Chapter Text
There were many wand shops in Diagon Alley, but Hagrid had sworn up and down that this was the only one worth its phoenix feathers.
The shop Hagrid had insisted on going to was aged, narrow, and shabby. Peeling golden letters glittered above the door reading, Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.
A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.
A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as the Doctor and Harry stepped inside. It was a tiny place, just as aged and dingy as the outside. There was a counter that split the showroom room from the back, but the rest of the space was entirely empty apart from a single spindly chair, which neither of them took.
Behind the counter, thousands of narrow boxes were piled neatly right up to the ceiling, going back as far as the depths would reveal, leaving the whole room humming with dormant energy.
“Good afteroon,” said a soft voice, causing Harry to jump terribly.
An old man stepped out of the dark, his eyes wide and pale, cutting through the darkness.
“Hello,” Harry uttered instinctively, as the Doctor waved in similar greeting.
“‘Ello.”
“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.”
It wasn’t a question. The Doctor stepped back, dropping down into the chair nestled in the corner. If this bloke was inclined towards divination, he didn’t want to be anywhere near him.
“You have your mother’s eyes. It seemed only yesterday she was here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”
An image of a young Lily filled the Doctor’s vision. Eleven years old and bold as anything, marching into Ollivander’s wand shop, peering over the counter. He had handed her a dozen wands, analytically twirling each one between her fingers until finally she found the right fit.
Red hair billowing down her shoulders, the wand fit perfectly in her hand, smooth willow wood with a slight curvature. Nice wand for charms and she’d used it to the fullest extent.
“Your father, on the other hand,” Mr. Ollivander continued, moving closer to Harry, still unblinkingly, “favoured a mahogany wand.”
Of course he did – strong and durable with a kick of extravagant indulgence.
That was James.
“A little more powerful and excellent for transfiguration,” Mr. Ollivander said, now so close to Harry that they were nearly nose-to-nose. “Well, I say your father favoured it – it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course. And that’s where…”
The Doctor rose from his chair and began cautiously making his way towards Harry as Mr. Ollivander raised a long finger to draw it through the air and draw the hair up from his face.
“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful,” he muttered nonsensically, “and in the wrong hands…Well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”
His wide eyes glanced up, striking the Doctor, something illuminating within them.
“You! You, you, I know you.”
The Doctor felt a mild sense of panic run through him – he hadn’t met him, not yet at least, but he already had his wand. So this memory Mr. Ollivander was holding he hadn’t experienced yet.
“Right,” he answered neutrally, “It’s me.”
“No, no, not you, couldn’t be you…” His face drew closer to the Doctor’s, just as he had to Harry. “Your father…it must have been.”
“Right, er, yes, that’s probably it.”
“You look very much like him, you know.”
“Yeah. So I’ve been told – I think my friend is looking for a wand, though –”
“Right, yes of course. Let me see.” Mr. Ollivander hurriedly turned back to Harry and extracted a long tape measure with silver markings from his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”
“Er – well, I’m right-handed,” Harry said nervously.
“Hold out your arm,” the shopkeep instructed, “That’s it.”
He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and around his head.
Honestly, the Doctor thought he might just be mucking about.
“Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Ollivander explained as he measured. “We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.”
The tape measure moved up to measure between his nostrils, levitating wandlessly.
“That will do,” he told the tape, and it crumpled on the spot into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Ollivander retrieved a box from one of the shelves, “Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”
Harry accepted the wand. He looked at the Doctor uncertainly.
“You’re all right, mate. You got this.”
Harry nodded, rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, lifted the wand and –
“No, no,” Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hands and hurriedly replaced it with a different one. “Try this one. Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy.”
Harry raised this one too, only for Mr. Ollivander to snatch it back out of his hand again.
“No, certainly not. Here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”
Harry tried, lifting the wand, but this one wasn’t right for Mr. Ollivander either. They went through wand after wand, yet as Harry seemed to grow more distressed at being unable to succeed in finding the right wand, Mr. Ollivander seemed to grow only more excited, enthralled by the challenge.
“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere. I wonder, now…yes, why not – unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”
The moment Harry took the wands his shoulders drooped with comfort. He moved it with confidence and ease, like he had been waving it his whole life. The boy brought it above his head and brought it swishing down through the dusty air, a stream of golden sparks spitting out the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on the wall.
“Oh, bravo!” Mr. Ollivander cheered gleefully, “Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well…how curious…how very curious.”
The Doctor frowned. “What’s curious?”
The shopkeep’s eyes didn’t waver from Harry’s.
“I remember every wand I sold, you know. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in this wand, gave another feather – just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar.”
The Doctor blinked, looking between the two of them. “Scar? What scar?”
Mr. Ollivander slowly dragged a finger back up to Harry’s forehead, brushing the messy hair from his forehead to reveal a scar stretching from his hairline, about two inches in length. It looked like a lichtenberg scar, as if he’d been struck by a tiny bolt of lightning.
“Where did you get that?”
Harry looked down, “Vol- You-Know-Who, I mean. He killed my parents and gave me this scar.”
The Doctor’s throat caught. He looked away to keep Harry from seeing any emotion in his eyes.
He’d suspected it. He’d known, really. But a part of him wanted to hope – wanted so badly to hope.
But Lily was gone too.
“You-Know-Who owns the twin core.” Mr. Ollivander explained, seemingly uncaring about the Doctor’s breakdown. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember…” He straightened, now looking downwards at Harry, “I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.”
“Come on, Harry.” Not wanting the old man to torment him any further, the Doctor urged Harry forward, the boy quickly pulling a handful of galleons from his pouch.
“Wait, don’t you need a wand too?” Harry asked as the Doctor hurried him out.
“Nah,” he grinned, revealing the old ashwood wand from his coat, keeping it at an angle so as not to let the old wandmaker much of a look at it before stowing it away again, “I’ve already got one.”
The late-afternoon sun hung low in the sky as the Doctor, Harry, and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley.
“That should be everything, then, eh Harry?”
Harry nodded, looking back down at the list. “I think so.”
“Back home, then, eh?”
His eyes dropped, something deeply disappointed flashing through them – no, not disappointment. It was more than that. It was worse than that.
“Actually, Hagrid,” the Doctor said, “I would love to stop at the Leaky Cauldron before we go. I’m starved. How about you, Harry?”
Harry looked positively panicked, looking desperately between the Doctor and Hagrid, searching for the right answer.
“Er…” Hagrid looked unsure, “We really ought to be gettin’ back –”
“Come on, mate, he hasn’t eaten in hours.”
The Doctor looked at Harry expectantly. Knowing the right answer to this one, Harry nodded hurriedly.
“I suppose…” Hagrid folded almost immediately, “can’t have you goin’ hungry, now can I?”
They passed back through the way, back into the Leaky Cauldron, now mostly-empty, and grabbed a table, sending Hagrid up to the counter to order.
“So,” the Doctor asked Harry once Hagrid was out of hearing-distance, trying to pretend like he wasn’t prying for information, “After all this you’ll be going…where? Back to the Dursleys’?”
Harry nodded, not looking all that happy at the prospect.
“Right. Who are they, then?”
“My aunt and uncle.” Harry mumbled, “And my cousin Dudley.”
Family. They were his family. His family. Couldn’t be James’s side, since he didn’t have any siblings and, given the war, the Doctor had done a good deal of research on the more noble wizarding families and the name ‘Dursley’ didn’t ring a bell. So this must be on Lily’s side.
“LILY!” the Doctor remembered a girl, shouting over the phone, her voice drenched in disappointment, “It’s for YOU!”
There had been shuffling, the sound of a phone shifting, someone new took the phone.
“Thanks, Pet,” Lily’s voice had addressed the former.
“Don’t be too long,” the first said, “I’m waiting for Vernon to call.”
“Hello?”
“Hi Lily, it’s the Doctor.”
This must be Lily’s sister.
“Tell me about them.” The Doctor asked, trying not to sound too desperate. “What are they like?”
“They’re fine.” Harry looked down at the table.
He was lying.
The Doctor frowned. “Just fine?”
“I dunno.”
“You don’t know?”
Harry shrugged, refusing to meet his eye.
The Doctor lowered himself, using his hand to draw Harry’s eyeline, cutting straight to the point.
“Do they hurt you, Harry?”
His eyes widened, he shoved himself back, nearly falling off the stool. The Doctor didn’t move, staying still as stone.
Harry frantically glanced around, like he was worried his aunt and uncle would appear, looking over his shoulder. He then leaned in conspiratorily and nodded.
“They’re awful,” he admitted in a whisper, “They’re awful.”
“Tell me.”
“They – they yell at me all the time – nothing I do is ever right or – or good enough. And Uncle Vernon – he’s just so angry all the time – he’ll throw things at me and – and hit me…”
The Doctor had to bite back an exclamation. Fury building in his bones.
But whatever microexpression he’d made, Harry seemed to catch, immediately shrinking in on himself. “I mean…” he corrected meekly, “It’s not so bad – not really. He really only does when – when I’ve done something wrong or…or if Dudley’s upset, or if I’m out of my cupboard –”
“Your cupboard?”
Harry looked like he wanted to shrivel up and die on the spot. He looked back down at the table, the next few words shrouded in shame.
“It’s where I sleep.”
“Where you sleep.” The Doctor echoed.
“It’s – it’s not because they can’t or anything,” Harry suddenly looked up, like he was desperate to insist to the Doctor that he wasn’t just being over-dramatic, “Dudley’s got two bedrooms –”
“Two?”
He nodded, “And there’s a spare for when Aunt Marge stays –”
“They have a spare room?”
The Doctor stood suddenly. Harry flinched.
The Doctor sat. He took a steadying breath.
His boy – James Potter’s son – was being kept in a cupboard in a home with two extra bedrooms.
James’s
His boy.
“Harry, I –”
“John Smith,” all of a sudden, he heard that agitating, grating voice, “I must admit, your last-minute enrollment came as a surprise, even to me.”
Realistically, it was the one person he should have been expecting to see when he came back here. And yet, it was also the one person who caught him by total and complete surprise.
“You’re like your father in that way, aren’t you?”
Irritation already building, Doctor turned to find none other than Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorframe of the Leaky Cauldron.