Chapter 8 “ A Tale
Cybele spotted the girls at the Ravenclaw table and joined them happily. If she had learned something in the course of the morning, it was that hanging around with boys involved too much Quidditch talk.
Lucia and Marietta were giggling furiously, pointing at a Hufflepuff boy wearing a ridiculous yellow hat. She smiled weakly, eventually joining Cho in her congratulations to Ben, and yet another Quidditch conversation.
They all spent the afternoon at their usual table in the library, Cybele quickly catching up on her homework.
There was a lot of hanging around in the library with the Ravenclaws, but the late evenings had become really cozy. The second-years had taken the habit of all sitting together to chat or read near one of the fires. As much as the girl gang was quite exclusive during the day, Archie and Pete quite the pair and Ben always with his brother, the evenings were becoming a group thing. Even Ben had joined in that evening; they were celebrating his and Cho’s recruitment onto the Quidditch team, with supplies of Butterbeer and snacks which Cybele had provided through Eslis.
Ben was the one to bring the subject on that Sunday night, perhaps on behalf of their new acquaintance of the morning and to distract the attention from him.
‘So, will we have the honour of your presence more often, then, Ben?’ Cho was teasing.
Ben looked sheepish. He had spent most of his time with his older brother until now.
‘Yeah, will we have all the Ravenclaw second-years together now?’ Pete added.
‘I don’t know if we will, what with Cybele tending to escape to other Houses.’ Ben was looking at her and now the six of them seemed uneasy.
‘What if I do?’ Cybele asked clumsily.
‘How did you meet those Gryffindor third-years?’ asked Lucia, in a pacifying way.
‘Well, they were the very first people I met and who talked to me when I arrived here, so we became friends. That’s all.’
The Ravenclaws did not look hostile at all; they just seemed pleased that Cybele’s unusual wandering between Houses had finally been discussed.
Ben, though, was still looking at her, as if hesitating to ask the next question for fear of destroying their newly acquired easiness. Cho, however, popped it boldly.
‘And the Malfoy boy? He’s a friend, too?’ She was not trying to hide a certain amount of hostility on this topic.
‘I can’t say. He can be a bit nasty, can’t he?’
‘Sure he can! He’s a real bully! How could you ever hang out with him?’
‘Well, for now, he was all right around me. I only talked with him for the first time today.’
‘Oh, you just happen to come to the trial at the same time, is it?’ Ben asked genuinely.
‘No, actually. Well, I knew him through Professor Snape. To tell the truth, I also thought he was quite a bully but I sort of took pity on him. Maybe I did the right thing because he was really nice to me. Who knows? I may have a good influence on him.’ She smiled.
‘You’re fighting a lost battle, Cybele,’ Cho stated. But they all seemed satisfied with her side of the story and did not question her friendships any more.
As the conversation took, for what seemed like the hundredth time this day, a turn toward Quidditch, Cybele summoned, with a fake wand flourish, her tale book from the dorms.
There were thirteen tales. She looked at the table content to find a title which might tempt her and one did catch her eyes.
“The Wandless and the Willow”
The word wandless caught her eye, like it had caught her attention in the song. Because that was what she was, wandless. One who cannot use a wand to convey magic. She started reading.
Once upon a time, in a small house in a forest, there was a great witch and a great wizard. They were both gifted beyond measure. The witch could make any sort of magical plants and herbs grow out of the wildest, driest soil, and she could brew powerful potions of unknown kinds. The wizard was such a powerful sorcerer that nothing was known to resist the spells he cast.
But there they were, living in poverty, for this wizard was the younger brother of the king, a weak sovereign, who was jealous of his brother’s power. The wicked king had treacherously sent him away and had made it known that his spells could not be performed, and his wife, the witch, could not sell her potions.
Kept and guarded they were in this secluded forest, reduced to living on what they could scrap. But always good humoured and happy to have each other, they took the best of each day. They lived a poor but honest life as did their seven children.
Soon the day came when the oldest son reached the age when magic shows. Magic flew out of his hands for he had such sorcerers for parents. But the witch and the wizard did not have any means to provide him with a wand. Honest and proud, his parents had refused over the years many requests for a potion or for a spell, which they were, by the king, forbidden to trade. But for the sake of her older son, the witch made it known that she would sell a cauldron of one of her secret potions. Only one, and for payment, she would accept nothing but a wand. So she sold a cauldron of her finest brew and her first son received a wand of yew. Never did the king come to know this betrayal, and the first son was happy and all was well.
When a year had passed and the second came to an age to work his magic, the father let it be known that he would, in secret, cast one of his spells. Only one, for whoever would pay him with a wand. The father cast a spell and the son received a wand of elm. Never did the jealous king hear of such a thing, the son was happy and all was well.
One more year later, when the third son reached the same age, the mother parted with a full cauldron. And peacefully the years passed away and the sons grew up, to receive wands of ash, oak and holly, and nobody knew. When their sixth son was grown, the father let know that he would cast a spell, just one spell, for anyone who would for payment give another wand. But two rival families, led by their hatred for each other, both wanted the great spell. The father, who took no interest in such a rivalry, helped the first who had asked and his son received a wand of cherry.
But the rejected wizard took offence and saw a chance to have revenge and to bring his rival down. He denounced both the client and the seller. The king, when he received word of his brother’s treachery, cast the poor wizard into the deepest cell of his castle, where he soon forgot him completely. Now alone, the witch did not dare sell any more brew, any potion, any stew. With great sadness, she saw her youngest son grow wandless.
She found consolation in seeing all her older sons grow into powerful wizards. Her youngest, her wandless, good at heart, always wanted to help. He worked hard with his bare hands, at home, on the fields, and in the forest. His brothers, as their mother made them promise, watched over him. But they were often cruel, mocking his bent figure, his sweaty face, his muddy hands, calling him Muggle, calling him Squib.
In this forest, there was a willow, a big fierce tree, full of magic, which would not let anyone close. The brothers always kept far away from it, and never cultivated the ground beneath.
But on a morning, after a raging storm the youngest brother, always the first at work, saw the willow weakened and damaged, having fought all night with a wooden shack blown by the violent wind and caught in its strong branches. The young wizard took pity and wandlessly worked hard to liberate the tree. When his elder brothers came, they were astonished to find their wandless brother working right under the tree. From this day on the wandless alone was admitted by the fierce tree. He could always seek protection under its shadow and for the first time in many years his brothers grew jealous of him. His life was not made any easier for that and more often than ever did the powerful brothers called him a Muggle, called him a Squib.
But the youngest did not care; he always followed his heart and worked hard with his bare hands to help his mother.
He was always the one the elders sent to do less pleasant work. That is why one cold autumn evening he was sent to the swamp to collect Plimpies. He did not argue, he went out and straight to the cold damp swamp and put his bare legs deep in water and started collecting. He was almost done and ready to go when he saw, stuck under a fallen branch, the ugliest bird he could imagine. It was old and patched and was giving pitiful croaks of pain. Listening only to his good heart, the young man let go of all of his Plimpies to go and liberate the weak animal, who took off with a cry. He then restarted his laborious fishing, wet and cold, came back late and was scolded.
Years passed and one day, the wicked king passed away. But such news did not come alone, as they were grieved the same day by the knowledge that their father too, alone in his cell had passed.
As the king had no son of his, the nobles of the court soon voted an edict: a tournament would be organized and the wizard who could disarm all others would reign.
All seven brothers declared themselves ready to fight and conquer, as a token to their father’s memory.
When the nobles came to a town close to their retreat in the forest, all brothers departed and registered. The youngest brother did not have any wand to register. All mocked him and his brothers tried to discourage him. But he replied simply, ‘All my life, wandless, I did my share and wandless too I will seek glory.’
Back at home however, seeing his brothers training fiercely, the wandless realized that this time patience, strength and perseverance would not be enough. To fight and win he needed to work his magic, he needed a wand.
He went to see his mother, now free from the king’s ban, to ask her to brew a potion in exchange of a wand. The poor old lady was very sorry but unable to help her son; she was far too old, she could brew no more.
Swallowing his pride, the youngest went to his older brothers. He first asked the older one, who answered, ‘Why would you like a wand, you are a Muggle, you are fitter to fight with this stone.’
The youngest did not reply, pocketed the stone and went to see the second brother who answered, ‘Why would you like a wand, you are a Squib and a wand would not do more in your hand than this stone.’
Silently, the youngest pocketed the second stone. The third brother, that he went to see next, answered, ‘Why would I trust you with my precious wand, you would surely not know better than a troll how to handle it. You can make better use of this stone.’
At the end of the day, the youngest brother’s heart was heavy, and so were his pockets, burdened with six stones. Feeling very sad, he took the path down to the willow, to which he had taken over the years the habit to confess to and seek comfort. But he was not halfway down when he witnessed a scene likely to make his good heart raise. A poor old man, weak and slow, was being pursued down the hill by a gang of wizards from the village. Seeing the unfairness of the fight and listening only to his bravery, the young brother ran down to join the old wizard under a rain of angry spells. He took off his pockets the heavy stones and threw them angrily at the chasers. He did so well that the gang was soon too far to cast their spells. But the stones were gone and the opponents were fast gaining ground again. So the wandless dragged the old man and started to run toward the shelter of the magical tree. The old wizard, panic-stricken, refused to run toward the dangerous tree, but the brother, determined to save them, picked him up simply and soon they were both protected, their assailant violently rejected by murderous swinging branches.
The assailants retreated and danger was gone. The old wizard expressed his thanks. ‘You are a very good young man,’ he said, ‘and brave too, you have saved me without even getting your wand out!’ The young man admitted that he did not, had never had, any wand.
‘If I had,’ he said bitterly, ‘I would be on my way to town to compete in the tournament, for I am of royal blood.’
The old man looked very grieved to hear that. ‘It is very sad,’ he said, ‘that I cannot help you. You see, I am a wandmaker, in exile. I was chased from my country and fled empty-handed. Had I know the situation in this kingdom, never would I have made the mistake to state my profession. Everybody here wants a more powerful wand, to win this tournament. You saw how angry they get when they find out that I cannot help.’
They sat in silence, the sad, grieved, young man and the sorry wandmaker, then the latter asked, ‘What magic did you use to stile this powerful magical tree? I, who deal with wandmaking, have never seen such thing done.’
‘I helped it once,’ answered the boy, ‘after a storm; it was damaging itself against a shack, I liberated it.’
At these words, in the quiet summer air, the willow shook its leaves as if it was blown by an absent wind. The branches shacked and banged louder and louder until a small twig felt on the young man’s laps and everything became still.
The young man picked up the twig, which felt warm in his hand. The wandmaker smiled broadly and said, ‘In gratitude, the tree offers you his wand material! One, who possesses such a tree’s wand, must be expected to do great things. But I still miss an ingredient to make it into a wand,’ he added sadly.
The young boy waved his willow twig dreamily and a silent tear came down his eye. As the tear touched his flesh, a beautiful bird’s song filed the air and soon a great handsome and yet terrific coloured bird landed softly on the wandless’ lap. In his melancholy, the young man felt no surprise and stroke softly the great bird, who soon took off, leaving in his hand a long coloured feather.
Incredulous but elated, the old wandmaker reached his hands and received the bird’s and the tree’s token and without wasting a second, started performing his complex and skilful magic.
The young man waited, not daring to understand the meaning of the old man’s craft. But indeed justice was done, and as the sun set down, a deserving young man for saving a bird and a tree from great sorrow, received a wand of willow.
He set to town and in front of his disbelieving brothers, joyful mother and admirers, performed all the magic he had all these years kept. To such thing, none of the opponents resisted.
This is how the story ends, of a once wandless wizard, a song bird and a grateful tree. Remember: No one’s fate is spelled, until they have cast their spells.
Cybele snapped the book shut, disappointed. What about a wizard who wandlessly managed to do magic? She longed to know more, she could not wait to work all these mysteries out with the Hogwarts’ professors.
She went up to her dormitory to get Snape’s special research homework on her abilities and in a rage to understand, tried to improve it and eventually rewrote it entirely, going to bed long after the rest of the merry Ravenclaw group had dispersed.
Wandless by Wandering Wand
Chapter Notes:warning: author indulging in tale-writing inspired by Beetle the Bard
Thanks to Lizzy and Julia!
Chapter Endnotes:Thanks for bearing with my tale ;)
Less story-telling and more action coming up! Oh and I still love reading reviews...