Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 06: The Price of Doing Business
The cool air of the bank lobby felt almost refreshing after the suffocating darkness of the underground vaults.
Harry walked out, his hands full with the wooden box containing his mother's journals and photographs. Griphook had produced the box for him, a simple pine chest with a brass latch, light enough for a child to carry.
Vernon and Dudley were waiting exactly where they had been left, perched on the stone bench. Dudley was examining a discarded goblin quill with fascination while Vernon stared at the massive chandelier overhead.
"There you are." Vernon boomed, rising to his feet. His voice echoed off the walls, earning them a sharp look from the nearest goblin teller.
He lowered his voice. "Did you get the money? Everything all right?"
"Yes," Harry hurried to respond before Petunia could speak. "Everything is fine. We have enough."
It was not quite a lie. He had arranged some funding, just not the kind Vernon would have approved of.
The loan had been Griphook's idea, though Harry had agreed to it quickly enough.
Inside a small side office, the goblin had laid out the terms with brutal efficiency.
"The bank is prepared to extend you a line of credit in the amount of five thousand galleons," Griphook had said. "Sufficient to cover your school supplies for all seven years, plus a reasonable allowance for personal expenses. Interest will accrue at a rate of percent per annum, beginning upon your graduation from Hogwarts. Repayment can be made in installments or in full at any time after."
Harry had done some quick math in his head, and three percent didn't sound terrible. Besides that, seven years is a very long time, so it seemed like a very generous offer.
So he had signed the parchment with a quill that stung his finger... which he recognized as a Blood Quill, and the deal was done. The loan was deposited into a new account under his name, and just like that, he was, for the first time in either of his lives, officially in debt.
Petunia had watched the entire exchange in silence, her face pale and her hands clenched in her lap. She had not spoken a word until they were back in the main hall.
"You shouldnt have done that, Harry," She had whispered. "Vernon and I could have paid for you. We are not rich, but we have savings, we could have-"
"No," Harry said firmly. "This is my own responsibility. I won't take your money, Aunt Petunia. You've already given me more than I ever expected."
She had looked at him then, with an expression he could not quite read. Perhaps it was pride, or something else entirely.
"You are so like her," She had murmured. "Lily....she never wanted anyone's help either."
Harry had no idea what to say to that. So he had said nothing, and they had rejoined Vernon and Dudley in the main hall.
"Right, then," Vernon said, consulting the list again. "Where shall we start?. The first thing on the list is a wand. There is the name of a recommended shop...Ollidander's, it says."
"Ollivander's," Harry repeated the name, and his heart skipped a beat. In the books, Ollivander's had been a magical experience. A dusty, ancient shop run by a pale-eyed old man who remembers every wand he has ever sold. The choosing of the wizard, the conection and the sense of wonder...
But after what he had seen today with the empty vault, he did not know what to expect from this visit to the wand shop.
"Let's go," he said.
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At the very least, the wand shop looked exactly as he had imagined it. Small, shabby, and slightly intimidating.
The gold lettering above the door was faded and peeling, and the single window displayed a single wand resting on a faded purple cushion. This place had certainly seen better days.
When Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside, he realized that 'shabby' was not quite the right word. This shop looked completely neglected and almost abandoned.
The interior was dimly lit and smelled of mold. Thousands of narrow boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling, each one labelled with a tiny, handwritten tag. But many of the boxes were coated in a thick layer of grime, as if they had not been touched in years.
A few had fallen from their stacks and lay where they had landed, their contents spilling out. Wands of various lengths and woods, some cracked, some snapped, all forgotten.
"Is this the right place?" Vernon wondered as he closed the door behind him. They had decided that Petunia and Duddley would wait outside while he accompanied Harry on his purchase, since the shop was so small.
"Hello? Is anyone here?" Harry called.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, a door at the back of the shop opened, and a woman stepped out.
She was not what Harry had expected. This was becoming a common occurrence.
The Ollivander of the books had been an old and eccentric-looking man, with wild white hair and pale eyes. This woman was middle-aged, perhaps forty or forty-five, with dark hair that had been pulled back into a bun.
Her face was narrow and sharp, her mouth a thin line, and her grey eyes held no warmth whatsoever.
She wore plain black robes, unadorned, and her hands were hidden inside her sleeves.
"Customers," she said with a flat, uninterested tone. "It's been a while."
"We're here for a wand," Vernon said, gesturing to Harry. "For him...he's starting Hogwarts this term."
The woman's grey eyes moved to Harry. "Name?" she asked.
"Harry Potter."
"Potter..." Something flickered across her face. "I am Isolde Ollivander," she said.
"Ehm..." Harry looked around as if trying to find someone else who was supposed to be here. "Are you perhaps Mister Ollivander's daughter?"
Her eyes became narrow. "If you wanted to see my father, you would leave disappointed, like everyone else. The old man died ten years ago. I'm making the wands now."
Harry opened his mouth to ask about what happened to the old wand maker, or even to express condolences, but the words died on his tongue when he saw the murderous expression she was making and decided it was better not to pry.
"Well, let us find you a wand, Mr. Potter. The sooner we begin, the sooner you can leave." She said before turning around and walking towards the countless shelves filled with boxes.
The wand selection process was nothing like the books had described.
In the original story, Ollivander had been chatty and enthusiastic, measuring Harry's arm, nostrils, and even the space between his eyes before pulling down boxes and handing him wands with a flourish.
This woman was nothing like her father.
She stood behind the counter, her arms still hidden in her sleeves, and watched him as an enchanted measuring tape seemed to move on its own, snaking around his body and taking measurements he did not understand.
Isolde Ollivander did not speak or smile, she waited.
"Your father," She said at last, just as the measuring tape seemed to have ended its job, "had a pliable wand of mahogany, eleven inches. Your mother's was willow, ten and a quarter inches, good for charm work."
Harry nodded, not knowing what else to do.
"But you are not your parents," Isolde said. You will not have their wands. A wand chooses the wizard, not the bloodline. Remember that."
She turned and walked into the stacks of boxes, her robes brushing the floor. Harry could hear her muttering to herself as she pulled boxes from the shelves, examined the labels, and put them back.
After what felt like an eternity, she returned with a stack of three boxes.
"Try this one," She said, opening the first.
The wand inside was pale and smooth, made of a wood Harry did not recognize. He picked up and...nothing happened. Not even a tiny spark.
"No," Isolde said, taking it from him before opening the second box.
This wand was darker, almost black, and had a handle carved into the shape of a serpent. Harry's fingers had barely closed around it when the tip erupted in a shower of red sparks. It was not the gentle golden glow he had been anticipating, but something that almost felt...angry.
Isolde hurried to snatch it back from his hand. "Definitely not," she said.
The third wand was unremarkable. Made of some kind of light wood with a slight twist in the grain near the handle. Harry picked it up with little expectation.
And he felt the world change.
Warmth flooded his fingers. It spread up from his hands to his shoulders and his chest, filling him with a sensation he could not quite describe, but it just felt...right.
In his grip, the wand seemed to hum in a steady vibration that matched the beat of his heart. Golden sparks erupted from the tip and danced in the dusty air of the shop like fireflies.
"Holly," she whispered. "Eleven inches...phoenix feather core."
Harry froze. This was the one...this was the original wand from the story.
However, the shoopkeper didn't seem to be pleased with the choice. "That wand..." she said slowly, "has a twin. The only other wand made from that same phoenix feather. It was sold thirty years ago."
Of course, Harry already knew this. The owner of the twin had to be Voldemort. But was it the same here?.
"Who has the twin?" He had to ask.
Isolde was silent for a long moment. "I cannot speak his name. Not her and not now...But I will give you one piece of advice, Mr. Potter: do not speak with anyone about the exact specs of your wand. The person who holds the twin is considered one of the most dangerous criminals in the wizarding world. If certain people learn that you share a core with him...they may give you some trouble."
She leaned closer, her grey eyes boring into his.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Harry swallowed. "Yes."
"Good." She stepped back, her face returning to its previous mask of indifference. "That will be seven Galleons."
Vernon was reaching for the small coin bag that Harry had handed to him at the bank when the door of the shop swung open with a sharp creak.
Two men entered. They were both tall and dressed in dark traveling cloaks, giving them quite the intimidating look.
Their faces were hidden in the shadows of their hoods, but Harry could see their pale, long-fingered hands, resting on the handles of what looked like wooden clubs secured at their belts.
The air in the shop suddenly grew colder.
"Isolde Ollivander," the taller of the two spoke first. "You know why we're here."
Isolde's expression did not change, but her posture became more tense. She reached under the counter and produced a small leather pouch, heavy with the clink of coins.
"The yearly fee," she said, holding it out. "It's all there."
The shorter man stepped forward and took the pouch, hefting it in his palm.
"Count it if you wish," Ollivander added.
The man shook his head. "That won't be necessary. We trust you, Miss Ollivander. You have always been so...compliant."
The words hung in the air like a threat.
Harry watched in shock as the two men tucked the pouch into their cloaks and turned to leave. The taller one paused at the door, his hooded head tilting slightly.
"Mister Potter," He said, and Harry's heart nearly stopped. "We heard you came to the Alley today. You look so much like your father. I'm sure the Headmaster is looking forward to meeting you finally."
Then they were gone, the door swinging shut behind them, and the shop was silent once more.
"Those two looked very shabby..." Commented Vernon.
Harry turned to Isolde. "Yearly fee, what was that about?. Who were those people?"
"It's the protection fee," she said bitterly. "That's what they call it. Every shop in Diagon Alley pays it. Those who dont..." she shook her head. "It's best if you forget what you saw. This is none of your concern."
Harry wanted to learn more about this. And he was getting the feeling that this had something to do with the fact that Mister Ollivander is no longer among the living.
"Take your wand, Mr. Potter. Take your family, and leave this place as soon as you can." She said.
Harry wasn't sure if she was just talking about Diagon Alley or the whole of Magical Britain.
"Thank you," he said, though he was not sure what he was thanking her for.
She did not respond.
He left the wand shop with a heavy heart.
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