The borrowed wand didn’t last, like anything borrowed.
It had done the job beautifully during the demonstration in Professor Flitwick’s class.
It had done the job beautifully during the first inversion of Lumos the previous evening.
But by the third day, in an empty courtyard where Cael had headed off to try some things alone – Professor McGonagall having told him, with the precise dryness of a woman handing a thirteen-year-old a hot furnace, *please test in low-traffic areas* – the wand was starting to act like a horse that knew nothing about riding.
Cael tried casting Lumos.
Out came a sphere of darkness.
It was smaller than the first sphere, with odd spots on it.
Ten minutes later he tried casting it again.
This time the sphere of darkness formed perfectly, just as neat and round as the first, except it stayed for nine seconds before dissipating instead of fading after only three.
He tried once more, and nothing happened at all.
The wand was sitting in his hands, perfectly uninterested and asleep, like a cat.
He stood there staring at the thing for a bit.
He turned it over, tried sight-aligning, checked to see if it was dirty or broken.
Not really.
It just wasn’t working, which reminded him how everyone acted when trying to start their car: going through the motions of investigation because otherwise they had nothing to do while waiting for the actual problem to announce itself.
He decided it was time to go and find Professor Flitwick.
He found him grading a stack of fourth year homework essays in his office.
The pile was quite high.
Flitwick brightened up immediately at the prospect of a disturbance, and gestured Cael to enter the office as eagerly as if he were trading in an hour of grading for literally anything else, even burning alive.
“Cael, my boy!
What can I do for you.” “Wand misbehaving,” “Show me.” He showed him.
They walked down to the demonstration room together.
Flitwick took the wand and cast Lumos himself with it.
Out came the most beautiful, clean sphere of light right at the tip, like perfect first year work.
Flitwick handed him back the wand, and Cael tried casting Lumos again.
Nothing.
“Hm,” “Hm,” Cael agreed.
“Not wand’s fault.
The wand works perfectly fine with me.” “It’s me,” “No, I don’t think this is a matter of fault.
*Polarity,*” Flitwick was already reaching into a drawer, moving like a person who’s had a certain idea percolating in the back of their mind all this time.
“Wands recognize their owner within a tolerance.
Most children fit almost any wand in their range.
However, some of them – Mr.
Potter is a case in point – may be particular.
In this case it seems like yours is – particular in a way the school’s reserve wands were not made to accommodate.” “They weren’t made to accommodate first years who still haven’t got their own wands.” “Of course.” “They whose magic happens to do the opposite of whatever they want it to, *at twice the power*,” Flitwick grinned over at him, showing his teeth.
“We should write to Ollivander,” “Right now?” “That very minute.
He answers to very few letters, he will answer this one.” — He answered that letter the next morning.
Professor McGonagall came to the table of Gryffindors the following Friday bearing the reply from Ollivander.
It consisted of three lines in handwriting so precise it looked engraved on stone tablets: *Headmaster* *Send him to me, or send me to him, either is fine.
I have in my back room three candidates for him that I will not sell to anyone else* *—G.O.* Underneath this were another three lines, written in slightly lighter ink: *The third one has been sitting there for a very long time.* Professor McGonagall looked at Cael over the letter.
“Saturday,” “I will come along, take you to Diagon Alley.” “Saturday,” Cael agreed.
His friend Ron, on the other side of him, nearly choked on his sausage.
“*Olllivander* actually answered his letter?
Cael, *mate!*” “So it seems,” “He doesn’t answer ninety-nine percent of them.
Once my dad sent him a Christmas card, and he says it is still sitting there in the pile, untouched.
He’s been in that place for *centuries*,” “He hasn’t been there for centuries, Mr.
Weasley.” “Dad says he has.” “Your father is given to romance,” and left.
— Diagon Alley had the smell of baked bread and of something metallic, slightly old, like a coin sitting in someone’s pocket for years.
Cael had no money – Professor McGonagall had settled it using what she described as “the school discretionary fund,” but he knew better, and planned to do something about it when he was older.
He had not asked how she paid for this; he intended to investigate this whole question at a future date.
Ollivander’s shop was devoid of customers, of assistants, of Ollivander himself, on first glance.
His shop smelled of instruments – wood, varnish, boxes, dust, of horse hair.
It had boxes of all sizes.
Boxes on the floor, on the ceiling, on the walls, on the table.
And a little table with a single brass bell on it.
Professor McGonagall did not ring the bell, she simply waited.
After several seconds, a soft voice drifted from behind the wall: *I’ll be right there.* Two minutes later Ollivander appeared, coming around the corner with three long boxes under his arm.
Cael was ready for his age.
He was unprepared for the degree of *interest*.
Pale eyes did not so much look at you as *categorize* you.
Like someone studying a rare butterfly that had escaped them for a month.
“Mr.
Mourne,” Ollivander set the three boxes on the table and did not say a word to McGonagall in greeting.
He only gave her a small nod, receiving another one, which is how two people knowing each other for forty years behave.
“Mr.
Ollivander,” “You inverted Lumos.” “Yes.” “And your Reparo broke a quill into sixteen pieces.” “*Approximately*.” “*Approximately.*” Ollivander’s mouth moved in the faintest smile.
“Yes, we will start with the obvious candidate.” He opened the first box.
Light wood.
Very light.
Cream.
“Hawthorn and unicorn hair, eleven and a quarter inches.
Try.” Cael picked it up.
It was warm in his hand.
He made a tiny gesture with it.
Like Ollivander wanted.
A small puff of green smoke appeared from the tip of the wand and then dissipated.
Ollivander took it back and placed back into the box without any comments.
The second box.
It was rather dark wood.
“Walnut and dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarters,” Ollivander told him.
Cael tried again.
This wand did not work.
It seemed indifferent, like politely rejecting someone you don’t want to associate with.
Third box.
Longer than the first ones.
“Thirteen and a half inches of blackthorn, thestral tail hair,” Ollivander said, carefully observing Cael.
Blackthorn, black almost and dark grain in it catching the light.
Thestral…
He had never met them.
But he knew what they were.
“Threstal,” Cael began.
He did not complete his question.
He heard Ollivander’s answer, though.
“Yes.” “Aren’t they…” “You cannot see them right now.
But yes, they are not, believe me, that ill omen people describe them.
They are very well-organized animals, and they eat the dead, and someone must do this job.” “Right.” Ollivander gave him a wand.
Just by placing his hands around it, he could hear that tiny click in his heart.
And the store seemed to stop breathing, to hold a breath for a moment while Cael was feeling his wand breathing with him, agreeing with him.
“Hm,” “Yeah.” “Try something, please.” Cael pointed his wand upwards and said: ‘Lumos’.
A tiny darkness sphere appeared at the end of his wand.
Exactly as long as he wished it to be, and it dissipated immediately.
It felt like turning a tap on and off.
Ollivander observed how the sphere appeared and disappeared with a satisfied expression.
“How long,” he finally asked.
“Did you keep this one?” he pointed to Cael’s wand, still held between his palms.
“Six years.” “Six years.” “I made this wand in nineteen eighty seven.
I tried selling it.
Each of my customers got results they haven’t even asked for and were not looking for.
Someone’s tea was frozen, another one’s locked drawer opened on its own, and there was a small breeze in the room once.
My customers returned their wands and said that they were unhappy.
I finally stopped trying to sell it.
This is one of wands that needs someone to share similar goals with.” “So that’s me?” “So that,” he answered slowly, looking at Cael inquisitively.
“is you.” It wasn’t Ollivander’s triumph in his eyes, just his usual calm interest and dry curiosity.
The price was named, and McGonagall paid for the wand using her discretionary money.
Cael told her: “I will reimburse you someday,” and she responded: “I am sure you will, Mr.
Mourne, in some fashion.” Wrapping the wand into soft paper, he said: “Take care of her.
She’s been waiting longer than some people’s life.” “I will.” “And Mr.
Mourne.” “Yes?” “Do try not to ruin your colleagues’ wands like this.” “I’ll do my best.” “It’s the *summoning*” — Ollivander chuckled.
“That I find objectionable.
You are ruining my sales here.” — This evening Cael sat on his bed with the new wand lying between his hands.
There was a notebook open in front of him on his bedspread, together with a pen and a small bottle of ink.
Now he had three knuts left, he had a debt to Ron Weasley that he took seriously, and the wand waiting for him for six years.
Turning to the next page, he wrote in very small handwriting: *Wand: blackthorn / thestral tail hair.
Thirteen and a half inches.* Then he looked at the note he just wrote.
He wrote beneath it: *Lumos — darkness, sphere, ~1m radius, ~3s.* He looked at the word *calibrated*, and underlined it without knowing that he would do it whenever he writes an important note.
He did not know this, yet.
He found this habit interesting, though.
How did it look good underlined?
He had to write a lot of notes, and it would become useful to have some sort of a marking system.
Then he wrote *Reparo* and stopped.
He couldn’t afford to break anything.
So he drew a blank line under it and noted: *to check tomorrow*.
And Cael started writing spells and things he was planning to test.
Thirty-one items on the list.
Among them, Avada Kedavra, and Cael did not intend to test it anytime soon.
Possibly never.
Nevertheless, he added it to the list.
He found the reason to make such a list — because it honestly describes the reality.
From the other side of the room, Harry observed him.
Watching Cael was something Harry did since the start of the week.
He did it with the curious attention of the boy who had been the strangest one in the whole school during two last years and was trying to decide whether this title belonged to him or not anymore.
“What are you doing?” he asked after a while.
“Making a list,” “Of?” “Spells.
I need to know what I’ve tested and what I didn’t.” Harry was thinking about it.
“This is quite sensible,” He sounded rather surprised.
“Thanks.” “Can I see?” Cael handed him a notebook, and Harry read down the list.
He stopped near the bottom of the list, but did not ask anything about it.
When he finished reading, he handed the notebook back to Cael.
“You will be really good at this,” “Maybe.” “Definitely,” Harry said surprisingly confidently.
Turning over, Harry pulled the curtains and went asleep.
In a few moments, Cael followed him.
Holding the new wand against his chest, Cael fell asleep in the dark room.