The Careys (carey_quintet) wrote in weddedto_sonora, @ 2012-09-29 19:07:00 |
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Current mood: | relieved |
Wands
“Hm,” Henry breathed, pressing his lips together to keep from actually saying anything as, directly in front of his very excited mother, he stepped into Magnusson’s wand shop, looking away from the back of Aunt Lorraine’s robes at once to look around the store. It was very large, clean, and well-lit, but the air felt heavy to him, almost the way the air in the attic did when he went to sit up there and get away from the family, though different because he knew that was dust and could tell this wasn’t.
The wands, he thought, looking around the shelves, the waiting area, the shiny hardwood floor. It’s the wands. All the magic in the air. He had enjoyed the magical theory lessons, even though Mother had looked teary when he talked about them and he had gotten in a little trouble for what had happened after Brandon made a badly-timed remark about him not needing them, and he knew that wands were magical in their own right. So many together, and probably being taken down and tried all the time…It must have all built up, here, in the building. He wandered over to the window display, which consisted of a single wand on a plinth. The wood shone dully, and he felt almost magnetically attracted to it.
“Henry, get away from that,” Mother said, her tone the one she used when she was correcting one of them just out of habit, her mind barely on what she was doing, though she did sound a little anxious to please, too. She always was, in public.”Come over here and wait with the rest of us.”
He had no more than sat down on one of the chairs when a fat old man appeared and bowed to them. It was, Henry noticed, a very calculated bow – deep enough to show respect, but not so deep as to suggest that Professor Magnusson was really inferior to them. One of the things the Careys did not have was their own wandmaker, making the one they had used for a very long time a valuable person, someone entitled to a certain amount of self-worth. He knew that he was important, that he was good at what he did, and that he had a place in the world; he was fat and old, but Henry found that he felt a flicker of envy anyway. It would be good to be old, to have no more doubts about anything.
“Mrs. Carey,” he said. “And Mrs. Carey. So good to see you both again.”
Mother and Aunt Lorriane had both already stood to make small curtsies. “Professor Magnusson,” they said in near-unison; Henry had to press his lips together again to muffle a laugh, bowing to hide that he was doing that.
“And which of you is the young Anthony?” the wandmaker asked, and Henry realized he was speaking to them directly. He and his cousin looked at each other for a second, and then Anthony stepped forward a little and bowed again.
“I am, sir,” he said, then glanced back at Aunt Lorraine, who gave him an approving nod.
“Which would make you Henry,” Magnusson said. “Yes, I’ve sold both of your brothers fine wands – and your sister as well,” he added to Henry. “She was chosen by a particularly interesting wand. I trust she does well with it?”
Henry flushed, thinking the question was directed to him but not wanting to speak to a new person in front of adults from his family. He much preferred not to. “I’ve never heard her complain about it, sir,” he said, forcing his eyes to stay away from his shoes.
“Excellent,” Professor Magnusson said, his voice suddenly brisk, and he began herding Henry and Anthony toward a pair of stools like those they had stood on while they were fitted for their uniform robes. Henry stepped up onto his with a trepidation which was almost instantly proven warranted by the descent of a pair of magical tape measures, which began taking a more thorough evaluation of their proportions than he thought even the formalwear tailors ever had. Anthony seemed to find it funny, but Henry disliked the feeling of being touched and prodded. Knowing it was necessary, though, he bit his lip and tried to concentrate on the sound of Magnusson’s voice instead.
“Today is a very important day for both of you,” he was saying as he went through his shelves, making selections. “Your first wand may not be your last wand, depending on a number of factors, but it will almost certainly hold a special place in your lives. If you are any wizards at all, you will be able to channel magic through any device, but with a well-matched wand, with which you have built a strong partnership….”
He returned, a number of boxes floating along beside him. A snap of his fingers made the measuring tapes disappear. “The measurements are important as a beginning guide,” he said, “but only the worst of wandmakers takes them as the primary criteria for matching wands. Come, sit, try a few out.”
They started with Anthony, of course. Henry had never doubted that they would. Anthony was the heir, the golden boy; Henry had spent his entire life standing just behind Anthony’s shoulder, and he expected to stay there for the rest of his life. It was the card he had drawn, and it wasn’t the worst one possible, so he tried not to resent it too much – all things considered. He watched, his face calm but his hands knotted painfully in his lap, as a number of long, thin boxes, their tops taken off and placed around the bottom of the box, were laid out in front of Anthony and then his cousin was presented with a very handsome one.
“Walnut and phoenix feather,” Professor Magnusson said. “Twelve and a half inches.”
Carefully, Anthony lifted the wand, then brought it down, but it did not work. Aunt Lorraine frowned slightly – her wand was walnut, Henry knew – but the professor did not seem discouraged. “Hm. Very well. Let’s try this. Beechwood and dragon heartstring, ten inches…”
They went through the entire display and then half of another before Professor Magnusson, seeming no more dismayed than he had after the first one didn’t work out, presented Anthony with one which he described as “hazel and phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches…” and then applauded when a stream of bright white sparks appeared as Anthony waved it.
“A fine match,” Professor Magnusson pronounced as Aunt Lorraine squealed in excitement and hugged her son. “And now for your cousin.”
As soon as he said that, any feelings of happiness and excitement for his cousin Henry had experienced vanished, replaced by the distinct sensations of having swallowed a large rock right before having his throat sealed off. His hands were shaking slightly as he and Anthony changed places, his cousin’s gray eyes wide with a pale echo of the apprehension Henry felt as he clutched his own new wand, in its box, to his chest and sat down beside his mother to watch.
The first wand didn’t work, but Henry wasn’t bothered much, since it hadn’t for Anthony, either. It was the same with the next one, and the next…but by the time he had gone through double the number of wands Anthony had, he was beginning to think he might panic for real, right here in public. His mother forgot herself enough that she started biting her thumbnail, until Aunt Lorraine put a hand out to stop her. Henry was uncomfortably aware of his own pulse. I’m not a Squib, he told himself, and then it turned into a mantra. I’m not a Squib. I’m not a Squib. I’m not a Squib.
A headache began to pound in his temples, and he took to keeping his eyes closed as he tried new wands, only opening them long enough to pick up the next one, increasingly sure that it wasn’t going to work. He didn’t even really listen to what the wandmaker was saying to him anymore, either, until abruptly, one felt strangely warm in his fingers.
“What?” he asked, then realized how impolite that had been. “I’m sorry, sir, but – what did you say?”
“Ash and dragon heartstring,” repeated Professor Magnusson. “Eleven inches. Give it a wave.”
Henry did, and to his amazement, green sparks appeared, throwing spots of light onto the walls. His family began applauding – Anthony a little muffledly, since he was still holding on to his own wand box, but all of them enthusiastically – and Professor Magnusson looked…satisfied, as though he had just accomplished something which had been difficult, but which he had never doubted he would be able to do. Henry just felt relieved. It hadn’t been as much of a show as Anthony’s wand had put on, but it had happened. He had met a wand which was willing to pair with him. He was a wizard, once and for all. No one could ever say that he wasn’t again.
“Knew we’d get there in the end,” Magnusson remarked, and then his attention seemed to move to the adults, who were arguing over whether or not Aunt Lorraine should buy both wands. Henry and Anthony, meanwhile, by one accord, had moved together to compare their new wands.
“Ash is stubborn,” Anthony remarked after examining Henry’s for a moment and giving it an experimental twirl. Henry scowled good-naturedly at him.
“Hazel moans,” he replied, then laughed when Anthony grinned, then made a show of clutching his shoulder and falling back on the chair, moaning in clearly mock pain.
“Boys,” Aunt Lorraine, who seemed to have won the argument, said, and though there was as much amusement as warning in her tone, they both fell silent at once, Anthony sitting up properly and then getting back to his feet. “Thank you very much, Professor Magnusson,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll both take very good care of them.” Henry and Anthony nodded in unison, knowing that even if they did somehow start to think of their wands as unimportant, then Aunt Lorraine’s wrath would still await them if they were damaged.
“I do hope so,” Professor Magnusson said. “Shall I wrap those up?”
“Yes, thank you,” Anthony said, with clear reluctance, at the same moment Henry said, “No,” and held his a little further away from its maker, even though he knew that would really do nothing if the older wizard really wanted to take it from him. He saw his mother blush, embarrassed by his inappropriate answer, but he didn’t care. This was his wand. All his. It had chosen him, not Mother or the Fourth or anyone else in the family. No one was going to take it away from him.