidy waves about his shoulders. And though the man's been through much torture, he still spares Harry Potter a feeble smile of potent magic...all that is good in this world.
"Forgive me if I don't get up," Ollivander offers with that worn expression, though it holds less weight, as the company seems to lighten the presence of those on the righteous side. Harry Potter is their savior--though he has yet to play the complete part--a sign of their struggles and promise for something better.
Yet, the Boy Who Lived cannot fully recognize his importance to the cause, for there is still much work to do before he can take up the mantle of heroics. "Mr. Ollivander, I need to ask you a few questions."
"Anything, m'boy, anything," the man responds, sitting up with some great effort, but spent wisely for the cause. He's always been on their side, but even the strongest buckle under trial.
"Can you identify these, sir?"
Harry pulls two wands from his pocket, both identifiable to Tom if only Harry had asked him. From the dark and crooked wood of one to the straight hawthorne of the other, the wand remarks on the wizard more than any other aspect of magical capacity or ownership.
Taking the former in hand--with the arsenal of wandlore and inventory upon his mind--Ollivander surveys the wand for noticeable qualities: "Walnut and dragon heartstring. Twelve and three quarter inches. Unyielding. This belongs to Bellatrix Lestrange."
Handing over the next and taking back Bellatrix's, Harry asks, "And this?"
"Hawthorn. Unicorn hair. Ten inches. Reasonably pliant. This was the wand of Draco Malfoy," Ollivander says, a curious thing in Tom's mind with the passive tense being used. Harry seems to notice the change as well.
"Was? Isn't it still?" Harry questions quickly.
"Perhaps not--" the old Wandmaker responds, elucidating upon the magic of wands "--if you won it from him. I sense its allegiance has changed."
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"You talk about wands like they've got feelings. Can think."
The shopkeeper that the Golden Trio and Tom Riddle once knew seems to reappear in a mysterious and opaque vision of wisdom, not begotten to evil. He repeats that age old phrase, and one that will come to destroy the ranks of darkness. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mister Potter. That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore."
