The Draw Prologue
I do not own Harry Potter, or anything from The Elderscrolls series.
Curiosity had eaten away at the Ollivander heir for years, and long after he had become a father.
And now the date had passed.
Hidden away in the depths of their families Gringotts vault, among their dwindling wealth Garrick lifts a thin, lightweight casket. The word 'destiny' written in his fathers messy scrawl, and underlined twice. Dark against the woods pale grain.
His daughter laughs, a joyful sound as he shakes the box like an over eager child.
Standing beside her growing stomach, a goblin looks on aghast. Key gripped tightly in his old, knarled hand. Knuckles white.
The goblins did not care for him, or his like.
Their memories long, and as enduring as the stone, that surrounded them. The eldest of their breed, still unable to forgive the wizards of old, for stealing their totems and dividing the power amongst them.
Forced into the depths, embers began to glow. They built new empires out of metal, and ore. Trinkets, and precious stones.
Resilient beings, the goblins were.
And that trait was a desirable one.
Goblins hair worked so well in wands, Ollivander laments. And skin and bone had been forbidden since the ending of the last war. Any wands made of them were cofiscated by the government and burned.
Such a shame, it was.
There were a few survivors, wands passed down through the old lines. Untouchable by law. Or hidden in the underground markets, with wands of a lesser calibers.
Even he, in had crafted a few of those, forbidden pieces. Temperamental things, those wands, but powerful if in placed in the right hands.
The halflings of their race seemed to benefit most, similar to the veela and their ilk. Many other wands wilting in their child's hands.
Ollivander wonders idly about their keys, held so closely to the goblins bodies and what else they had slipped in, besides metal. The designs similar to what their totems had once worn.
His father had been slippery like that too.
The box in his hand continues rustling, as if reforming a book and Garrick's lips twist further up.
History was always an important thing, after all.
His daughter meets his toothy grin.
"The pages torn from grandfathers journal?" she queries. Her eyes seeming brighter in the low light.
Garrick pauses and stares at the rune like symbols, unable to discern if the correct translation is rebirth or reborn. He traces his fingers along the sweeping arches, and rounded edges. Wondering idly if his father had taken his grandfathers stories to heart.
As a child Garrick had been fascinated by tales of death's favoured children, run through his fingers and been reborn. The stool creaking beneath the Ollivander heir, as he inched closer to the his wizened grandfather.
Few ever meeting the elusive souls, or recognizing the signs, but his grandfather had. Had known the moment their eyes met.
And then there was the boy, his grandfather had spoken about so often. His voice soft, and wistful. So full of yearning.
Like all men his father had been flawed.
And in Gervaise's case a little mad.
Head encased in a bubble charm, Garrick Ollivander moves across the upper level of his shop. Knees aching as they slid across the worn hardwood floor. His knuckles rapping against the bases of the wall to wall shelves. Pale, wrinkled fingers running along the seams. Searching for a hatch, or concealed space. Anything really.
Garrick knew paranoia. How tight it's grip could get. All successful wand makers experienced it eventually, when people started hovering over their shoulders. Creeping, into rooms they had no place being.
But there was a delicate line surrounding what was realistic and what wasn't and his father soared past it, like an errant broom. The man barricading himself in the upstairs work room. At first for days, and then months. Mumbling furiously to himself, and an invisible, unnamed companion. Cursing any time someone neared the door.
His mother wringing her hands as she watched over the man she loved.
Her husband consumed by his craft, and churning out defective, unstable wands. Each wilting, one after another.
Gervaise Ollivander leaving only in the dead of night, when the world seemed still and the tiny shop even stiller. A trail of wood shavings and crumbs left from one spot to another, where he apparated in the street and where he reappeared.
And one ridiculously cold night, Garrick had taken over his mothers vigil. Sent the exhausted woman to bed, and waited. Saw the door crack open, and a face peer out.
Both men unable to hold their surprise.
His fathers face gaunt and terrible to behold.
And Garrick had known, in that moment, staring at the haggard man in rumpled, stained clothes he couldn't af-
His fingers catch, and the wandmaker finds it. The product of all his fathers fevered dreams. They tremble as he pulls open the caskets lid.
He removes a note attached to the wand reading, 'a child will come.'
And clutches it to his heart.
Garrick watches his customers enter. Members of the Goyle line, a tall and sturdy folk. Related closely to the Burkes' and the Crabbes'
and more distantly to the Blacks', Crouch's and Malfoys'. Some of the older lines whispering of an adoption many generations back, but it was rarely spoken of or acknowledged.
The young Goyle heir propels his sister forward, scowling as she tries to adjust the collar of her robes. Some strange, vibrant hue. Their father trailing behind, a hand on either of the twins shoulders. An older woman striding confidently beside them. Dressed in a similar manner to the girl.
And again his eyes are drawn to the taller of the twins as she tries to smile at him. Her posture resigned, as if looking for someone else in his place.
And in that moment he knows. That those hands stained with ink will wield something not as easily seen.
Finished with the eldest twin, Garrick approaches the young miss Goyle. Curiosity eating away at him, as the girl stands by the glass display cases. Her family remaining by the register, torn between joining then and admiring the wand, the boy had thrust out.
A lovely hued piece of ash with a dragon heartstring core. Retrieved from the corpse of a Swedish short snout, determined on protecting its eggs from another dragon. It's length twelve inches, and slightly longer than the wand Garrick hadplaced with the elder Goyle so many years ago.
Another wand that would of been difficult to master, quite hard and with great potent for destruction. Bound to excel in the darker, and more offensive arts.
And this other child.. Well.
The girl raises her head to acknowledge him, hand falling to her side. Fingers no longer a light, with a soft green glow.
"Do you believe in destiny?" she asks, pale eyes catching in the candlelight. Darker then his own, and far emptier, as if a part of her was hidden from view.
The wand does not vibrate in her presence or hum, as some woods do but the shadows shift, as if trying to reveal itself.
She hums an affirmative, and offers up a strange, secretive smile. Just for him, and out of sight of her approaching kin. "I thought you might."
"And I believe you something for me, as well."
"We have something for everyone," Garrick chuckles, gesturing widely to the walls. "But I do believe you are being more specific."
The surety in her tone propels him into action.
"My father created a wand many years ago, before the madness overtook him," Garrick recalls. Hand shaking, as he reaches past her. The displays latch opening far to easily. "I believe this is what you are seeking."
Pale fingers wrap around the wand, brush against the velvet beneath.
"Hornbeam," Garrick utters, brandishing the wand. "Long, twelve inches and surprisingly flexible for such a dense material."
He smiles kindly. "A wand meant for a visionary, for someone not unlike myself."
"It is beautiful," she marvels, taking it from Garrick. "Like dragon bone. Stripped and scored to look like wood."
"You're father was very talented."
He nods. "The core is thestral hair."
"It will be costly then," Aurenia Goyle nee Burke interrupts, jeweled hand moving to her granddaughters shoulder. "I have not heard of someone using that core before."
"It is not common," Garrick acknowledges.
During his apprenticeship he had discovered just how difficult a material it was to work with. How hard it was to acquire without damaging the integrity of the core.
Thestrals swift, and far more intelligent than they appeared. And their teeth sharp when cornered. Garrick still has a few reminders, of the needle like protrusions piercing him.
How he had to explain the hooves prints, to his new wife. His hand, hidden smartly by his bags.
"Unicorn hair is far more practical," he explains, examining the elder woman for signs of any real interest in the craft. "Most are subpar creations of coarse, but there are tales of another. One of unmatched potential."
"The elder wand," she muses.
"Yes. You have heard the tales?"
"Many tried to sell my father wands bearing that name. And you know his reputation, as well as my uncles."
His father had traded with the men on occasion, as he experimented. Shrewd fellows, with a talent for collecting hard to find items. But it would be a waste to sell such a marvel. Garrick would rather study the wand. Further his skills.
"Well, on with it my dear girl. Don't keep Mr. Ollivander waiting," Aurenia nee Burke chides. Garish rings catching in the light as she motions for the girl to act, again.
The child nods, and shifts the wand in her hand as if it should weigh more. Her face taking on a edge, he's only seen on adults.
Glittering flakes escape the wand instead of sparks, and span the room in seconds. Coating everything before it in a thin layer of gossamer. Garrick reaches out and touches the cool film, surprised that it remains.
He catches sight of the Goyle heir dragging some into his mouth, and making a disgusted expression. His father's stern gaze the only thing keeping him from spitting it out.
"You could of made it taste better," he complains, cheeks pink as he meets Garrick's gaze instead of his sisters.
The girl snorts, repositioning herself. "Be grateful it was dust, and not bone."
"Or yellow," their father adds, proud of his own joke.
Garrick's heart pangs, as he watches them.
Almost sees another girl turn around,dust motes dancing in the air around her.
The words catch in his throat.
Aurenia coughs, and he straightens meeting her amused gaze. "I look forward to seeing what draws you miss Goyle."
The girl cradles the wand. "And the cost?" she asks.
"What is it that calls you child?" he asks. The answer doesn't really matter, but curiosity pulls at him.
This is what his father had suffered for.
The girl looks at him, considering and then shakes her head. "You have seen my hands, do you really need to ask?"
A sliver of disappointment digs its way into him.
It is a fair point though, he concedes.
"Your new companion will be 32 galleons then, the cost of a custom wand."
Garrick catches the senior Mr. Goyle's hesitation. It is a small fortune, especially for a family not known for being well off.
His mother's smile is interesting though, holding something close to triumph as she pushes her son's hand back and opens her money bag. A simple thing, for such a well decorated woman.
There has been gossip of them having broken the century long contact, that bound their heirs to the Malfoys. Perhaps there had been some truth to it.
A tug on his sleeves pulls Garrick away from his thoughts, and he blinks as lips meet his cheek.
"Thank you," the girl says, all whizzbees and other, sugary treats.
Garricks hand moves towards his face on instinct, though the girl lingers near his ear. Whispering, "There are other things you need to know."
"Things he never knew."
Garrick stiffens, as his eyes grow wide. Throat threatening to close, as a cumbrous, almost unbearable pressure descends. A strange cold seeping into his bones, as he reaches for his neck. Spots spreading through out his vision.
And when the bitter cold lifts, Garrick can almosy breath again and he shudders.
The girl laughs. A sound like birds and broken teacups, shattering against the wall. "You need not worry about such things. Not here."
Garrick stares at the child, incredulous. His shop gone, and in ruins behind her.
"Awful things are going to happen," the girl continues, stepping back. Hands moving to show further damage.
Gray flakes tinged with black fall around them.
"As they always do."
His stomach twists as he watches two images overlap, two worlds collide. Monstrous creatures chasing their prey down burning streets, and braying their triumph. Tearing into the fallen shades. Dementors swarming the still bodies, hovering in large circles. Feeding. The smell of burning flesh and air, and smoke covering that of lost bowels and torn open stomachs.
A spell skims his nose, and he dodges the next colorful streak. Hand reaching desperately for his wand as he trips. He tries to execute a proper roll when he discovers it missing, and knock the approaching figures over. The dueling shades pass through him, like disturbed water.
"Miss Goyle?!" he shouts. His heart beating rapidly.
His yell barely audible over the victims screams.
A stranger stands in her place, with the same empty eyes. Pale white hair instead of brackish brown. Hexes passing through her, and transforming objects, while other wands just destroyed them.
"Bend when the time comes Garrick Ollivander," the woman warns, her gaze never leaving his. Accent lighter, and her voice far colder. "Let that man, or what's left of him believe you broken and bide your time."
Another laugh escapes her lips at his expression and she turns her back to him, moving away. Disappearing into the gray haze.
"A child will come and then another," she calls back. As if that is enough.
Garrick coughs, trying to speak. To ask. The smoke pouring into his lungs as he tries to follow, to pinpoint where her voice was last. His eyes stinging and the spots reforming.
Seconds later Garrick opens his bloodshot, watering eyes. The words on the ledger below him unreadable and the metal drawer of the register digging into his ribs. Galleons lined up on the counter beside it.
The woman's voice continuing to echo throughout the shop. Haunting him.
"They will be your salvation."
And softer, "Maybe even ours."
And all Garrick Ollivander can taste is ash. His mouth dry, and thick like velvet, shorn in the early spring.