The Three Brothers - Chapter 5

22nd July 1991

“The Goblins are a prideful race, Mr Smith,” Professor McGonagall informed her quarry as they exited Flourish and Botts, their book shopping now done. “Despite a bloody history between the two races that is marred by the many wars and rebellions that took place, wizards and goblins now enjoy the longest period of peace and cooperation recorded.”

She turned to look at her new student, her legs still striding towards their destination.

“You will learn all about it in your History of Magic Classes, of course. Professor Binns is one of the most experienced teachers at Hogwarts,” she added. Mark nodded as he followed her, trying to get as much information as he could from both her words and her thoughts. She didn’t seem as confident about Professor Binns as she claimed to be, for example.

Mark’s dad followed the two of them, lagging behind a few steps as his head swivelled around to examine the various eccentricities of Diagon Alley. Gold cauldrons, silver telescopes, flying broomsticks, people dressed in bizarre robes; the wizarding world was even more colourful than they had imagined. Their next stop was to purchase a wand for Mark.

They had finished all the other stops on their list, and Mark had never had a better day before. Okay, maybe when he got his guitar. Still, it was a great day so far. Once they got in the alley through the portal in the Leaky Cauldron, their first stop had been the goblin bank Gringotts. After exchanging the pounds for galleons, they began the shopping. School robes at Madam Malkins, brass instruments from Wiseacres, nasty ingredients from the Slug and Jiggers apothecary; Mark’s school term was going to be really interesting.

During all this, both Mark and his father had kept up their steady barrage of questions to the professor. Mark could make out that under her professional exterior, she was actually pleased with the questions that the two of them had.

Mark’s thoughts were interrupted as Professor McGonagall slowed down. They had reached their destination

“Since 382 B.C.?” he heard his dad ask in an incredulous tone. Ollivander’s Wands was apparently an old establishment.

The moment they opened the door, a small bell jingled somewhere inside the shop. It was a bit dusty everywhere, and the smell of old musty paper and curing wood wafted through the shop.

Mark looked around, examining the tall shelves filled with boxes that seemed to dominate the interior, reminding him of an old library. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of an old man with pale eyes and wispy white hair.

Mark turned and saw an old man standing in front of him. He had pale eyes and his hair white and wispy.

“Good afternoon, Mr Ollivander,” Professor McGonagall spoke, her tone curter than usual. Ollivander looked straight at her, and a twinkle emerged in his old eyes.

“Ah, Minerva McGonagall. Fir, nine-and-a-half-inches, very stiff. Excellent for transfiguration, if I recall.”

“Indeed,” the professor replied after a tired sigh.

“And who is this?”

“Mark Smith, sir,” he replied, a tad too excited. Something about all this felt right.

“Well, Mr Smith, let’s find you a wand shall we. Now, which is your wand arm?”

“Both, I guess,” Mark answered noncommittally. He was mostly ambidextrous. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, indeed it does. You see, Mr Smith, it is the wand that chooses the wizard. And a wand behaves differently in different hands.” Ollivander looked at him, excitement evident on his face. “For you, that means we will have to try twice the number of wands.”

“Each Ollivander Wand is unique to the wizard, and you will never get the same results with another wizard’s wand. As each wizard is unique, so are the magical creatures that give their cores to the wands.” The voice came in from deep inside the shop, where Ollivander had disappeared off to while his seemingly sentient tape kept his audience occupied.

“We here at Ollivander’s use the heartstrings of Dragons, Unicorn tail hair, and sometimes the feathers of Phoenixes,” he finished as he returned with a dull looking box. Opening it he offered the wand inside to Mark.

“Ebony and unicorn hair, eight-and-a-half inches. Go on, try it”.

Mark put his hand in the box and picked up the wand inside. Seeing an encouraging nod on Ollivander’s face, he gave it a wave. Weak sparks emerged from it, and he saw surprise etch itself on the face of Professor McGonagall.

“Interesting. Very Interesting,” said the old wandmaker, drawing out the words as he observed the wand in Mark’s hand. Abruptly, he straightened himself and plucked the wand from the hand of a now confused Mark.

“Do you have any control over your wandless magic, Mr Smith?”

Mark’s confusion deepened. Wandless magic?

“I’m not sure. I mean, I can float a coin in my hand,” he answered weakly, not wanting to get into his mind reading abilities, at all. From what he had seen in Professor McGonagall’s mind, it was an uncommon ability even amongst magical folk. His dad obviously picked up on it, for he just kept silent.

“You can float a coin in your hand? Purposefully?” Professor McGonagall was staring at him like he had grown another head. Mark nodded weakly.

Ollivander seemed to have picked up on his discomfort, and he gave Mark a warm smile as he returned with a small pile of boxes.

“Do not worry, my boy. It just makes you a trickier customer than usual.”

After going through two more piles of boxes with similar results, Ollivander went in and returned with a single box.

“I wonder now. Here try this. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven-and-a-half inches.”

Mark reached in to pick up the wand, a sensation of unease slowly rising within him. His fingers curled against the handle, and an unwelcome warmth flowed through his hand. He kept it back immediately, his action almost involuntary.

“Curious. Very, very curious.” Ollivander looked at Mark, trying to figure something out. His eyes scanned the young wizard in front of him, coming to linger momentarily over the silver locket that rested around his neck. The old man’s face broke out in a kind smile.

“I think I now have an idea as to which wand will be yours, Mr Smith.”

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23rd July 1991

Albus watched his long-time friend and protégé slumped in on the armchair in his office. This time of the year was especially exhausting for her.

“Oh! Wonderful. How were the students that you did meet? You know I love hearing about your interactions with the new muggleborns, Minerva.” His curiosity was genuine; something about people experiencing magic for the first time brought him happiness. Minerva smiled and took in an audible breath before replying.

“Well, Ms Granger is an enthusiastic young witch. She was most excited to join the magical world and know all about the subjects that would be taught here. Kept asking questions about everything. Reminded me a little of the Lily Evans I had met all those years ago,” she said fondly.

“Not completely, mind you. Ms Granger is far more competitive and academically inclined. Her parents indicated that she’s a studious pupil that strives hard to get the best grades at everything. Doesn’t have many friends at her primary school.” Minerva took a pause before continuing, more to herself. “I do hope she manages to do that here, in the company of other students like her. Her parents were worried about that.”

“A possible Ravenclaw?” Albus offered as he popped a lemon drop in his mouth. They often had friendly bets amongst themselves about where some students might get sorted.

“Maybe.” Minerva shrugged. She looked at Albus, who somehow managed to look sophisticated while suċkɨnġ on a piece of candy.

“Well, it seems Ms Granger would be a good addition to whichever house she’s sorted into.”

Minerva nodded half-heartedly to that before a twinkle emerged in her eyes.

“Mr Smith, on the other hand, was quite an interesting study,” she said as if dangling a juicy bait. Albus caught on to it immediately.

“Would you believe me if I said that he can do a controlled levitation charm,” she took a dramatic pause, “wandlessly?”

Albus stared at her, his mouth slightly hanging open. He must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Really?” he asked, after taking a moment to compose himself. Minerva’s grin only widened.

“Indeed. He demonstrated it to me with a galleon, after we left Ollivander’s. He was hesitant at first; my initial shock didn’t help the matter much. It took some reassurance from my side before he could proceed,” she recalled.

“But once he did, it was much more impressive than I had imagined. He even spun the coin mid-air!”

“Interesting,” Albus muttered to himself. “What more did you observe? Is he studious?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Minerva drew-out her reply. “From what his father told me he voraciously pursues anything that interests him, but only makes passing efforts in the rest of the subjects.”

“Both father and son are quite intelligent actually. The questions that they had for me were refreshingly complex and challenging to answer.” After a moment she added in an amused tone,

“Evidently, Mr Smith is fond of muggle rock music. He asked me if he could bring his guitar to Hogwarts in order to practice.”

“You know what I think of it, Minerva. Music a magic —”

“— a magic beyond all we do here,” she chimed in.

A nagging doubt entered Albus’s mind. He considered having it clarified.

“Just out of curiosity, what kind of wand chose Mr Smith?” Albus asked almost hesitantly. Please don’t say holly, please don’t say holly.

“Applewood and phoenix feather,” came the tired reply. “Apparently it was the oldest wand in the shop, even older than Ollivander himself. It took us over an hour to find it,” Minerva explained.

Albus felt his mouth curl into a smile as his worry disappeared. He decided it was time to move on to the real purpose of this meeting.

“Mr Smith does seem to be an interesting young wizard indeed,” he said in an offhanded tone, drawing Minerva’s attention. “I need your help with something, Minerva.” Peering down his half-moon spectacles he added in a grave voice, “Something extremely sėnsɨtɨvė.”

Minerva straightened herself, her attention fixed on her mentor. Albus continued,

“We need to protect a certain artefact inside the castle, and I need you to devise protections for it.” He let the information set in. “Dark forces are likely to be involved in its search. I have already recruited Severus for this. I will also ask Filius and Pomona, but only he and you are to know the real objective; We mean to trap the would-be thief red-handed.”

“And what is this artefact?” she asked. His response was almost hesitant.

“The Philosopher’s Stone”

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25th July 1991

“— we can see that by only depicting a single open curtain, the author seems to portray loneliness in the —”

Mark had already zoned out, his hand propping the weight of his head on the desk. Of all the subjects, he hated studying languages the most. And English was the worst.

‘No, the author just probably forgot to mention the other curtain,’ Mark mocked in his mind. ‘Or perhaps he wanted to vex literature students’ centuries after his death.’

His mind wandered to the subjects he’d be studying at Hogwarts. He had already finished the book on Magical theory by that ‘Waffing’ guy. It had quite a lot of information, but most of it was just anecdotal and empirical. He hoped to buy some more comprehensive books on the subject when he went back to Diagon Alley on Sunday. He also hoped to browse all the other shops more thoroughly. There were probably interesting things to find in Knockturn Alley, but Professor McGonagall had specifically forbidden him from going there, and the place was probably not that welcoming to an eleven-year-old like him.

Upon his dad’s insistence, they had purchased a few extra items and even an upgraded trunk. It was expensive, but Mark had agreed after listening to his dad’s reasoning that it was a one-time purchase that should last him for several years. It had three compartments that somehow occupied the same physical space. As if by magic.

Growing up with his dad, money had never been an issue for them. His father’s savings and pension were respectable and his mother’s family had been rich, so all of the wealth was to be passed on to him.

Mark’s hand slipped underneath his shirt and subconsciously searched around. The worn-out edges of the silver locket brushed his fingers, and he ran his thumb over the intricate pattern. It was one of the few mementoes that he had of his mother. It had been a family heirloom, passed on from his maternal-grandfather to his only daughter, and now to her son.

His mother. Sarah Smith had been a kind and loving woman. At least that was what everyone always said.

Mark hated the fact that he could bȧrėly remember. Even her face was something he had only visualised through photos and her voice from the memories that he gleaned from his dad. Nothing else to go on.

She had died bȧrėly a month after he had been born, on the very night of that Christmas. As he grew up, he never really noticed her absence; after all his dad took care of him pretty well. There had never been a moment where he had actually wondered where his mother was.

By the time he grew older, he knew enough to not wonder anymore. There was no sense of emptiness or of missing out on anything. Just an academic curiosity that needed fulfilment.

So, he had gone to Edwin. He didn’t want to disturb his dad with sėnsɨtɨvė questions about his dead wife, forcing him to relive old memories. Not when he had just been diagnosed with leukaemia.

Edwin had understood and done his best. He told stories of how his parents met, how a young and sophisticated investment analyst fell in love with a rough and handsome soldier, and how they got married. How his mother had a sharp wit and a lovable personality, and how she wanted to raise a family with the man she loved. What exactly Mark had missed out on.

And now, there was a very good chance that his dad might leave him in a few years.

Mark wasn’t naïve; he was well acquainted with death. His dad had gone over everything with him, everything he would need to do after. They had even dubbed it their ‘Protocol Valkyrie,’ jokingly referring to the real operation Valkyrie that took place during the second world war.

But all the humour in the world couldn’t mask the cold hard truth behind it. Mark wished it would take as long as possible to become a reality. Give him just some more time.

Mark shook these thoughts from his mind, instead choosing to think of his new wand. Ironically it had been the oldest wand in the shop as Ollivander had informed him excitedly. Truthfully, by that time, Mark was just glad about the fact that a wand had chosen him at all.

The applewood wand was much longer than he had expected; at fourteen and a half inches, it was longer than even his thɨġh. He needed to find some way to properly carry it on his person, just as Professor McGonagall had. Maybe he could fashion a holster of some sort, with some of the stuff he had in his room.

After they had returned home from their shopping trip, Mark had spent the evening studying the old piece of craftsmanship under a magnifying lens, hoping to understand what seemed to be an extremely sėnsɨtɨvė form of magic. Perhaps one day he could learn to make his own wand.

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