19 Jun 2025, 06:46
Force and Elegance
☽ Force and Elegance ☾
Diagon Alley & Ollivander's
July 2025Despite the banality of trips to Diagon Alley, despite all his dull familiarity with its dusty storefronts and twisting turns, Bran found himself excited as he and his father stepped through the temporary archway and into the thin morning crowd.
Today, they were here for him.
Bran's letter had arrived a week ago with an owl he was sure had been bred by his father, dropped neatly onto the rest of the morning post. He'd taken his time opening it, waiting until he could squirrel himself into one of his favorite nooks before carefully breaking the intricate seal. Even knowing for years that he'd be on the list, being able to trace the B of his name filled him with no small amount of joy. He had allowed himself only a single small smile that day, but the feeling had lingered with him all through the expectant week before his father could get them down to London.
Now, standing at the gateway of wizarding society, Bran held his supply list as fiercely and as carefully as he could manage, frowning at every small crease in the parchment.
His father broke him out of another fruitless attempt to smooth out a new fold with a soft, amused cough.
“Diagon Alley,” the man said, gesturing Bran on with unnecessary flourish. “From what I remember of your list, there's a few places we can start, Bran. Madam Malkin's, so she can finish while we keep shopping? Potage's, grab the essentials? I'd prefer to save the books for later, they're too-”
“Ollivander's?”
Bran's father barely blinked at the interruption, simply smiling and raising an eyebrow at his son.
“So eager for your wand, then?” His voice held the barest amount of teasing.
Bran didn't rise to it. He just nodded, returning the raised brow.
“Ah, very well,” his father said. “Right around the corner, then, as I'm sure you know. Do you want me to come with you?”
“No,” Bran said simply. “I'll find you after.”
“As you wish. I'll be at the Menagerie when you're done.” Unfazed by his son's brusque dismissal, the elder Aderyn nodded encouragingly before setting off through the sleepy morning crowd.
Bran crossed the distance between himself and the ancient storefront with a handful of quick steps. He loved his books, it was true, but having a wand choose you was magic, primeval and strange. His usual reserved demeanor melted at the idea of finally experiencing it himself.
Determined to remember every moment, Bran pulled open the door.
The stuffy store engulfed him as the door cluttered shut at his heels. The doorbell's sweet chime died quickly in the dusty air. Everywhere he looked, towering shelves of boxes reached for the distant ceiling, leaning to and fro in unpredictable lines. A deep breath of the still air filled Bran's lungs with the scent of fresh-cut wood and magic.
Bran was enamoured.
Mr. Ollivander stepped around a spire of wand cases, looking as though he'd vanish into the shelving at any moment. His skin was papery and pale, and his hair whiter than snow, but he moved with purpose, even if Bran didn't know what that purpose was.
“Ah,” the old man croaked, “another first year come to claim their wand? Marvellous. Let me look at you, boy,” he added, gesturing Bran closer with thin, knobbly knuckled fingers. “Let's see, yes. You're one of the Aderyn clan, are you not? I see it in your cheeks, a bit, and in that raven-black hair. And a touch of Glynn in your eyes? They're known for their sight, you know.”
Bran blinked at him, suddenly conscious of the bridge of his glasses digging into his nose as he hadn't been in years. “Are they?”
“Quite!” A brisk clap, and Mr. Ollivander spun to face the store, suddenly spry. “Let the measuring tape do its duty, and I shall find you a wand!”
As the tape began flitting about, taking the length of Bran’s ears and the width of his pinky, the creaky old man vanished into the back of the store, hoarse voice chatting away. The enchanted fabric had only just checked the distance between the tip of his nose and his top lip when he came tottering back, a giddy look on his face and a dusty old box in his hands.
“Here!” Mr. Ollivander pressed the chosen wand into Bran's hand, smiling expectantly. “Larch and dragon heartstring, eleven and three quarters inches. Fairly bendy! Go ahead!”
Bran glanced down at the wand in his palm appreciatively, making a brief study of the warm wood, but even as he raised his arm he felt a certain…resignation, a feeling that this one wasn't for him. A flick of his wrist proved it, as the hands on the clock he'd targeted spun rapidly before leaping off the clock face entirely.
Ollivander had snatched the wood back before the hands even hit the floor. “No matter,” he cried, tossing the reboxed wand onto the cluttered counter before dashing into the stacks again.
“How do they know?” Bran called out down the rightmost row, where he could hear the man muttering. The tape measure bumped into his forehead, checking the height of an eyebrow. “The wands, how do they choose?”
“No one knows!” Mr. Ollivander's voice was exhultant, and he came scurrying back with two new boxes. One looked almost older than the man carrying it, and the other had a new sheen. “That's part of the joy. Oh, we have our theories, we wandmakers, but there's something that happens in the creation that gives the wands a will of their own. Spruce, unicorn hair, and springy. Ten and a half inches!”
Bran took the wand, glancing at the handsome finish, but had already turned his attention back to the wandmaker as he pointed and made a portrait on the wall rattle violently. As the young man in the painting complained heartily about his treatment, Bran handed it back and took the next.
“When? When does it change from wood and a core into a unified whole?”
“There's a curing process, and by the end, something has changed! Now try that, Elm and wampus hair, flexible, twelve inches even.”
“Wampus hair? Isn't that from the Americas?” An old stack of the Daily Prophet began to shoulder as he stabbed out with the third wand, which Mr. Ollivander extinguished with a flick of his own. It was briskly removed from his hand the next moment.
“It is,” Mr. Ollivander called back, disappearing again to continue the search. “Started using more imported materials after the War, you know. Sometimes they match certain types more than my traditional materials!”
A new wand was offered - acacia and dittany, sturdy, eleven and a half, a grinning Mr. Ollivander told him - and Bran gave it a wave as he considered. A stinking cloud puffed from the end of the acacia, and he passed it back before Mr. Ollivander had the chance. “But still, how do they know who's right?”
“An innate intuition, “ the old man replied, passing over redwood and unicorn hair, twelve and one quarter inches, rigid. “Every wood has a personality, certain qualities it aligns with. Every core suits someone different. Combine them…”
Maple and thestral tail came next, and then a whippy dogwood with phoenix, but neither suited him. Nor did the aspen, the holly, or the chestnut.
“Do many people take this long to find a match?” Bran handed back number eleven, a handsome thing of ebony, as Mr. Ollivander wandered back again.
“Many less, and few more. But this is the rewarding part of what we wandmakers do. Fret not! We'll find you your wand!”
Bran took the next almost absentmindedly, but blinked back to alertness as he felt something - a tingle, perhaps, or a resonant hum - against his fingers.
“Ah, do we close in? Silver lime and phoenix feather. Eleven inches even, and fairly bendy. At your leisure.”
The wands in his hand was gorgeous, a pale wood that almost gleamed in the dim light. Something about it felt almost…familiar.
He raised his arm once more, bringing it down in a smooth slice -
And slowly, almost regretfully, the flower in the vase began to wilt, dropping petals to the countertop.
“Nearly,” Mr. Ollivander said softly. “You disagree on something important, it seems, but it is appreciative regardless. It gives me an idea, though, so if I may…”
Bran relinquished the gorgeous wand back into the shopkeeper's hands with a sigh.
Mr. Ollivander returned with the next one at a far more sedate pace than he had with the rest. The case was of a newer lot, it seemed, only vaguely battered on the corners and marginally scuffed across the lid.
When he saw it, Bran's heart rose, a warm feeling welling in his chest.
“This wand has been with me, oh, ten or so years, I believe,” Mr. Ollivander was saying, setting the box down and opening it to reveal a dark, stained-looking wand nestled in the velvet. “It was one of my first with materials sourced entirely from the Americas, but sometimes we need new ideas to shake things up, hmm? Mayhaw and white river monster spine. Twelve inches and a bit. Swishy. Good for inventors and innovators, I feel. Elegant and strong, although both wand and user may find themselves striving against inner conflict during their lives.”
Bran knew. As his hand touched the handle of the elegantly carved wood, he knew. The memory of the small acknowledgement of the silver lime faded in the warm, welcoming glow of his wand.
A ribbon of delicate blue-green light glowed in the wake of the careful flick he gave the wand, a miniature minty aurora in the dim, dusty storefront.
“It seems you may be a mold breaker,” Mr. Ollivander murmured, “or at least one who chooses the new and exciting as opposed to the safe and familiar. Your wand will support you through much - it can heal and harm in equal measure, and it will be less temperamental than anything made with hawthorn, mayhaw’s cousin. The core, one of the last few samples from an old colleague's collection, is said to produce powerful, elegant magic in skillful hands.”
“And it's beautiful,” Bran said, eyes locked on the smooth grain of the wood, the subtle gradient from dark to light to dark along the shaft, the tasteful, understated carving of the contrasting handle.
“Yes, it is at that,” Mr. Ollivander chuckled. “Shall we back it safely for the trip home? It's come a long way to find you, and it's like to go even further as you put it to use.”
Bran paid quickly, too tied up in the buzz of finding his wand - his wand, he thought with fierce joy - to keep bombarding the wandmaker with more questions about the whys and hows of his craft. Instead, with little more than a murmured Thank you, he stepped, blinking, back into the bustle of Diagon Alley. The crowds had thickened during his time in Ollivander's shop, and he found himself somewhat stunned by the sudden return of noise and movement and light.
The bag dangling from his hand bumped against his leg, and a moment of remembered warmth filled him.
Whatever came next, at least he would be prepared.
Mayhaw Wood and White River Monster Spine
30.9cm | Swishy
A Mayhaw wand almost always chooses a witch or wizard in some variety of conflict - internal as well as external - as its wielder.
When paired with cores aligned with positive, helpful magic, users of these wands sometimes find their healing spells providing additional analgesic effect. More dark, negatively aligned cores, however, can leave Mayhaw wands’ magic discomforting to those affected.
These spines produce spells of force and elegance while disliking flashy, ostentatious magic, creating a wand that thrives with a subtle, steady hand. Such wands can be difficult to master for a witch or wizard without the necessary sophistication. Wands with these cores seem to prefer pure-blooded or otherwise well established masters.
As a connection forms between the master of a wand with this type of core, the witch’s or wizard’s spells may manifest differently than those cast by another. These differences are cosmetic, manifesting, for example, as lights being unique colors or scents being specifically appealing to the wielder.
