The Wandmaker's Granddaughter

The Wandmaker's Granddaughter Meets a Friend

It was exactly noon when the store bells chimed.  Fate is funny how it allows things to occur the second they must, for it was at noon that Amelia, now almost eleven-years-old, was alone waiting for her grandfather to return.  As the hour struck, and the door bells chimed, Amelia looked up to see a raggedy haired boy her age confidently walking in alone.

To Amelia the boy looked proud and pompous, to the boy Amelia looked cold and judgmental.  Her glare, the most unsettling of all, with one icey blue eye and one dark black eye piercing into his very soul, caused his confidence to waver as his pace slowed and he made his way to the counter where she sat.

"Hello," the boy said trying to regain his confidence as he pushed his wild hair out of his face.

"Hello," Amelia replied looking the boy up and down with a mix of curiosity and calculation.

"I'm here to buy a—"

"I know.  My grandfather will be back in a moment," she said getting up and walking towards the back.

"Don't touch anything," Amelia warned before disappearing through teetering piles of boxes into the back shadows of the store. 

The boy looked around tentatively. The store hadn't aged a day in what appeared to be a hundred or more years. Even the dust and cobwebs looked as if it had taken centuries to accumulate. The smell of death and wood finish lingered throughout the room. Heavy sheets of grime clung to the front windows, completely forgotten for decades, causing the noon light to barely make its way into the dim, cluttered shop. The boy took all this in before approaching a shelf slowly and picking a box up out of curiosity. Had this boy been a cat, he would have died long ago, for his curiosity almost always got the better of him.  He inspected the box carefully before attempting to lift the lid. 

"Please continue if you don't enjoy all of your fingers."

The boy jumped and dropped the box in his hands at the sound of Amelia returning. Her hands, now black with dust, were full of rectangular boxes in varying degrees and severities of length and width.  She began opening and inspecting the contents with a precision seemingly far beyond her years.

"How old are you?" the boy asked picking up the box he had dropped and replacing it on the shelf.

"I'll be eleven tomorrow," she said moving from one box to the next pushing a strand of light brown hair back behind her ear.

"So, you're only ten," he said watching her intently.

"Yes, she is Mr. Potter," a voice said coming from the back of the store.  Through the shadows the tall figure of Mr. Ollivander came into view.  At least, he was tall in comparison to the children in the room.

"You know who I am?" The boy asked.

"Of course Mr. James Potter.  The eldest son of Mr. Harry Potter, a man with whom I owe very much, and Mrs. Ginny Potter, a woman who has shown me such kindness that I could never repay it.  And it seems you've met my granddaughter," Mr. Ollivander said taking Amelia's place at the counter.

"Granddaughter?" James said looking from one to the other trying to find a resemblance which did not exist.

"Indeed.  Where are your parents today Mr. Potter?" Ollivander said picking up his tape measure and beginning to take James' measurements.

"Visiting my uncles down the street," James said.

"Ah, and it seems you were too eager and came ahead of the lot.  Here try this," Ollivander said handing him a long black wand.  James eagerly took the wand and began to wave it.  Before he could even finish a stroke, Amelia took it out of his hands and gave it to her grandfather.