This is a one shot with four mini-stories, approximately 10,000 words, including the summary and author’s notes. Wand Stories was written in response to the Spring Faire Festival’s ‘First Wand’ story option and was recognized as an "Honorable Mention" by the Wizengamot at Sycophant Hex. (Written pre-HPB: I will not be updating the minor canon changes.)



Wand Stories by Sea Isle Witch


Wicked!

“Three up and two across,” Mrs Weasley recalled, tapping the bricks that opened the secret archway behind the Leaky Cauldron. Waving goodbye, a gangling boy with flaming red hair walked purposefully through and into Diagon Alley. The shops were not open yet, but he had convinced his mother to let him go early--and alone. He was excited by the idea of buying a wand at Ollivander’s.

In his first year at Hogwarts, Ron Weasley had used, with some success, an old wand that had once belonged to his brother, Charlie. He had broken that wand in his second year, and it had never been right, not even after he had Spello-taped it back together. He suffered through the year, miscasting spells, until he finally worked up the courage to tell his parents about the wand during summer holiday. The Weasleys weren’t happy about the prospect of shelling out the extra money needed to buy an expensive, new wand. His mother had yelled at him about it every chance she got, and had given him plenty of chores this summer, especially de-gnoming the garden, as punishment for his ’ungrateful disregard of property.’

But as luck would have it, his father had won a Daily Prophet contest, which enabled the Weasley family to go on holiday to Egypt to visit their eldest son. They even had enough gold left over to afford a few extras for the children. Ron had been given seven Galleons to purchase a new wand.

As he enjoyed the emptiness of the usually crowded street, Ron stopped to peer into the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. A pedestal inside the store proudly displayed a ‘Firebolt’, a new state-of-the-art racing broom.

“Wicked!” Ron blurted to himself.

I’d gladly trade Percy for one of those! he thought. Ron imagined himself triumphantly flying away from the store as Percy fell to work scrubbing the floors�”without magic!

Ron knew that today it was not a racing broom but a wand that he would take home. He realized with a start that this wand might be the first thing he’d ever bought new. As the sixth of seven children, Ron could think of little he possessed that hadn’t once belonged to an older brother. It was hard to grow up in the shadow of prefects and Head Boys, Quidditch players and notorious pranksters.

His two oldest brothers were already establishing themselves in the Wizarding world: one as a curse breaker in Egypt, the other as a dragon handler in Romania. The next in line, Percy, was on his way to being a right prat, and by the time Ron had gone to Hogwarts, the twins’ antics were legendary. Since Ginny was the only girl, everybody doted on her. And then there was him, just plain old Ron.

Ron had been anticipating this day ever since he was little, when he dreamed that his wand would make him the most powerful wizard in the world! As he grew older, he only wished for a spell which would make him a Quidditch player for the Chudley Cannons. Now, however, he would be proud to have a position on the Gryffindor team in spite of his broken wand.

He looked at the clock above Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Nine o’clock! He was anxious to get there. He checked his pocket to make sure his gold was still secure.

A few shops down stood his destination: Ollivander’s, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. As Ron approached, an old wizard slowly opened the shop door and looked at Ron with interest.

“Good Morning. Mr Weasley, I presume,” he stated more than questioned.

“Er, yes, that’s me!” sputtered Ron, surprised. It was as if Mr Ollivander had expected him. Ron wore a perplexed grin, as he followed the old wizard inside.

The wandmaker appraised Ron with silvery eyes that seemed to glow in the dim lighting of the shop. “Hmm…I’ve wanded your parents and your brothers. Those twins were quite difficult; they switched places on me every time I turned my back.”

Ron’s grin widened, imagining Fred and George up to their usual tricks.

“Is there only one of you today?” he inquired, peering around behind Ron.

“Yes, just me, Ron,” he told Mr Ollivander, glancing around to make sure he was actually alone. “But there’s another one of us, my sister, Ginny. She’s using Percy’s old wand, though.”

Ollivander frowned. “Why are you only now coming to me for a wand? Surely you are older than eleven. You’ve been at Hogwarts for a while?” he probed.

“I was using Charlie’s old wand, and it was damaged in a, er, car accident,” Ron explained sheepishly.

“Would that have been the car accident involving the grand Whomping Willow I read about in the Daily Prophet?” Ollivander queried, his eyebrows raised.

“That’s the one, Mr Ollivander. Harry Potter and I missed the Hogwarts Express, so we were in the car, and we crashed into the Whomping Willow. My wand broke,” Ron told him, remembering the traumatic episode with much regret.

“Wand arm out, please,” the old wizard requested, shaking his head.

“The wand chooses the wizard or witch,” he stated flatly as he measured Ron’s right arm. “It doesn’t do to use another’s, because that wand did not choose you.”

Ron shrugged. There was nothing to say. He certainly wasn’t going to say that he was used to second-hand rubbish.

“All right then, let’s see if…” Ollivander chattered to himself, as he shuffled down the long rows of boxed wands. He put his finger against the side of his nose and started to hum a vaguely familiar tune.

Ron sniggered, he couldn’t help himself. It was more to relieve the pressure of being questioned than for the silly humming. At that very moment, Ollivander spun around and eyed Ron sternly. Ron jumped! He didn’t want Mr Ollivander to think that he was laughing at him.

As though nothing happened, the old wizard proposed, “Let’s see how this one fits.” He produced a bright red box decorated with golden runic symbols. Ollivander lifted the lid and…

“A-a-achoo!” Ron sneezed. A purple powder sprayed across the counter.

“Not this one!” exclaimed Ollivander. He snapped the lid shut and pulled it away from Ron. “You are definitely allergic to it!”

“I didn’t know you could be allergic to a wand,” Ron said, dumbfounded.

“Oh, yes! I once had a near deadly reaction with a young lady, from a pure-blood family too. She took one look at the box and sprouted green boils all over her body. The boils grew at an alarming rate and the ones on her face almost suffocated her! I had to Incendio the wand and box on the spot, and send her by Floo directly to St. Mungo’s for a most unpleasant treatment,” he recalled, gesturing toward the green marble fireplace that stood on the side wall.

“I’m glad that didn’t happen to me!” exclaimed Ron. “Did she ever get a wand?”

“At the request of her anxious parents and Professor Dumbledore, I made a special trip to her home the very next week. I took a selection of the finest woods to test on her, and it transpired that cedar, known for good health and protection, was the most suitable for her sensitive constitution. I must say that I made a beautiful wand, with a Faerie Dust core. Cedar and Faerie Dust were the right choices there, yes indeed.”

“Faerie Dust?” inquired Ron, who was amazed that Faerie Dust could power a wand. “Wouldn’t that make her sneeze?”

“Contrary to the name, Faerie Dust is known for its purity and soothing properties--perfect for such unusual circumstances. Now, let us find a wand for you!”

Ron nodded and watched Mr Ollivander closely as he pulled out a shiny white box. It was adorned with tiny blue enchanted faeries moving across the box. He stared at Ron for a moment and then slowly opened the lid. Ron looked at the wand inside: a very delicate, white cedar wand with a handle painted in baby blue.

“That’s for girls, that is!” Ron exclaimed taking a step back, shaking his head furiously. A look of horror spread across his freckled, reddening face.

“Are you sure?” Ollivander’s mouth was twitching slightly. “It’s allergy-free!”

“I’d rather have boils than be seen waving THAT around! I’d never live it down!” Ron said panicking, his face turning the shade of a beet.

“As you wish, as you wish,” Ollivander repeated calmly, trying to pacify his customer. He needs to open his mind a bit to what might be good for him!

The next box he selected from the shelf was longer and wider than the rest. Ron started to calm and stood straighter when he saw the majestic brown box, embossed with images of heroic wizards. Ollivander carefully removed the lid and folded back the emerald velvet protective cloth.

Excitedly, Ron reached into the box. He pulled out the stubbiest excuse for a wand he had ever seen! It was only about six inches long, thick and it barely had a handle!

“I can’t use this! I’ll be the laughing stock of Hogwarts! My brothers would never leave off teasing me!” Ron was disgusted to even be holding the offending squat, little wand!

“I know it is a little…unusual, but this regal wand might be right for you!” Ollivander nodded and assured him with a salesman’s smile. “Give it a wave, Mr Weasley.”

“I can’t! Not this one! It’s not right!” Ron insisted desperately. He dropped the stubby wand back into the deceiving box.

“Well, if you’re sure. I just don’t know what else to try……” the old wizard admitted, scratching his head.

“I’m absolutely sure!” Ron declared with conviction.

The old wizard turned from Ron and walked towards the back room to search through the additional stacks of wands he kept there.

Back out in the shop Ron was sweating. What if he was doomed to wield some freakish wand? He’d just have to go home and try to Spello-tape Charlie’s old wand again. He seemed to have no other choice. He turned to leave.

“We are not finished, Mr Weasley!”

Ron spun around, afraid of what might be forced upon him next.

“I…I think I made a mistake. I don’t need a wand after all,” Ron lied, while backing towards the door.

“But you haven’t tried this one yet,” Mr Ollivander coaxed, cradling a box in his arms.

“That’s okay. I have to go now,” Ron insisted.

“What a shame,” Ollivander sighed, glancing at the wand box, giving it a pat like father would his child. “This is a very old, very special wand. It has a fierce spirit that will not compromise. I’ve always felt it was waiting for someone…quite remarkable,” mentioned the old wizard. He placed the plain gold box gently on the counter.

Ron was worried. If it is so special it will surely reject me, he thought glumly. He looked at the simple box and at Mr Ollivander’s sympathetic face. He gathered his courage and walked back up to the counter in true Gryffindor spirit. His hand shook, as he lifted the lid. Ron pulled back the red paper and gasped! Brash and masculine, it was the finest wand Ron had ever seen.

“Fourteen inches, willow, containing a single unicorn tail-hair,” the wizard revealed. “Go on,” he urged. “What have you got to lose?”

Holding his breath, Ron picked up the dark, manly wand. He immediately felt something that could only be described as a magical connection. Holding this piece of ancient wood gave him confidence and strength. He had never felt that with Charlie’s old wand. This one called out to something deep in his soul. This was his first realwand!

Ron waved the wand, and red stars shot out from the end. “Wicked!” Ron breathed, almost bursting with pride.

“The right wand for the right wizard�”at last,” Mr Ollivander proclaimed with satisfaction, surveying his work. “Some words of advice, however, Mr Weasley,” he stated, clearing this throat to gain the boy’s attention. “The next days will be critical in establishing a lasting bond with your wand. You must take your wand with you wherever you go; keep it next to you while you sleep. Handle it with respect, and it will become entirely yours.”

“Yes, sir,” Ron vowed, knowing he would do anything to keep this wand. He couldn’t wait to show his family and friends--especially Harry--the wand that had selected him.



Freaky New World

A gawky young girl walked with trepidation, trying not to attract attention. She was overburdened with several heavy parcels, some containing books, another �“ a cauldron! It was hard for her not to stare at the strange people walking about in colourful, flowing clothing and talking animatedly to one another. Secretly, she thought the people looked like freaks.

She stared at a shop as she passed by; her nose wrinkling at the overpowering odour of what she thought was boiling cabbage. I can’t even begin to imagine what they sell in there, she thought, shivering.

“Having a good time?” her companion, an attractive teenage girl, asked as they made their way down Diagon Alley on a busy Friday afternoon.

“Um, I guess,” muttered the young girl disparagingly. She still wasn’t convinced she belonged here.

“I know it must seem strange at first, but don’t worry. You’ll grow to love this life, these people, and this world; just as much as I do,” predicted Anne Smith, a Muggle-born witch, who had just completed her seventh year at Hogwarts. She and her parents were acting as official school liaisons to a Muggle family to help them through this most unusual transition. Today, she had brought Petunia Evans to Diagon Alley to purchase her first-year school supplies.

“Now, what’s next on the list?” Anne asked kindly.

Petunia consulted her letter. “Only the robes and, er, the wand,” she reported.

“The robes are simple. Let’s get them next,” Anne recommended, as she led the way into a quaint stop called Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.

Soon, skinny Petunia was balancing awkwardly on a stool while a middle-aged witch, bedecked in shocking blue, magically hemmed her school robes.
To say that she felt odd standing there would be an understatement. She had never seen anything like this woman’s magic, and it made Petunia uneasy. Petunia wondered why the school uniforms included long, black robes. What would they make them do there in these clothes?

Her parents were shocked, but proud, when she received her Hogwarts’ letter. They had insisted she give the school a try, but Petunia had serious reservations. Petunia secretly believed they were eager to send her away to the weird boarding school, so that they could spend more time with her younger sister, Lily. Lily had always been pretty, clever, and popular, all the things Petunia was not. Petunia just knew Lily was her parents’ favourite.

“Now, off to Ollivander’s,” directed Anne enthusiastically, as she led the way carrying the package that contained Petunia’s school uniforms. Petunia trailed behind her, feeling very much out of place. Dread was building up inside her as they approached the wandmaker’s shop.

“Since 382 B.C.? They must be joking!” Petunia snorted.

“It’s no joke,” Anne corrected her. “The Ollivander family have been wandmakers since ancient times. This is the premiere shop in all of Britain.”

The younger girl was at a loss for words. Making wands since ancient times? This was far stranger than she had ever imagined!

Entering Ollivander’s, Petunia sneezed immediately. The store was extremely dusty and dimly lit. Probably haven’t dusted since 382 B.C! thought Petunia critically, as she blotted her nose on her monogrammed linen handkerchief.

Hesitantly following Anne up to the counter, Petunia gaped at the old man who stood in anticipation. He’s so creepy! Petunia thought, as she desperately tried to figure out a way to escape this madness without hurting Anne’s feelings.

“Good afternoon, Mr Ollivander, this is Petunia Evans. She is here to find her very first wand,” Anne announced, while patting Petunia on the shoulder. Petunia relaxed a tiny bit.

“Hello, Miss Evans,” responded Ollivander, with a curt bow of his head.

He eyed the other girl. “Ah, yes, Miss Smith. “Apple wood. 10-½”. Unicorn. Flexible,” Ollivander said, remembering her wand distinctly. “Is it in good order? Keeping it polished?”

“Oh, yes! It’s fabulous! I have a special wand-polishing cloth I use weekly,” Anne declared, proudly showing him her wand. The old wizard inspected the intricately-carved wand and nodded his approval.

Petunia was confused about what had just been said. She jumped when Mr Ollivander turned his attention back to her.

“Well, now, Miss Evans. A wand is the most basic tool of the Wizarding world. It helps you focus your magical energy. The wand actually chooses the wizard, or in your case the witch, and will only bond with its rightful owner,” Ollivander told her, reciting his standard introductory explanation to this obviously Muggle-born person.

Petunia looked at him as though he were crazy. She managed to remember her manners, however, and gave him the slightest nod to let him know she was at least listening, even though she was having a hard time believing any of it.

“A wand is characterized by the length, wood, and movement, as well as the magical element that resides in the core,” continued the old wizard. “This combination makes each wand unique.”

“Right,” Petunia sniffed, when he paused. She continued to scrutinize her surroundings, not believing that she was actually here, having this conversation. The fear inside her was rising.

Ollivander cleared his throat and continued, “Choosing a wand is a remarkable process, Miss Evans. You may see a wand you desire, or you might hold one and feel a strong current, connecting you to it. However, there is much more to consider. Firstly, the wand wood should match your personality and your projected use--which may not be known at this early date. Secondly, the user must have positive associations with the creature contributing the magical core element. Thirdly, there must be proper intention from the wand user which depends upon their innermost desires. You see, there are many unknown factors involved in choosing a wand, Miss Evans, and that is why we rely on the spirits.”

“Oh!” Petunia gasped. Spirits? She didn’t like the sound of that! Petunia glanced around the shop, scanning for ghosts, as her stomach tighten into a knot.

“I will need to measure you, and I will ask you a few simple questions to get an idea of what may be appropriate. Please sit.” He motioned toward a spindly chair that flew up to meet Petunia’s bottom.

Petunia was appalled! How rude! she thought, but sat down anyway since her legs were starting to feel like rubber. Anne put a comforting hand on Petunia’s shoulder. Petunia grasped Anne’s hand tightly, clawing into it with her fingernails.

The wandmaker approached her and bent down so that his nose was inches away from hers. With his strange, silvery eyes, he gazed into her blue ones, which were wide with fear. After what seemed like an eternity to Petunia, the old wizard stepped back and produced a small tape measure.

“Are you right- or left-handed?”

“R-r-right,” Petunia stammered.

“Hold it out now, please.”

He flicked the tape measure toward her. She tried to dodge out of the way while remaining on the seat. The device stopped short of hitting her, unrolled and proceeded to measure her on its own. It checked her forehead, her arm circumference and length, her thumb length, and astonishingly, the distance between her nostrils!

“That will be sufficient,” Ollivander voiced to the tape measure, which stopped immediately and flew back into his outstretched hand. He focused, once again, on Petunia. “Miss Evans, let me ask you a question,” he broached, knowing that this young girl would be very hard to wand. He could sense her intentions were not positive.

Petunia tried to look away from his eerie eyes. Anne removed her hand from Petunia’s death grip, but patted her back for reassurance.

“If you were in a forest and there were three trees, which would they be?”

“W-w-what?” Petunia didn’t understand why he was asking about trees at a time like this.

“Just answer as best as you can,” whispered Anne, who was still patting Petunia’s back.

“I don’t know! Um, well, I guess there would be a cherry tree and, um…just make that three cherry trees, all alike, all in a row,” she finally managed.

“If you were an animal, what would you eat?”

“An animal?” Petunia gasped, wrinkling her nose.

“An animal!” he repeated steadily.

“I would eat hay, I imagine.”

“Eureka!” the old wizard exclaimed triumphantly, causing Petunia to shrink back in alarm.

He spun around and shuffled to the farthest end of the shop. Stooping, he reached for the very bottom box on the very last row.

“This, Miss Evans,” he began excitedly, without regard to the impact his words could have on the girl, “is a wand that my great-grandfather made for a young witch. She was never able to claim it, however. She was killed riding her beloved horse through a forest when a tree fell on her--a cherry tree!”

Anne stifled a laugh, but Petunia flinched. This was getting worse and she was near hysterics.

He untied a ribbon from the faded green box and unfolded the chestnut-brown silk lining. He held the box directly in front of Petunia.

She peered down at the contents. It looked like a twig! She turned to Anne with questioning eyes that were filling with tears.

“Go on, Petunia. Pick it up, and see if it chooses you.”

Petunia bravely reached her hand out, but quickly pulled it back. “I just don’t think this is right for me!” she exclaimed.

“You will not know until you try,” the wizard insisted.

Petunia reached into the box and picked up the wand. Nothing happened--not at first. A moment later, Petunia’s hand started to shake violently. The tremors advanced up her arm and travelled through her torso down into her legs until she was convulsing uncontrollably. Then her feet left the ground. She was levitating!

“Help me!” she screamed desperately.

Anne grabbed Petunia’s right arm. She seized the wand and threw it with all her might at Mr Ollivander. The wizard caught it squarely with the open box and snap shut the lid. Petunia fell to the ground and promptly fainted.

The next thing she remembered was the aroma of freshly brewed tea and a cup touching her lips. She took a sip and sat up. “Where am I?” she asked, still dazed.

Ollivander had conjured a plum-velvet chaise lounge with gold-bullion fringe. Petunia was reclining on the chaise, propped up by several sumptuous, down pillows. Anne was perched on a rolled arm, holding the cup of tea.

“Petunia, you are fine. We are at Ollivander’s, the wand shop. Have some more tea,” Anne offered softly.

Petunia jumped up from the chaise, knocking Anne off the arm and spilling the tea all over the floor. In her panic to escape, she slipped on the wet floor and fell on her bum with a thud.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Ollivander boomed, waving an impressive, gold wand. Petunia rose from the floor and was gently placed on the chaise.

Anne performed a quick Scourgify, and the spilt tea vanished. She repositioned herself at the foot of the chaise.

Petunia was too frightened to speak. She was shivering. Ollivander conjured a soft lap rug of sage-green wool. Anne gently tucked the fabric around Petunia, who pulled the cover over her head.

“Miss Evans, I have not seen such a reaction to one of my wands in the past ninety-seven years. I am distressed to have caused you such grief. But do not worry. I think a Beginner’s Wand is what is in order here. Nothing too powerful, mind you, just a nice, gentle practice wand. How does that sound?” Ollivander’s calm voice was just above a whisper.

Petunia couldn’t answer, so Anne responded for her. “That sounds lovely, Mr Ollivander. Please tell us more.”

“A Beginner’s Wand can be used by someone who is, er, sensitive to magical objects. The most common use is by pure-blood families who wish to teach youngsters some introductory magic, prior to their enrolment at Hogwarts. A full-fledged wand normally has a powerful magical core, such as a dragon heartstring, but a Beginner’s Wand most often uses a magical herb,” the ancient wizard explained.

He slowly walked back to the rows of wands and found a pale pink box that was decorated with white daisies. He conjured a chair next to the girls and spoke to the covered figure.

“This, Miss Evans, is a practice wand.” He removed the lid and pulled out a very dainty wand that had a single, painted daisy on the handle.

“Oh, look Petunia,” said Anne encouragingly. “It is so ladylike! It reminds me of you.” Petunia peeked out from under the throw. She looked at the small wand curiously.

Ollivander handed the wand to Anne. “It’s made of poplar, a wood known for decoration and pleasantness. The core is the herb dittany, which is a key ingredient in many helpful potions.”

“How does the dittany power the wand?” Anne wondered.

“The flowers give off a gas that produces a gentle blue flame, which is enough enchantment for a practice wand.”

Anne handled the wand thoughtfully. She held it out for Petunia.

A hand crept out from the covers and tentatively took the wand. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. The daisy wand was very appealing, and that alone made Petunia feel special. She liked pretty things, so she couldn’t help but smile, in spite of her ordeal.

“Don’t ever ignore your wand or forget about it. Polish it weekly; it’s like a hug for your wand. If you should decide to give up the wand for another in the future, the best thing to do is to bring it to me, and I will care for it until another can pair with it,” Ollivander instructed.

Petunia was barely listening. She was marvelling at her wand. My wand--a pretty wand just for me!

Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all…

~ ~ ~

Petunia Evans was sorted into Hufflepuff House, but left Hogwarts just before Christmas break--for good. She was unable to make the adjustment into the magical world. However her younger sister, Lily, was able to thrive at Hogwarts a few years later--causing increased sibling rivalry.

Petunia still has the wand, though. It is hidden, along with her private correspondence, under a particularly creaky stair tread at number four Privet Drive. When she is alone in the house, Petunia polishes her wand with a cloth made of the softest lamb’s wool, just as Mr Ollivander instructed, so many years ago.



A Gift

“Hurry along now, Neville! We must complete our shopping this afternoon. I have other things to do this week,” Mrs Longbottom said, calling over her shoulder, as she bustled down Diagon Alley. Even though it was late August, the matron was wearing heavy, dark green robes and was carrying her signature red handbag.

“Yes, Gran,” said the round-faced boy. He kept his head down as he walked. He was extremely shy and did not like his grandmother raising her voice in the street for everybody to hear. But thankfully, nobody paid any attention.

Mrs Longbottom saw a woman she knew and was soon engaged in a loud discussion about the policies of current Minister of Magic. “They need more people like my Frank; he was the best the Ministry had ever seen,” she boasted about her son who had once been an Auror.

“You know my grandson, Neville, poor boy,” she tilted her head at the boy. “He will be attending Hogwarts next week. Well, if anyone can help him develop his magic, it’s Dumbledore. Yes, I expect Dumbledore will know what to do with him.”

Neville wanted to shrink into the cracks in the path. He was looking forward to distancing himself from his Gran and her low expectations, not that he had any high ones for himself. He hoped at school he would be able to blend in with the masses and go about his business, without the constant scrutiny of his often-overbearing grandmother.

After waiting a very long time, his grandmother finally wrapped up her conversation and called for him to follow her into the apothecary to buy potions ingredients. Gran managed to work the clerk into a tizzy. Neville wanted to run outside, but he didn’t dare, for fear of the additional embarrassment it might cause him. So he just stood quietly beside a display cabinet, wanting to meld into the woodwork until all the required elements were purchased.

“What’s next on your list, Neville?” she demanded squinting, as they stepped out into the bright sunlight.

“Wand,” asserted the young wizard in a small voice. He had been looking forward to getting his very own wand! Maybe all I need is a good wand to really get my magic going, he thought hopefully.

“No need to buy a wand,” his Grandmother told him. “You will use your father’s; he would want you to have it, and Merlin knows it would do to have a little of his magic to rub off on you. If that’s everything, we’re off to the Leaky Cauldron. The Floo will have us home in time for tea.”

Neville hung his head even lower, his bitter disappointment evident, but unnoticed by his Grandmother.

~ ~ ~

Six years later, Neville was standing in front of Ollivander’s. He looked up at the sign with its gold letters spelling Makers of Fine Wands. Neville longed for a fine wand.

Neville and his Gran walked into the cramped shop. There were no furnishings to speak of, except a faded, purple cushion in the storefront window displaying a single wand. Neville noticed there was a footed urn near the side window containing a droopy plant and an old chair in the middle of the shop.

“Good afternoon, �–lvir!” Teresa Longbottom greeted the old wizard warmly, the sour look on her face replaced with a genuine smile.

“Teresa! How good it is to see you after such a long time!” �–lvir Ollivander returned the smile as he took the witch’s hand and patted it affectionately.

“You’ve met my grandson, Neville.”

“I am very glad to see you again, Neville. I believe the last time we met, you were a baby,” he recalled, offering his hand.

Neville stood straighter and shook the wizard’s hand firmly. “Hello, Mr Ollivander,” Neville managed respectfully, but curiously. It seemed his Gran knew the wandmaker well.

“Your grandfather was a dear friend of mine in the old days,” Ollivander explained, answering Neville’s unspoken question. “I also know your mother and father. How they are?”

“No change, �–lvir, and sadly, none expected,” Teresa Longbottom replied evenly.

“Such a shame,” Ollivander sighed, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“Neville was using Frank’s wand, but it was damaged beyond repair in recent events at the Ministry of Magic. Perhaps you read about it in the Daily Prophet, �–lvir? It seems my Neville has grown into a courageous young man,” she told him proudly.

“But, for now,” she turned to Neville, waving her finger at him, “I expect you to wait until you are of age and properly trained, to go waging war against Death Eaters!” his grandmother scolded. She loved her grandson, but her brusque manner didn’t always show her affection for him.

“Yes, Gran,” Neville agreed out of habit, absently rubbing his once broken nose. All summer long he had heard her ranting, alternating between how proud she was of him for sticking with his friends in a time of crisis--truly a Longbottom Gryffindor--and lecturing him about how fortunate it was that he had not gotten himself killed.

“It’s a pity that Frank’s wand has been damaged. Much good work was performed with that particular one,” Ollivander remembered. “However, Teresa, I must remind you that a wand is only meant for that one person it chooses. Mr Longbottom, here, should have had his own wand long before now.”

Teresa Longbottom, for once, had nothing to say.

“Shall we proceed with the selection of your wand, Mr Longbottom?” Ollivander invited.

“Yes, sir,” replied Neville, looking at the wandmaker with even greater interest. It was not everyday someone could gain control of a conversation with Neville’s grandmother around!

“A good wand is a friend you can always count on…” Mr Ollivander began.

“Now, I think a simple wand is in order for Neville,” Teresa Longbottom interrupted. “Herbology is his best subject, and he won’t be doing much wandwork there. As far as fighting in the war, we shan’t worry about that right now!” It was clear she expected Mr Ollivander to agree.

“Oh, would you look at that!” Ollivander bellowed suddenly, nodding toward the front window. “There goes Mrs King, no doubt off to the sale at Murphy’s Magical Storehouse! She’ll buy everything in sight, that one!” he said deliberately.

“Agnes King? I am going to have to head her off, if the rest of us are going to benefit from that sale!” Teresa Longbottom muttered darkly to herself as she tightened her grip on her handbag, preparing for her own assault at Murphy’s. As she wrenched open the shop door, she halted abruptly and turned back to address her grandson.

“Neville dear, Mr Ollivander will look after you. I’ll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron in two hours’ time. Keep your head about you, and don’t wander into Knockturn Alley! Stay close to the shops you know, and do not vex me by being late! Visiting hours at St. Mungo’s are short today, and I’m sure your parents will want to see your new wand.” She tossed a small bag of gold at Neville. “You may purchase a little something extra for yourself as well,” she allowed as she hurried off.

Neville caught the bag, in spite of his astonishment. Two whole hours in Diagon Alley without Gran--and with some gold! I’ll be able to go to Slug & Jiggers, Fortescue's and Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes! he revelled, imagining the glorious afternoon ahead of him.

“Your wand, Mr Longbottom,” Ollivander reminded, trying to regain Neville’s interest, “enhances the magical ability within you. Your talent will grow as you learn more about yourself and the world around you. A good wand will help you in this journey.”

Neville barely listened to the words; he had learned to disregard adults who talked at him, rather than to him. Amid his daydreaming, Neville’s attention was caught by the wilting plant by the window. Was that dittany of Crete ‘Origanum dictamnus’ or fraxinella ‘Dictamnus albus’? Neville knew the two plants were often confused.

�–lvir Ollivander considered the young man before him. He must have had a difficult time growing up, not really knowing his parents or his grandfather. Teresa had always been a strong-willed witch, and she had to be to get through the tragedy in her life. She would not be one to shower her grandson with praise, regardless of how fiercely she loved him.

“Let me tell you about your grandfather,” Ollivander suggested, trying another way to reach the boy. Neville shifted his focus to the old wizard.

“Your grandfather, Nathan Longbottom, was one of the finest wizards I’ve ever known,” Ollivander stated, then paused. He conjured two masculine chairs of dark brown leather. A small table and tea service also appeared, as he motioned for Neville to join him.

Pouring the tea, he continued, “Nathan and I had shared a compartment on the Hogwarts Express. We were both nervous, it being our first year. Although he was later sorted into Gryffindor and I went into Ravenclaw, we struck up a lasting friendship. We had many things in common--our mutual interest in Herbology, for instance. My interest stemmed from the family business,” he said, gesturing towards the thousands of wand boxes that filled the shop. “Nathan wanted to become a healer.”

“But Grandfather was a Ministry Official. He worked with Magical Law Enforcement,” Neville objected.

“Yes, he did end up there, but first, he wanted to be a healer,” the older wizard explained. “He told me that he had always known how things felt, not just people and animals, but trees and plants too.” The old wizard sipped his tea.

“Oh!” Neville exclaimed, surprised. “I do that! I can’t help but notice the wilting dittany over there,” he blurted, pointing to the plant. “It’s almost as if it’s calling to me.”

“Yes, I imagine that plant would have been hard for Nathan to ignore, as well,” Ollivander replied. He now knew Neville possessed the same gift of empathy.

Neville smiled, understanding something significant about himself for the first time. He shared a gift with his grandfather! He had always thought his loneliness had made him think his unusual thoughts.

Ollivander took a sip of his tea and went on. “Nathan excelled at Herbology. He went on wood collecting expeditions with my family and me during summer holidays when we were both young. When he was older, he spent many hours in the greenhouses tending the plants. In fact, those Hogwarts greenhouses were our favourite place to take our special girls�”Teresa and Mary.” Ollivander paused for a moment, misty eyed, thinking of his late wife and his dear friend.

“But how did Grandfather end up at the Ministry instead of St.Mungo’s?” Neville inquired, clearly torn between listening to his family history and the ailing plant.

“In those days, the Ministry needed people in Magical Law Enforcement. They recruited heavily among the Sixth and Seventh Years. When they found out about Nathan’s gifts, they wanted him. He was offered an Auror apprentice position with a healthy salary and fringe benefits, unheard of among new hires. Nathan realized he could provide for a family much sooner with that career, and so he took the job and married Teresa straight out of Hogwarts.”

“But didn’t he regret not being a healer?” Neville asked.

“No, Nathan was blissfully happy in the life he had chosen. He was madly in love with your grandmother. The extra money he brought in with his exciting job enabled him to develop a medicinal herb garden. Your grandfather always donated his bounty to various medical practitioners in Britain, including some Muggle herbalists. He was well respected in many communities.”

At home, Neville had never heard any of this. He turned his gaze back to the wizard, eager for more.

“Such wonderful memories I have of your grandfather! Yes, Nathan Longbottom was as fine a wizard as ever lived. And you, Neville, are very much like him.”

“Me? Like him? I could only hope…”

Ollivander interrupted him. “Your grandfather would know what to do with that plant over there. Care to give it a go?”

“Oh, yes! I was hoping you would allow me,” Neville exclaimed, knocking over the tea table as he stood.

“Never mind about that,” Ollivander said dismissively, waving his wand and righting the table and the service. “Go ahead.”

“Origanum albus,” recognized Neville, as he leaned in to study the tired plant. The usually procumbent white, wooly stems were flat, gray and withered. No flowers could be seen. The small, grey leaves, were not the usual velvety texture, but were soggy and molding looking.

Ollivander moved swiftly to the shelves and selected a green wand box. He was back before Neville noticed.

“Well, I think the main problem is fungi,” Neville decided, examining the leaves. “I spent a lot of time reading about magical fungi this summer,” he explained, not embarrassed anymore about his attraction to Herbology.

“What is the cure for such a predicament?” Ollivander prodded.

“I would use an anti-fungi hex first, followed by a fertilizing charm, and then it needs plenty of water and sunlight,” Neville recommended without hesitation.

Ollivander handed Neville a wand. Neville accurately cast the hex and charm. As Mr Ollivander watered the plant, Neville applied the Lumos spell to simulate sunlight.

Neville stood there satisfied, wand in hand, watching the plant grow healthy and strong almost immediately. Showy purple flowers burst forth, bringing a lovely fragrance.

“Well done, Neville! Thank you! Your grandfather would be immensely proud!” Mr Ollivander patted the young wizard on the back. “So, I take it that wand will do?” he asked jovially.

“Wand?” Neville repeated, looking at the wand in his hand.

“Yes, a magnificent wand, if I do say so myself!” Ollivander boasted. “It’s oak, which is known for its strength and endurance, 13-3/8”, sturdy, yet supple. The core is a heartstring from a Norwegian Ridgeback, if memory serves. While this wand will work well for charms in Herbology, it is also excellent for defensive spells, if you should need that feature as well. Most importantly, your grandfather actually selected the branch from which this wand was made.”

Neville looked at the golden wand in his hand with awe. The handle was richly carved with oak leaves. Neville knew this wand wanted him as much as he wanted it. “I’ll take it!” Neville stated confidently. “And thank you for telling me about my grandfather, Mr Ollivander.”

Leaving the shop, Neville’s heart swelled with the most joy he had ever felt in his sixteen years of life. His grandfather had loved plants, but had become an Auror. Perhaps, after all, there was a place for Neville Longbottom in the Wizarding world!



Knowledge is King

Severus Snape had long been able to perform charms, hexes and jinxes using an old wand once belonging to his great, great, great-grandfather. Passed down the line, it had been used by generations of Snape children prior to getting their own wands. Today was the day that Severus Snape would be purchasing his own wand, the one that would be pivotal to his further development as a wizard. It was a rite of passage, and Severus was elated to be going off to boarding school with a new wand in hand.

The pale boy with greasy hair walked down Diagon Alley, avoiding eye contact with everyone. His black robes billowed behind him as he moved stealthily between the groups of shoppers, unnoticed except by one.

“Bloody hell! Look at that pasty bloke!” yelled a young wizard, pointing directly at Severus. The boy was surrounded by several of his friends who all turned to stare.

“Oy! Your Mum’s on the Floo! You’re needed back in the dungeons!” one of his companions shouted in an obnoxious voice. His mates roared with laughter.

Severus shot a furtive glance at the group. I’ll see those two again later. Once I have my wand, I’ll give them a nasty rash along with fish lips and donkey ears! He had learned many hexes from his abusive father, who would unfortunately use them on Severus anytime he wanted a laugh.

Severus continued to slip around merchants’ carts and clusters of people chatting until he reached Ollivander’s. He tried to slide into the store unnoticed, but the annoying tinkle of the bells announced his arrival.

A young wizard was standing with a new wand in hand, while his mother paid. The fine-looking boy with dark hair glanced at Severus and rolled his grey eyes, motioning with his head toward his mother.

Still fuming from the teasing, Severus overreacted and mistook the meaning of the boy’s actions. He gave the boy his most evil sneer. Severus had practiced this look in the mirror, so there would be no mistaking its meaning: If you know what’s good for you, do not bother me!

The boy appraised Severus, his eyebrows raised. He gave Severus his most condescending smirk. Watch out! he mouthed, menacingly.

Severus continued to sneer defiantly. The other boy didn’t break his gaze until he was ushered out of the shop by his wicked-looking mother.

“Good day, Mrs Black,” the old wizard said to the departing witch.

Severus was relieved when the other boy was gone. Black. I have heard of that family. I imagine he will be at Hogwarts this year. I will need to watch my back.

As Severus stood staring at the floor-to-ceiling walls of boxes, the shopkeeper sized him up. Hmm…pure-blood family, maybe even dark, Mr Ollivander thought noticing a characteristic look of disdain on the boy’s face. That hair needs a good cleaning, and he really should get out in the fresh air more often, Ollivander noted.

“Good afternoon, young man,” Mr Ollivander said formally.

“I am Severus Snape. I need a wand to attend Hogwarts this September. I would appreciate a detailed explanation of the selection process,” recited the socially awkward young man, in a well-practised tone.

The older man smiled. He was right--the boy was of the pure-blood Snape family. His father (yew, 14 inches, dragon heartstring core), was one of the darker, yet more intelligent, wizards Ollivander had ever encountered. It seems the sneer has been passed down, along with the dark hair and pale skin, Ollivander observed.

“I’m obliged to explain the process to you, Mr Snape; however, I recognize you would like to know a little more than, say, the average customer,” Ollivander speculated, lifting one of his bushy, white eyebrows. It wasn’t every day that someone actually asked for a detailed explanation, and, by Merlin, he would teach this young man all he could.

Severus smiled with satisfaction. He would learn more than the other first years! That’s exactly what he had hoped. He knew that knowledge was power.

“As you undoubtedly realise, a wand is an instrument of the wizard’s intention,” began Ollivander, noticing he had the boy’s full attention. “The wood and core material make a unique combination that forms the wand’s conductive action. The power of the enchantment is built up through the energy of its user, and then it is released at a particular object or goal.”

Ollivander continued, “Witches and wizards know their own wands intuitively, as well as the wands of other people who are close to them, such as family members, close friends, or even teachers. That is because there is a strong bond between the wand and the wizard.”

“I did have a theory about that,” Severus interjected. He had been formulating theories, on a diverse range of subjects, since he was much younger.

The older wizard nodded agreeably. He’s as bright as they come, with a scientific mind. If he doesn’t follow his family’s legacy into Slytherin, then most likely he’ll be sorted into Ravenclaw, my old house--where his mind would be appreciated.

“The most effective wand will be the one that is tied to you through the mystical properties of the wood and magical element,” Ollivander continued.

“Where do you buy the wood?” Severus inquired.

“Contrary to popular belief, I do not buy the magical elements that make up the wand. People seek me out when they find a particularly spiritual tree, for instance, in reverence to my talents as a Master Wandmaker. I have many sources throughout Britain, Europe, and the rest of world.”

Ollivander studied the boy’s penetrating, black eyes. The lad was very interested in this subject. “A branch is harvested from a living tree to ensure the tree’s spirit will reside in the wand. Sometimes, I harvest the branch; other times, a tree-tender performs an ancient tree dividing rite, and the finest branch is offered to me.”

“Fascinating!” Severus exclaimed, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm.

Ollivander could appreciate the boy’s eagerness. He, too, had felt the same way when he first learned of the tree-dividing rite. “If what I say resonates with you, it is merely because we are both branches on the same tree,” Mr Ollivander recited.

“That is…” Severus searched for the right word, “philosophical.” He understood the sentiment but had trouble expressing his thoughts.

Ollivander nodded. "Did you know the ancients believed that trees have spirit, mind, and consciousness, as well as will and emotions?”

“I did not,” Severus admitted. This is so much more than I anticipated!

“Yes, indeed. It is because of this that we have the four main classifications of elemental woods: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Each has its own characteristics and strengths. Earth woods used for wands are usually ash, maple and elm. Air woods, frequently seen in wands, are hazel, cedar, and yew. Fire woods include oak, holly, and hickory. Water woods are alder, birch, and willow.”

“Let’s look at an Earth wood, such as maple, shall we?” Ollivander paused to make sure the young man was still listening. “Maple is tied to the Earth, it is a strongly masculine wood, somewhat rebellious and tough, but blessed with a beautiful smooth grain. It is hard, yet excellent for carving. A wand made of maple would be well-suited to spells of sending and communication, binding, transmutations, creation, revolution, rebirth, healing, beauty, art and abundance.”

The young man was listening intently, absorbing the knowledge like a sponge. “I’ve read the magical core items are from dragons,” Severus prompted.

“I use unicorn-tail hair, dragon heartstrings, and phoenix feathers exclusively, except in special circumstances for custom orders. However, there are many other magical elements harvested from various creatures throughout the world.”

“How do you get the magical items? Are the animals sacrificed in cold blood?” Severus demanded trying to show no outward emotion, but not quite succeeding. His logical side knew these items were important to the Wizarding community, but his childhood of abuse, at the hands of his father, made him feel protective of the innocent animals. And, although Severus dabbled in potions making, which required animal ingredients, he clearly distinguished between creatures like slugs and noble, intelligent beasts such as unicorns.

“No magical creatures are killed for my wands!” Ollivander exclaimed, understanding at once the young man’s compassion. “Heartstrings are collected by a dragon’s handler, from a newly deceased animal that has died from natural causes. Dragons can also provide other magical elements, such as blood, claws, scales, tails and even meat. These things are mostly used for healing potions. Some wandmakers use the scales; however, at Ollivander’s I use only the finest heartstrings, which are the purest magical elements that can be collected from a dragon.”

Severus was clearly relieved. “What is the procedure of obtaining unicorn hairs?”

“The art of collecting unicorn hairs is a sacred tradition. Certain families, who live near the dense forests where unicorns dwell, teach their young daughters the ancient technique. It is a very special talent and requires the utmost patience.”

“Why are young girls preferred?” Severus asked, curiously. Girls were a mystery to Severus. He did not know any.

“Unicorns can sense the purity of young, virginal girls. They know the girls mean them no harm, so they allow the special grooming with soft brushes made of the girls’ own hair. The girls then collect the tail hairs from their brushes. Unicorn tail hairs are a most prized core element for wands, which is what I use. When in dire need of them and there is no supply, I have been known to pluck a tail hair or two. Of course, I almost always get gored when I do,” Ollivander told the young man, while absently rubbing his arm.

“You mentioned phoenix feathers earlier. How do you acquire those?” Severus asked.

“Phoenix feathers are a gift from the phoenix and their human partner. Notice that I said partner. Phoenixes are not pets; they are magnificent, intelligent creatures with mystical powers. There is no regularity at which a phoenix will give a feather. Some may give several, others, none at all. If a phoenix receives a fatal injury, it immediately has a Final Burning so the feathers cannot be saved.”

“I have never seen a phoenix, unicorn, or dragon, other than in drawings,” Severus reflected.

“The trill of the phoenix’s song is most unique, as is the colour and texture of a unicorn’s hair. Pray you do not see a dragon. It may be the last thing you see!” Ollivander spoke from experience. “My eldest brother was killed by a dragon while travelling to visit a handler with an ailing beast.”

“That is,” Severus began uneasily, “extremely unfortunate.”

“It was many years ago,” Ollivander recalled.

“Do you ever use gems?” Severus inquired, changing the subject. He had read many books on the magical properties of stones and gems. Reading was Severus’ escape from his horrible home life. He spent most days and nights devouring volumes of books from his family’s extensive library, while hiding from his father and his father’s friends.

“Sometimes precious stones do adorn wands. The stones have their own mystical properties, which add a whole new dimension to the assets of the wand. One must be an accomplished wizard or witch in order to explore the complexities of the stone elements to find the most compatible. A jewelled wand would be a custom order,” Ollivander explained. “Ministry Aurors frequently have such stones imbedded into the receptive ends of their wands, or else they wear specially made jewellery, such as an amulet, which gives the wearer a specific protection or additional energy.”

“I’ve learned so much from you, Mr Ollivander. I want to thank you,” Severus voiced sincerely.

“You are quite welcome. It has been a pleasure to talk with an intelligent, young man such as yourself. Shall we begin selecting your wand, Mr. Snape?”

“Yes, please,” Severus encouraged, uncharacteristically enthusiastic.

“Hold out your wand arm,” Ollivander instructed.

Severus held out his left arm to the magical tape measure. He was slightly put out by the indignity of having his sizable nose measured.

Ollivander excused himself and shuffled down the long rows. He selected four boxes and placed them on the counter. Opening each box, he unfurled the silk protective cloths. He motioned his consent for Severus to inspect the contents.

Young Severus peered down at each wand. The first box, held an intricately carved wand. The handle was a silver-leafed serpent’s head.

If I brought that garish wand to Hogwarts, I would stand out. That will not do, Severus thought strategically.

The second box, contained a plain, twig wand. There was nothing about the wand that was worth mentioning.

A perfectly straight, black wand was nestled in ivory silk in the third box. The only decoration was a carved band separating the handle from the shaft.

Severus contemplated the wand. This has some possibilities. It’s simple, but powerful looking.

The fourth box, held a dark, natural wood wand with a double-spiral handle. It was decidedly masculine. That looks serviceable, yet interesting, Severus decided. “Please tell me more about these two,” he urged, indicating the black wand and the one with the double-spiral handle.

“Yes, I thought so,” Ollivander mused. “The serpent wand draws too much attention, and the twig does not inspire you.”

“Precisely,” Severus agreed, nodding. He understands me. He knows his business.

Ollivander pushed the box with the black wand toward Severus. “This 12-7/8” wand is made of exceptionally smooth ebony, which is known for its strength and enormous power. It is difficult to carve, hence the simple design. It holds a magical core of dragon heartstring�”Chinese, to be exact--which is a noble breed, proud, and quick to anger. It is not a wand for the faint of heart.”

Severus picked up the elegant, black wand. He felt the power running up his arm and into his soul. This was the one. Without any doubt he declared, “This wand is my destiny.”

“You have been chosen. There is no need to hear of the other,” Ollivander stated logically. He packed up the other wands, and returned them to their shelves.

Severus looked down at the wand in his hand. “Why did you say this wand chose me? I chose it. I felt the power of it and wanted it.”

Ollivander looked at Severus. He understood that knowledge was king with this young wizard.

“Each wand undergoes a Druidic rite on the most auspicious day, when the heavens are in alignment with all the proper elements. The core is enchanted into the wand at that time, producing the wands you see before you today,” Ollivander explained, motioning toward the vast array of wand boxes in the shop.

“The wand chooses the wizard, because it is enchanted to awaken to the touch of a user who holds it with the proper intentions. Once the wand’s spirit is awakened, it either accepts the user, through continued bonding, or rejects him immediately. This wand accepted you, therefore it has what you need and you have what it needs.”

Severus stood thinking about what he had just learned. “What are the spells you use to enchant the wand?” Severus quizzed.

“The magical enchantments are family secrets. I cannot tell you. I will only reveal the spells to the next Ollivander Wand Master. If there is no heir, then the spell must die with the last Ollivander, or the user will be cursed for eternity,” the old wizard told him.

“Are you the last Ollivander?” young Severus wondered.

“Good gracious, no!” Ollivander exclaimed. “I have three sons, who are my apprentices. They travel the world procuring the elements and training with other master wandmakers to perfect their techniques,” Ollivander replied proudly.

“This wand is not to be used until you get to Hogwarts, but you will need to begin the bonding process,” Ollivander instructed. “You must handle your wand thoughtfully and reverently. Keep it with you at all times. Always remember that your wand is tied to you through its mystical properties. The choices you make will determine what type of person you become and will affect the health of the spirit within your wand. Choose wisely, Mr Snape.”

“Thank you, Mr Ollivander. I have learned much today,” Severus spoke sincerely, as he handed the old wizard the necessary gold.

“You are quite welcome, Mr Snape,” Ollivander told him. “If you ever find that you need my services again, please come back.”

Snape nodded. Armed with new knowledge and a new wand, he disappeared into the hustle and bustle that was Diagon Alley on a Saturday morning. He had decided not to go looking for his antagonists. There would always be another day. He could wait.



~ ~ ~


Author’s Notes

General
All characters and places that you recognize belong to J.K. Rowling. I gathered useful information on several wonderful websites, including Mugglenet, and The Harry Potter Lexicon; as well as the Bardic Institute and Bard Woodcraft.

First Wand vs. Replacement Wand
Eleven-year-old Ron and Neville never bought their own wands; they had to make do with hand-me-downs. So the wands purchased in this story are considered their first true wands, thus satisfying the ‘first wand challenge’ criteria.

Young Severus
It is my opinion that Severus Snape is an intellectually superior individual, who does not suffer fools well. His eleven-year-old self would have displayed many of the traits of a profoundly gifted child, as depicted in my story.

Magical Petunia
I believe that Petunia will reveal her hidden talents in the sixth or seventh book; therefore, she would have received a Hogwarts letter and perhaps would have purchased a wand as depicted in Freaky New World.

Logical insights about Petunia’s possible abilities, can be found in these informative and entertaining editorials: Petunia’s Choice by Cheri Mathieu, which analyzes Ms. Rowling’s comment about Petunia; and Legion of the Lost Day �“ Part 1 �“ Remember My Last, Petunia! by Brandon Ford (The Underground Lake), which theorizes that Petunia is a ‘closet broomstick’. Both can be found at Mugglenet.com.


Many thanks go out to my wonderful betas: Ellcey, Pam, and Ron. To my special editors, Susan and Trish: thank you for your insightful comments and inspiration--it meant a lot to me! A big hug goes to Karina, who encouraged me to write something for the festival when I didn't think I could!


~ ~ ~

If what I say resonates with you, it is merely
because we are both branches on the same tree.
W. B. Yeats