Summary: Ollivander is just a creepy old man that sells wands, right?
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor any thing associated with him.
Ollivander knows. Knows that the core of this wand came from a unicorn that nearly gored him and that the wood came from an old peaceful tree in an old peaceful park just outside of London.
He knows that this wand belongs to this boy. Knows that no other wand will suit him as well and to try and give him another wand would be a sure folly.
He knows how this boy will grow.
He'll be strong and fair and good and kind. He'll be a model Hufflepuff – someone his house will be glad to claim. Someone other houses would be glad to claim too.
In a perfect world, this boy would live forever, laughing and smiling with sun in his eyes and wind in his hair because no one would deny him life.
In a fair world, he would be a hero.
The world is not either.
He knows who this boy will love.
Friends, boys and girls (unsurprising, really, given that he has such a big heart). A Ravenclaw seeker with a banner of black hair and a Gryffindor one with poisonous green eyes.
He knows how this boy will triumph.
Studying hard and relief at scraping a pass, Quidditch in the rain with Dementors haunting the grounds below. A Tournament that's been saboutaged.
He knows how this boy will die.
Three words. Fear and pain and green light – so much like the horrified eyes watching him.
He's tempted – more than tempted, really – to find this boy another wand with a better future.
He doesn't. He could no more give this boy a different wand than he could have given Tom Riddle another. He has to let people make their own choices – even if he knows they will only make the ones he has seen.
"Twelve and a quarter inches. Ash. Pleasently springy," he says, handing over the wand. It sparks with content in the boy's hand.
Amos Diggory booms and slaps his son on the back. "A good wand, son. You'll do great things with that."
Ollivander closes the shop after they leave.
Kill the spare.
He knows Amos is very, very wrong.