Chapter Text
Twelve inches. Mermaid hair core. Alder wood. And an extremely unpleasant attitude. Draco eyes the wand, arms crossed, wondering once again why he accepted to spend his evening sorting out those bloody creations. The problematic wand stares back, as if daring him to pick it up again.
Draco will, but not without a good cup of tea first. Walking around the table, he avoids nicely packaged wands stacked in not-so-nicely done towers, the whole arrangement holding together with prayers only —and a bit of magic. It is perhaps because so many wands are reunited in one place, whispering, their voices inaudible to all except for the two wizards working in the shop. Garick Ollivander and David Palesang.
A new hire, a genius from Beauxbatons, with a surprising affinity for wandmaking, and who never was involved in the war or the dark arts. Customers usually loved meeting him. They commented on his pretty blond hair, long lashes, piercing green eyes, and lovely bone structure. They usually disliked his mouth, however, whenever he opened it.
"This is why the French persona is truly your best cover," Ollivander had said once, his voice frail but not without humour. "Nobody will question your awful character when they learn about your nationality."
"Nobody is born an arsehole!"
"Apparently you are."
Draco had withstood the verbal joust with no more than a roll of eyes and a whispered spell to make Ollivander's tea cold. Some days, it still astonishes him that the old wizard accepted his offer to help around the shop. It also astonishes him that he, Draco Lucius Malfoy, enjoys working here. When he first approached Ollivander two years ago, it was not out of the goodness of his heart. Crushing guilt had been guiding his steps. As well as a healthy dose of shame, fear, and crippling self-hatred.
With a quick movement of his hand, the richly flavoured black tea he keeps hidden between potions comes floating above his head while he sets the water to boil. A soft sound, then bubbles. A mug appears next to the teapot without being prompted, and Draco mutters a soft Thank you to the shop. Another habit he picked up in the last two years; expressing gratitude. It is easy when he is alone, in the middle of wands, far away from prying eyes. It is harder whenever a customer irritates him, the words stinging his tongue as if a hex.
The teapot hisses. Draco picks it up and fills the patiently waiting mug. In four minutes, his tea will be ready. Draco goes back to the front of the store where the arrogant wand is still waiting on the counter, dull in the grey light, the sky heavy with charged clouds and buzzing wind. A typical day in London, really.
Sitting down, Draco lits the candles floating around the shop with a quick movement of his hand, his own —newly made— wand hidden away in his bag. It's his eighth wand, and it still does not feel right.
You are the one not right. Stupid and arrogant human.
"And look at what is talking." Draco raises a blond eyebrow, the undertone far darker than his natural colouring. "A wand that refuses to cooperate and go back to its box. What will Ollivander say when he is back tomorrow and you are still lying here?"
Draco not touch wand. Draco too weak for me.
"I'm not spending the whole night arguing with you. Merlin knows my social skills are bad but they are not bad enough for me to willingly speak with wands for a whole evening."
Draco paid for speaking with wands. Draco working for me. Draco weak.
"I'm not paid for speaking with wands." Frustrated, Draco tangles his hand in his hair, balefully looking at the arrogant piece of wood. One throw against the wall and the little shit might end up in pieces. Tempting. Very tempting, even, but explaining to Ollivander why his newly created wand mysteriously disappeared wouldn't be as amusing. Besides, the other wands might snitch on him. "Fine," Draco decides, "I will make you a deal. If you accept to be put in the box, I will place you near the aquarium at the front of the boutique. Refuse and I swear I will hide you in the cupboard."
The wand considers his offer. Then, Alright. Draco may pick me up. Wand will not harm Draco again.
"You promise?"
I promise. For now.
Draco will take what he can get. He is quick to put the prickly wand away —carefully wrapped in a gorgeous, topaze-hued ribbon— before returning to the counter, his fuming cup of tea still where he left it. One minute left.
Draco sits, counting.
When his tea is ready, the door opens.
A sigh is on the tip of his tongue but Draco quickly gulps it back. Entering the shop is a very familiar man, with curling black hair, curious green eyes, and a lightning bolt crossing his brow in two, kissing the top of his eyelid. He blinks, visibly surprised.
"Hello?"
"Why does your salutation sound like a question?" Draco snaps, unable to stop himself. It's fine, he reasons, remember, you're French.
Potter seems to agree with him, if his sheepish smile is anything to go by. "Sorry, I had a long day." He closes the door behind himself, his green eyes darting left and right, taking in the place. "Some things changed around here."
"I'm sure you meant to say it is better now that everything is clean, well-lit, and tastefully decorated, unlike before."
"I liked the before," Potter says, "but yeah, change can be nice." He looks Draco up and down. "I don't think we have been introduced."
"You don't need an introduction. Your face is a walking name tag."
"Yours isn't."
Draco tightens his hold on his untouched cup of tea. "David Palesang. I have been working for Ollivander for two years now. I studied at Beauxbatons."
"Ah." Potter nods to himself. "This explains why I didn't recognise you. Your name does sound French but I didn't want to assume…" Potter works his fingers in his curls, scratching the back of his head in obvious unease.
Draco raises an eyebrow. "Are you implying you remember everyone you went to school with?"
"No, but I always remember a pretty face." Potter sits down on the other side of the counter, his cheeks pink but his stare steady. He offers Draco his hand, "Nice to meet you, David. I hope you will be able to help me."
Mind still reeling with shock, Draco accepts the handshake in a daze. The contact is electric. Potter's hand is warm, despite the weather, and lingers. If Draco wasn't so good at Occlumency, he would have thought someone was playing a trick on his mind. But no, this is reality, and Draco quickly snatches his hand away, as if burned.
Don't be an idiot, he scolds himself, he complimented David, not you. There is no reason to be afraid.
Draco knows his glamour is firmly in place and almost invisible. Only a very perceptible and strong wizard would see a thin layer of magic over his skin, and even then, they would not be able to see the face underneath. Such wizards are a rarity in this day and age so Draco has remained unconcerned by that possibility. Harry Potter changes everything and Draco is terrified.
His school rival might have spoken for him at his trial two years ago, it does not mean their old grievances are forgotten. Potter simply did what he always did: be the hero. He defended Draco like he was worth saving and then walked away to live his life. At the time, Draco didn't even thank him. He simply stared.
Like now.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to be so forward," Potter apologises, settling more comfortably in the chair. His shoulders are wider than when he was in school, and so are his thighs. "I promise, I'm usually more reserved."
"Tell me what I can do for you, Mister Potter."
"Harry is fine."
Draco pushes his mug away. "Depending on your request, you might need to come back. I am not yet an expert in the art of wandmaking."
"What about wand repairing?" Potter asks, taking out his leather wand hostler. Inside it, a familiar sight. Ten inches long, with an unicorn hair core, and hawthorn wood. Draco's very first wand, bought by his mother a few days before setting foot in Hogwarts for the first time.
Jaw tightening, Draco says, "This is not the wand you bought when you came here at eleven years old."
Potter seems surprised. "You can tell that by simply looking at it?"
"By reading the newspaper. Everyone knows your original wand had a phoenix feather core and was made of holly."
"Right." The pink on his cheeks darkens. "Hm, this wand is… I don't know how much the French newspapers wrote about the war but… my original wand was destroyed by a spell that rebounded. I took this one by force to someone. The wand has been a great ally even in my hardest battles but recently it started to weaken." Potter pushes the wand forward, pointing at small fissures in the wood and missing pieces. "I don't know what is happening to it."
"Did you use dark magic in your line of work that could have affected the wand?"
"What? No." Potter frowns, crossing his arms. His biceps look huge, even with his coat on. "Besides, what do you mean in my line of work?"
"Aren't you an Auror?"
"And here I thought you knew who I was."
It is Draco's turn to frown. "I'm not very fond of the Daily Prophet so I apologise if I missed the article where you were promoted from Auror to Head Auror or even Minister of Magic for all I care."
Strangely, his comment makes Potter smile. "You don't sound very apologetic."
"Did you use dark magic at all with this wand?"
"No," Potter repeats once more but he sounds less certain. "Well, no, but I have destroyed Voldemort with it. Could something like this affect a wand two years later?"
The casual way Potter pronounces the name of the deceased Dark Lord sends shivers down his spine. Draco breathes in deeply. He says, "Normally not," and his hand hovers over the wand. The need to touch and close his fingers around the well-worn handle prickles at his pads. He has yearned for his old wand for two years. Fear, however, holds him back. What if his old wand has no recollection of him? Or worse, what if it does, and hates him for losing it?
"You still didn't ask," Potter says.
"What?" Draco raises his head, momentarily distracted.
"What I do for work."
"Probably something very honourable and self-sacrificing."
Potter's lips twitch again. "Are you always this pleasant with your customers?"
"Only the most aggravating ones." Shoulders relaxing slightly, Draco decides to imitate the wizard seated in front of him —just once— and be courageous. He touches his former wand. Unlike the evil creation he argued with earlier in the evening, his wand's voice is small, wounded. It also recognises him immediately.
Former master Draco. How good it is to be held by you again.
Draco inhales deeply, closing his eyes. "Hello," he greets.
Former master Draco is better than before. Magic steady.
"What about you? You are unwell. Did Mister Potter misuse you?"
Harry Potter good master. Harry Potter new master. Magic steady and powerful but not enough.
"What do you mean, not enough?"
I don't know, former master Draco.
Draco sighs, opening his eyes. When he does, he realises Potter is far closer than expected, his elbows firmly on the table, supporting his chin, with his mouth half-open in genuine surprise. This close, Draco can see another scar. A tiny thing, shaped like a comma, crossing his lower lip. It pulls when Potter says, "Sorry, I've never seen anyone speak with a wand like that it's… impressive. What did my wand have to say?"
"That your magic is not enough and it does not know why," Draco answers, avoiding looking at the newly discovered scar. He already knows he will spend the night wondering when Potter got it. Was it during his years at school? No, Draco would have noticed. No, it must have been during the final battle. Or later still. Perhaps Potter is a Auror, after all. Perhaps he is a dragon tamer. Or something equally dangerous. The only thing Draco is certain of is that he will not be able to think of someone other than Harry Potter tonight, and that thought alone brings him back to memories he would rather forget. He focuses on the present. "You will have more answers if you come back tomorrow when Ollivander is around. I apologise, I believe you wasted your time tonight."
Another set of words Draco learnt to say while working for Ollivander: I apologise and I am sorry. Words he should have used a while ago for different reasons. Words heavy with meaning he could not let slip from his lips. Not then.
Potter shrugs. "No, I don't think I've wasted my time. You've been very helpful."
"Have I?"
A nod. "And now I also have an excuse to see you again."
Draco blushes despite himself. "You're being forward. Again."
"This time it's on purpose." Potter rises from the chair, carefully tucking back his wand in his coat. "I will see you tomorrow, David." He walks to the door and stops, his hand on the golden handle, pondering. At last, he asks, "Why did you ask about dark magic? I know it can corrupt a wizard but I've never heard of anything of the sort for a wand…"
Draco tries to keep his composure in the face of the legitimate but deeply personal question. Of course, any wizard growing up in a magical environment would know the answer. Potter didn't. And right now, he is looking at Draco —at David— with his deeply green, expectant eyes.
Despite his better judgment, Draco relents. "All wands are vectors of light and dark magic alike. Using a wand with a unicorn hair core to cast dark spells, however… it is against the very nature of its magical proprieties. One can try, but it is particularly difficult for a wizard to turn dark with such a wand."
Silence meets his short explanation. A slight frown pulls at Potter's brows, his gaze lost somewhere between wax candles and stacks of books. After a moment, he nods, his hand pushing the handle down. The cold wind slithers in.
Potter says, "This explains a lot. Thank you again, David, I will see you tomorrow."
The door closes.
Draco accuses the cold for the way his skin covers in goosebumps, ignoring his rapidly beating heart, and the way those new words ink themselves in his mind; this explains a lot.