It was Cricket O’Shea’s first visit to London. That might have been quite enough excitement on its own for any eleven-year-old girl, but the reason for the trip made it twice as exciting—and twice as daunting. The place where Cricket and her guardian were standing was called Diagon Alley; a haven of magical shops nestled safely behind the wall of a strange pub, hidden cleverly away from all of London’s non-magical inhabitants. Cricket had eschewed windows handsomely decorated with books and broomsticks and ignored an ice cream parlor and several street performers to get straight to the place she’d been most eager to see: Ollivanders, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

This was the place where Cricket’s birth parents—her wizard parents—had purchased their own wands; one of which was carefully tucked away into a wooden box in Cricket’s satchel. The girl stared up at the storefront with mixed anticipation, longing for answers but afraid of what she might find.

A low, scratchy voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Are you sure you don’t want me there with you?” the middle-aged man standing beside her asked, his eyes brimming with gentleness as he peered down at her over the edges of his wireframe glasses. These were the eyes that had watched Cricket grow up; the eyes of a true father, though not one related to her by blood.

Cricket squeezed his hand and nodded. “I’m sure, Da.”

“That’s fine, so,” the man replied. “I’ll be waitin’ right here.” He withdrew his hands into his pockets as Cricket let go of him, giving the girl a nod of encouragement. She swallowed and moved forward.

Every step she took closer to the shop felt like a step further away from the home she loved and the siblings and animals she cared for—but a step closer to the truth she so desperately sought. There was no going back now—Cricket pushed open the door. There was a slight tinkle of bells to announce her arrival, though she wished they’d stayed silent so she could go unnoticed.

There was already a stout boy standing at the counter of the shop alongside a curly-haired woman who looked far too much like him not to be his mother. The boy, who was roughly Cricket’s age, was holding a neatly-carved stick of pine in front of his eyes as though mesmerized. Meanwhile, the shopkeeper and the boy’s mother were completing a transaction.

“That’ll be seven Galleons—enjoy your time at Hogwarts, Mr. Fishburn,” the shopkeeper said. “I daresay you and your new wand won’t have any trouble with Charms.”

“Isn’t that lovely, Ackerly?” the woman said. “Good for you, dear.” She paid the shopkeeper with a handful of gold coins, and the boy went skipping out of the shop with the woman trailing after him.

Cricket looked around the room now that it was empty. It was a bit underwhelming compared to what she’d imagined a magic wand shop to be like. All she could see beyond the counter were stacks and stacks of rectangular boxes, each one more dusty than the last.

“May I help you, young lady?” the shopkeeper asked.

Her eyes wide, Cricket snapped to attention.

“Well, I…” she began, but trailed off as soon as she’d started. Perhaps it would be better to show rather than tell—she pulled the wooden box from her satchel and placed it on the counter.

“Ah. May I…?” the shopkeeper’s gaze flickered between the eleven-year-old and the box, a look of understanding beginning to dawn in his eyes.

Cricket quietly nodded, and the shopkeeper slid the lid away from the simple, sturdy box to reveal a magnificent piece of craftsmanship: a wand of British sweet chestnut with arrows and vines carved into its hilt. The shopkeeper donned his reading glasses and picked the ornate wand up, rotating it very carefully between his thumb and forefinger, examining the dark stripes layered into the light grain of the wood.

“At first I thought my eyes might be deceiving me, but…no…as always, my first guess was correct,” he said, the lamplight flashing in the lenses of his reading glasses as he removed them with a small flourish. “Twelve and two-thirds inches, chestnut and dragon heartstring, belonging to one Ronan Morrigan.”

Cricket didn’t flinch at the mention of the name, as some wizarding folk would, but she did feel a pang of anxiety starting to gnaw its way through her stomach. She watched as the old man placed the wand carefully back in the box, where it had lain for the better part of the last ten and a half years.

“Tell me, young lady, how did you come to be in possession of such a wand?” the shopkeeper asked with such intensity in his silvery eyes that Cricket felt he must already know the answer.

“Well…‘tis something of an heirloom,” Cricket said, letting her gaze drop to the floor. “I…I never knew the man who used it, but I thought that maybe…that maybe…”

“…that I might be able to tell you something about him,” the shopkeeper finished Cricket’s sentence for her. He seemed sympathetic, at least—or perhaps it was more that he sounded as though he were feeling some measure of pity for the girl standing before him. Cricket supposed she should be grateful he hadn’t thrown her out of his shop by now. Her mouth utterly dry and empty of words, she merely nodded again, drawing closer to the counter where the wand lay.

“Well, Miss…”

“O’Shea. Cricket O’Shea, sir,” Cricket said by way of introduction, using her adoptive parents’ surname as she always did. She’d never liked using her birth parents’ name for all the reasons one might normally suspect an adopted child to have; but the name ‘Morrigan’ was even more powerfully repugnant here, in the world of witches, wix and wizards. Using it would have been akin to accepting a curse—labeling herself the daughter of criminals; traitors to the Ministry and to all wizardkind.

“Miss O’Shea,” the shopkeeper repeated, his voice resonating with a welcome warmth. “I myself only met with Mr. Morrigan on one occasion—and that, as you might have guessed, was the day he bought this wand. He seemed a quiet sort; though you can tell more about a wizard from his wand than from his words, in my experience.”

Cricket’s gaze moved from the shopkeeper’s eyes to the open wooden box on the countertop. “Go on,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“The wood of the chestnut tree is a most peculiar thing—very malleable, you see, to both the personality of the wielder and material embedded in its core. The combination of dragon heartstring and chestnut suggests that perhaps the wielder was…overly fond of the material things in life, shall we say,” the old man explained, “and that—well, perhaps the wielder may have had some unscrupulous means of trying to attain them…”

Sensing the girl’s discomfort, the old man stopped abruptly, pulling a box from one of the many shelves behind him. “Ah, but for you, young lady, I might suggest this one—a durable fir wand; eleven and a quarter inches, rigid and quite suitable for transfiguration—”

Cricket backed down, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but I…I’ll be using that one,” she explained, her head inclining ever-so-slightly towards the chestnut wand.

The old shopkeeper leaned forward, his moonlike eyes swimming with questions. “Are you…quite sure?” he asked. “I understand the sentiment, of course, but…well, you’ll never achieve the same results with someone else’s wand as you will with your own. This wand chose Mr. Morrigan, and I anticipate it will continue to be loyal to its previous owner—exceedingly so, in fact, given the nature of this particular wand.”

“I understand,” Cricket said. Though her eyes were fixed firmly upon the wand made of chestnut, her fingers twitched at the fantastical thought of trying out the fir. But she had her reasons for resisting the temptation of waving it.

“Only…do you see that man standing out there?” she said, indicating Patrick’s silhouette on the other side of the foggy window.

“I do indeed,” the shopkeeper replied, waving slightly through the glass at Patrick. Patrick doffed his cap.

“He’s a great farmer, sure, and an even greater father—though between you and me, he’s not exactly minted. But didn’t he still spend everything he had to bring me out here today with ‘im to buy books for Hogwarts and all—and didn’t he go to all the trouble of keeping my birth father’s wand safe for me all these years when some people from the Ministry came an’ said they wanted it snapped in half? I wouldn’t be a very grateful daughter of his if I turned around and asked him for another wand, now, would I.”

“Well,” the old wand maker said in reply, giving the girl’s words a great deal of consideration, “I suspect you would know the answer to that question far better than I, Miss O’Shea. A witch’s family is as unique to her as her wand—and far more precious, I might add.”

Cricket allowed herself to smile, feeling as though they’d reached an understanding.

“Now, is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked, straightening his posture.

“Sorry, there is—I was hoping you could tell me one more thing,” Cricket said. “I was hoping…you might know a way to find out…how my—how Mr. Morrigan last used it. The wand, I mean.”

“Ah. I suspect you are referring to the Reverse Charm—Prior Incantato,” the shopkeeper replied,

Prior incantato….the very sound of it was ominous to Cricket’s ears. But she’d already decided when she’d walked into Ollivanders that there was no shying away from this moment.

“I am,” Cricket said, her voice quavering again.

The man behind the counter’s expression grew solemn. “It would be a rather simple task in theory,” he said, “but I’m not certain it would be wise to actually do so. The wand, Miss O’Shea, holds onto the memories of the spells it has cast—no matter how terrible those spells may be. You might very well see something you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Cricket bit her lip, closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, picturing someplace calm—the stone circle in Kenmare, the fairy tree all tied up with bits of ribbon, a light rain, and the feeling of soft grass beneath her runners. When she opened her eyes again, the dusty room swam back into focus, but she felt now as though she could keep pursuing the question that had plagued her for so many years.

“You’re right, of course, sir,” she said. “But it’s been eleven years of me not knowing what really happened the night he left me behind—and not knowing hurts more than anything. I’m not so sure I’d be able to face Hogwarts if I couldn’t face up to the truth.”

The shopkeeper gave her a deliberate nod, slowly pulling a wand of his own from out of his robes. With a flick of his wrist, the brass lock on the door latched itself shut, and with another, the already dim light in the room grew weaker. Last came what had to have been the spell Prior Incantato—although the old shopkeeper hadn’t uttered a word to make it happen.

A slight fog emanated from the tip of Morrigan’s wand, and then there was a flash—like a camera going off. The shopkeeper flicked his wand again, and the fog dissipated.

“Hm. A Forgetfulness Charm, it would appear,” he said, a hint of relief creeping into his voice. Raising his wand yet again, he restored the lamplight and the lock to their former states.

“And that would be a spell to…to make someone forget something? To erase their memories…?” Cricket asked, relying not so much on her very scant knowledge of magic as on common sense.

“That would be correct.”

Cricket looked off to the side, burying her chin in her open palm. A memory charm hadn’t been the shocking revelation she’d been expecting—but it must be some kind of clue. If only she had more information to go on.

“Was there any more that you could see? Any spells he used before that, or—or who the charm was cast on, or anything like that?” she asked.

“There are indeed other ways to see into a wand’s memory—but all of them quite impossible at present, I’m afraid. For now, this is all the wand can tell us,” the shopkeeper said.

Accepting his answer, Cricket closed the box containing Morrigan’s wand and slipped it back into her satchel. “Thank you for your help, sir. I’m sorry I haven’t brung any money along, but, erm, if you’d care for a mallow cake, I have four with me…”

“Certainly not necessary, Miss O’Shea,” the shopkeeper shook his head. “Just promise me one thing.”

Cricket nodded.

“Promise me that if you ever do find yourself in need of a new wand, you’ll come straight to me. I should very much like to see the wand that chooses you.”

Cricket extended her hand, and they shook on it.

“It’s a promise.”