I remember when I had just been made, only just fashioned and placed with the most delicate care into a box lined in purple cushioning. The old man told me over and over that I was no ordinary wand—I was special. He told me how my core was of the best phoenix tail feather, one that belonged to the phoenix of one of the finest wizards in Britain. He told me how he chose the choicest of all the holly trees and fashioned it with the most meticulous care until I was perfect—nice and supple, he said.

He told me about my brother, but there was no need. The moment we were placed near each other, I knew what it was. Fashioned of yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches, with a core identical to mine. The moment I felt its presence, I knew. I sensed it—there was a power about this wand, an evil power. I could feel it would lead to no good for the witch or wizard who owned it.

I was there when the wand was sold, to a cold, cruel-sounding young boy. There was a dark sense of power about this wizard, and the moment he walked in, I knew he and my brother would match—and I knew nothing good would come of it.

On and on the years went. I watched as my fellow wands were sold, some for the good, some for bad. There I sat, waiting for the right one and never finding them. Perhaps I was too fickle; perhaps I was much too picky for a wand. But I wanted—needed—the right person, with the right power and the right personality.

Two came close. A girl came in with a wonderful, charming personality—fiery and yet humble and kind. But she didn't have the proper power, or at least, she didn't have the power I was looking for. A boy came in a few months later with power—oh, much power indeed—but he had too much arrogance. I sensed that he would grow out of it and that his overall intentions were good, but I refused to let myself be used by such a wizard. So on and on I sat there in the box, over twenty years, in fact, and I was sold to no one until I chose someone worthy. I remember my maker describing me as a "tricky wand".

And then he came.

He wasn't much physically, that much I could tell. But all the same, a sense of power—and humility, and uncertainty—seemed to radiate off of him. If he didn't have it all now, I knew he would have it soon. I sensed an essence of my brother there, and I knew that whoever this was had a connection to my brother and the wizard to wield it. I knew that together, this boy and I could be great, perhaps unstoppable.

I sensed many wands being tried for this boy. My maker kept on and on, taking more and more wands from the shelf. I could almost feel that he was trying to avoid taking me off the shelf. I heard him as he rummaged through the boxes: "Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—"

Tricky.

Destiny is a funny thing, is it not?

As though he was resigned to it, he grabbed my box off the shelf. "I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

The boy picked me up. I felt sudden warmth deep within me. He raised me above his head, brought me down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from me like a firework. "Oh, bravo!" the maker cried. "Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well...how curious...how very curious..." He placed me back in my box, still muttering, "Curious…curious…"

"Sorry," said the boy, "but what's curious?"

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter, " the wandmaker replied. "Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your 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."

I sensed the boy tensing. I didn't blame him.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember…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."

So my brother had given the boy a scar. That explained the residue I sensed from it.

However, unlike the wandmaker, I knew that it was not curious at all. It is never a coincidence when a wand chooses a wizard, and to me it is never curious. Destiny has a funny way of working out. But he was right about one thing…this boy and I, together, would do great things.


I don't know what I was thinking when I thought of this one; I happened to be thinking of Ollivander's line about the wand choosing the wizard and somehow, this piece was birthed. I must say, I'm quite proud of how it turned out. I don't know if anyone's done something like this; I read one where the points of view of both Harry and Voldemort's wands are juxtaposed, but I don't know if anyone's done a lengthier version.

And before anyone says anything, yes, I did use actual lines from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, including bits of the narrative. Obviously it was not my work; the dialogue and the bit about the fireworks shooting from the wand in the narrative were both written by J.K. Rowling.