[Ollivanders] Fractal Trigonometry of Magic [:closed]

It was a dreary and drizzly Wednesday afternoon when the door to Ollivanders was being opened by a rather unusual customer. The man in question was a tall one, perhaps in his early forties, and clearly of wealthy means. He was decked out in formal robes made from the finest dark violet silk brocade. The sleeves and hem of the garment were embroidered with silver thread, intricate detailing of clearly runic origin, which seemed to crackle with a strange and unfamiliar kind of magic. He was an odd-looking individual, even in a place as popular and diverse as Diagon Alley. The amethyst beads in his long, dark hair and the long string of rosary-like amethyst beads around his neck were perhaps the most unusual details to notice. It certainly wasn’t the current fashion in London, but their wearer pulled off the look with utmost confidence.

The man, Peter Alva Tannenbaum, was neither in a hurry nor did he seem to have strolled in without a purpose. From the expression in his bright blue eyes, it was clear that he had stepped into the shop with a clear plan of how he expected the encounter to work out. As he approached the counter, he fixed his eyes on the proprietor, presumably Mr Ollivander. He waited a moment or two before speaking to make sure he had the other man’s complete and undivided attention. He was only going to explain his business once and was hoping that there wouldn’t be too many questions asked about the why and how of the situation.

“I am having a minor issue with an older wand,” he said softly. “I was hoping you would be able to look at it for me.”

He retrieved the wand in question from a very long and battered box. In truth, it was a rather peculiar instrument. At 16 inches long, it was well beyond the point of being described as unwieldy. Yet, that was, perhaps, the least unusual aspect of it. The shaft and handle had once been crafted from laminated layers of willow and alder wood, but even a schooled eye would have struggled to recognise the materials used in the state they were presented. The wand was covered in a thick patina darkening the wood to an almost black. Water lines indicated that the wand had been submerged at various times in its history. The shape of the wand only vaguely hinted at the elegant lines it must have once possessed before becoming waterlogged. If it had even been water. From the looks of it, a potion, or perhaps even blood were just as likely. There was something to the dark colouration that suggested that some of the pigment had bleached out over time. In places the sludgy black seemed slightly greenish, in other almost like a very dark red.

Aside from the damage that could be assessed by a passing glance, there was also the issue that the wooden elements of the wand had been carved into by an at best semi-skilled woodworker. Runic symbols had been forced into the shaft and handle at various points throughout the wand’s history. Some seemed more recent than others, hinting at the fact that the wand was somewhat older than the usual shelf life to expected from a simple piece created without any fancy tools and spells. In fact, Tannenbaum had owned the wand for almost three centuries, though he wasn’t about to offer that titbit of information in a hurry as it had the potential to lead to questions that the elemental would have preferred not to answer.

“It has a crystallised phoenix’s tear core,” Peter Alva explained as if this was the obvious question that had to be on the proprietor’s mind. “I am not sure exactly how it was made, but I assume powdered down and spread smoothly. There can’t be much of the active magical core left though, I’m sure you’ve already seen the lamination come apart.” He gestured vaguely towards the spot where the handle of the wand had been joined to the shaft. “I think it has become fragile. Let me show you.”

He waved the wand in a fluid motion, the word ‘Lumos’ barely audible in the air. Against what seemed probable or even possible a faint flicker of a light formed at the end of the wand and extinguished itself quickly. “I’ve never had reliable results with this wand,” he explained as he delicately put the wand down on the counter, “but these days I am questioning whether I am having any.” He repeated the spell’s movement without the wand in his hand and once again whispered the incantation. This time, the brief flicker formed in the palm of his hand, but was otherwise the same. “Is there anything you can suggest for this problem?”

Peter Alva had not yet contemplated that this might be a job even beyond magical repair, but it was starting to dawn on him now. “I’d say that I’d just buy a new wand, but I very well remember the trouble I went through as a boy to get this one. Nothing seemed to respond to me, no matter which wand I tried out. I just don’t understand it.” The latter assertion was a bit of a fib. Peter Alva understood his elemental affinity for ice was probably colliding with the earthy quality of the wand’s wood. However, that was another morsel of information he was not sure he wanted to share with the man in front of him just yet. Part of him still hoped against hope that a repair was a viable option.

[div style="width:50%;opacity:0.4;font-size:0.65em;"]WEDNESDAY, 19 DECEMBER 2001, 8:31 AM[/div]

The pre-Christmas season this year was mild, both in temperatures and in customers. But something in the weather was enough to make his knee act up and Garrick Ollivander was using a cane that he very slightly despised. It wasn't the fact that he needed help in his old age to get around, it was the fact that his old age was now becoming a more frequent impediment to his work. By a miracle of his otherwise good health and literally decades of rote and repetition, his hands were still as steady as the day his father declared him to be a full fledged wandmaker, and he continued to churn out more spellcasting implements, albeit fewer per month than he used to. Just last month he had checked his ledger and noted that his son Grover and his other apprentice Izotz[span style="display:none;"] @Izotz Gredel [/span] had, together, produced over half of the wands that Ollivanders' Wand Shop turned out in October. Garrick's time wasn't necessarily coming to a close, but he was going to have to step aside and let his young heirs carry the majority of the work. Which made him quite proud.

In such musings Garrick was seated at the front counter of his storefront, not an irregularity but certainly a departure from his former usual habit of always being in the back rooms working on wands and only coming out when he heard the bell over the front door go off. Even so, despite having a clear view of Diagon Alley through the windows, he was so lost in abstract thought that he didn't notice the gentleman walk up until he was already well in the shop. A continental fellow with an eclectic, but not unheard of, preference of robe and dressing. Garrick took in the measure of the man with a professional smile on his face, in the few seconds that it took the gentleman to casually reach the counter. But before Garrick could launch into one of his typical welcomes, the man began the conversation himself with a soft but authoritative voice.

His curiosity very well piqued, Garrick simply let the man present his wand, and when he did, the wandmaker was not disappointed. A 40⅝ centimetre instrument of extremely aged European alder and ancient crack willow -- the latter a species the Ollivanders through history had never used due to its high susceptibility to wind, ice and snow damage -- the real wonder of this wand was that the gentleman in question had not had it broken sooner. There was a splotchy but well-established patina on portions of the wand, coupled with bleaching from heavy handling, and areas of discolouration from either prolix submergence or exposure to some sort of viscous staining agent. There was also an attempt at some sort of ornamental carving well after the rod had already been in use for some time - Carolingian minuscule or Dalecarlians, or perhaps something older like pictographic runes. Actually for its odd craftsmanship the wand actually maintained some degree of durability, and was not in atrocious shape if Garrick was being generous.

Before Garrick could resume his inspection by looking down the length of the wand or investigating the core, the man answered the unspoken question for him. Garrick looked up at him again with a curious eye, wondering at first if the gentleman at his counter was a Legilimens or something similar. But he was struck by a sort of familiarity he could not explain, not so much the steely gaze but something he had read or heard or seen in a paper about the dark brown hair arranged with the unusual indigo and purple beads. Rather than rudely stare, he returned his attention to the wand which -- indeed -- not only "smelled" of a more structural variety of phoenix magic (the actual sense involved was difficult to explain to a non-wandmaker), but could actually be seen twinkling from within in one of the places where the handle and shaft alike had cracked apart. Even given how little outside light could actually be reflected into the core of the wand, the glimmer from the rosin was dim.

Wordlessly he handed the wand back to the violet robed man and watched him attempt a simple wand-lighting charm, and barely succeed. The magic of the wand was truly dying, a sad thing for any wand but especially for one which had obviously been through such thorough use over its long lifespan. As the gentleman spoke, and seemed to realise mid-monologue that there was a possibility even Garrick couldn't fix it, the pieces clicked together between the way he spoke and the way he carried himself.

With a twinkle in his eye Garrick said, "I'm not sure if even I can manage to repair a heritage wand in this condition... Professor Tannenbaum." He smiled and added, "It took me a little while to recognise you, sir, but I keep up-to-date on the Heads and Deputy Heads of all the European wizarding schools. I won't ask why you brought this to me and not to the Feine Klassische Zauberstäbe in Austria, but I also won't lie to you. One of two situations must be true of this extremely aged wand. Either you inherited it already used by several persons, and it is a miracle that it has survived this long. Or, regardless of how long it sat before you received it, your usage of the wand has been too severe for it to handle and it is on its last legs.

"But," he went on, carefully and reverently taking the wand in his hands again, "this is such an old and classic example of a Gijsbrechtszen wand, so few left in the world. It would be an absolute shame to see it flicker out now, or at least to see it do so in such a shape. If you truly would like me to," he looked right into Tannenbaum's eyes, "I will do everything in my power to repair the wand. The materials are available but not readily, so I would charge... hmm... about the same as a normal wand purchase. Seven galleons. Your wand still won't last much longer, but it will regain a shadow of its former glory."

His eyes glazed over as his gaze returned to the wand and he began babbling in wandmakerspeak, forgetting already that he had a customer. "Gijsbrechtszen used substandard woods sometimes but his adaptation of wand cores was groundbreaking. Even though I only use the three Supreme Cores I would probably recommend wands with his cores as a second option if any more of them were still around. This might be the last surviving one in the entire world. Look at the way he used the natural resins of the woods in this wand to both diffuse and adhere the phoenix tear to the... he didn't even powder it, he simply liquified it, extracted the wood resin, and homogenised the two before reinserting the solution... truly genious, don't you agree?"

Peter Alva was mildly surprised he had been recognised, but gave a polite nod at the acknowledgement. He’d not expected it and now that is was out there he felt the just a little uncomfortable. Not because of anything the other man had said or done, but because he was starting to make a rather disconcerting realisation. If he wanted to leave this shop with a wand that worked, he would have to trust the proprietor with so much more information than just this little morsel. He’d have to come up with a way of explaining his ice magic, so they could make sure to avoid incompatibles. He knew from experience that this conversation was always an awkward one to have.

“I love Vienna,” he offered in response to commentary about Feine Klassische Zauberstäbe, “but I’d love it even more if they didn’t speak that infernal language there.  I’ve been trying to get the hang of it for what feels like three centuries.” He chuckled, but it wasn’t entirely a joke. German had always eluded him, despite the occasional attempt to learn the language. “I don’t think I would have much luck explaining my situation there.”

The wandmaker’s commentary was rather impressive to Peter Alva. He seemed to have little trouble with dating the wand, had quickly figured out its maker and seemed to have no trouble with identifying the materials used to create the wand. In fact, Mr Ollivander seemed positively happy to have a Heijndrick Gijsbrechtszen wand to look at, if only out of a sense of professional curiosity. Before Peter Alva could even answer any of the questions, the other man seemed to have become absorbed in a world of his own, rambling about the finer points of wand making and core design.

“I honestly wouldn’t know if it was genius or not, but I take your word for it.” He paused for a moment, then focused on Mr Ollivander again. “I’d like to see it repaired if only for all those years I’ve had it and the memories attached to that. However, I am not a very strong caster at the best of times. I am concerned that a shadow of it’s former glory might not do me any favours. Tell you what, why don’t we do both. Repair this one as a beautiful keepsake and look for something new as well.”

There was another awkward pause as Peter Alva tried to work out how to get to the more controversial points he would have to address. His life would have been so much easier without trying to conceal his elemental identity. Then again, he doubted that if he told the other man he would be believed without at least a demonstration of his magic. Was that really the path he wanted to go down? The last thing he needed was to make a public display out of himself. 

“Just to give you a bit of background information, my wand has never belonged to another wizard. When I noticed that the core was losing power some years ago, I did everything I could to keep it intact. Potions, resins and later runes to help for a little while. I realise now there must have been some poor decisions in there, but I think I managed to extend its life for a while. I work with ice and snow a lot. I think the wand never liked it. I always felt a lot of resistance when trying to cast with it. Even back when it was working better it always seemed like we were working against each other, not together.”

He was all too aware that if Mr Ollivander had been paying close attention he had probably picked up the proposed timeline didn’t quite add up. Peter Alva simply didn’t look old enough to be responsible for all the runes and marks visible on the wand. Judging by the other man’s reaction he could hopefully decide on how honest he could allow himself to be and which aspects of his identity he would have to cover up.

Deputy Headmaster Tannenbaum thought he was not a very strong caster? Would wonders never cease. Stories of the man's grasp of magical theory and his long and healthy life had circulated the magical gossip chains on and off for years. His "three centuries" remark from earlier might not have been as much of a joke as it had sounded at first, but after all, Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel had both exceeded the age of six hundred fifty. Magics, especially esoteric magics, certainly had their advantages.

"I believe I can dedicate myself to the repair work on your wand," Garrick said by way of reply, "since I have apprentices working on the newer wands that don't need my constant supervision anymore. So it shouldn't take more than a week - you'll be able to pick it back up by Boxing Day morning. I don't ship wands or send them by owl," he added primly. "Too much risk of damage in transit."

As Tannenbaum began a narrative on the background of his wand, Garrick found himself admiring the man even more. No wandlorist himself, Garrick was sure, but the Beauxbatons professor still understood that repairing a wand to its original condition after such usage was easier if he could tell Garrick about the original condition, and the changes that had been made to it since then. The somewhat horrifying stains and the crude rune markings now made sense. Fortunately there were plenty of options for removing the blotches and disfigurements - sanding down the exterior, building another layer of encasement, using small wood chips to fill in holes, among others. The trick would be restoring or appending the core, and making sure that the wood and core were still potent in tandem.

"I have high hopes for being able to restore the entire wand for future use, but regardless of my success, at the very least given what you've told me, I will at least be able to revitalise the casing for display. Now. As far as a new wand..." he fumbled around in his pockets for a few seconds before glancing up at a nearby wall shelf, sighing, and taking down his magical tape measure.

"People change, as I'm sure a man of your stature and age knows, and I can't base what would be a good wand fit for you now on the measurements that you might have had when you first received this wand. Stick your arms out and hold still please, Professor Tannenbaum." As was typical, he made his first several measurements manually and memorised the numbers and ratios, and then let the rote enchantments on the tape measure take over while he crossed back behind his counter, scribbled a few quick numbers, and began examining boxes on the shelves under the counter, against the wall, in high cupboards, and down the hallway toward his workroom.

Ollivander was a good salesman. Peter Alva had to give him that. He knew how to listen and if he drew any conclusions from the information he absorbed, he had the tact and decency to not voice them to his face. It was unexpected behaviour, but not unwelcome. Somehow, the elemental harbinger had thought he would be in for a more challenging conversation. It was nice to be proven wrong. Ollivander’s professionalism kept them grounded and Peter Alva mused what sort of clients the wandmaker had served over his tenure at the shop. It occurred to him that he must have met most of Britain’s Death Eaters, the Dark Lord himself and many other criminals, of the ordinary kind. If that hadn’t been enough to shock him and make him reconsider his role in giving these people magic, likely nothing would.

Peter Alva was still impressed by the wandmakers patience and confidence. He would have thought that repairing his wand would take longer, but it was a pleasant surprise to hear he would be able to get it back so soon. Perhaps, he should have visited Ollivander’s much sooner.

“I’m not sure about Boxing Day,” Peter Alva said with a vague smile, “As I have an eleven-year-old at home who would be greatly disappointed if the day was spent on anything other than playing board games and eating obscene amounts of sugar, but I’ll most certainly be able to pick it up between the holidays. We usually spend this time of the year here in Britain. I have a second home in Scotland and my daughter adores the winter sports at Aviemore. So, I’ll have some time to drop by in the afternoon and pick it up.”

With the matter of the repair in hand, it was safe to shift their focus to a suitable replacement. Ollivander of course had to ask for measurements and Peter Alva obliged with a fluid movement. It made sense to take some new measurements. When he had received his first wand, he had not yet been fully grown and of course his personality had been quite different. Thinking back, he had been more of a volatile and changeable presence than he was now. He wondered what changes that would bring.

“I was raised and taught to cast with my right hand,” Peter Alva said, “but I have better control and dexterity with the left. I don’t know if that is something that figures into finding a suitable match, but I seem to recall being asked about that when I purchased my last wand and my parents being dishonest about it at the time.” He wasn’t sure when he had last admitted this to anybody. He’d spent so much time writing and casting with his right hand that it had become second nature. All the same, he didn’t want Mr Ollivander to have any misconceptions about him. “I know, probably doesn’t make much sense to you. But my father was a muggle. His odd religious views advised his decision at the time. Apparently, favouring your left is a mark of evil.” There was some strange pleasure in going against his father. Peter Alva had missed out on doing so while the man was still alive, but he could do so now. It was odd how some hurts stayed with you no matter how much time passed. A word, a thought could transport you straight back through time.

“I think in terms of casting habits I don’t use a wand that much. I spend a lot of time channelling magic through stones for rune work. I think that might mean I have picked up bad habits in my spell work.  Runes require an awful lot of subtle, controlled precision. It always strikes me that wands need a very high level of magical throughput to do anything. Though, perhaps I am not being objective here. It might just be that I had a wand with a dying core for too long to remember not having to compensate for it.”

He honestly wasn’t sure. All he knew for sure was that the Council had a lot of bias against wands, some of it justified, and some of it probably came from a dark place of wanting to control people and bind them to Inverness. He was trying to examine his on biases and stay on top of them, but it was hard when a lifetime of experience and history told you that something wasn’t meant to be. And yet there had always been conflicting information. When he had been a discipulus, he had once heard of a Council wandmaker that had supplied the harbingers of old. He had even seen a wand that had allegedly been made in Inverness. Too much time had passed since then for him to be able to describe it in detail, but he had not forgotten entirely.

“If you don’t mind, I have a question of some academic interest, Mr Ollivander,” the elemental said as he put his arms down again. “I’ve on occasion seen wand designs not entirely based on wood. A Russian acquaintance of mine has a make with a bone or ivory handle. With wood clearly being a superior magical conduit, I was wondering what makes a craftsman chose to go with something else? Just a sentimental quirk, or can you actually think of a magical use case?” 

Peter Alva hadn’t expected to be asking this question, but now that he had, he was intrigued to hear the answer. The Inverness wand he remembered, of course, was different from what he had described, but the principle was likely the same: material substitution. In front of his mental eye he was examining what he remembered of former earth harbinger Dakarai’s wand. The handle had been an intricately carved piece of emerald. He wondered what had happened to it after the man’s death. Maybe the assassin who had taken the harbinger’s life had also taken his most prized possession. Everything regarding Dakarai was still shrouded in mystery. Peter Alva resolved to consult his acolytes on the matter when he got back. Perhaps, this was worth looking into again and see what change it could affect in the Council.