RP: The Wands' Lament
Date: 8 March, 2006
Characters: Rita Skeeter, Ollivander
Location: Ollivander's shop
Status: Private
Summary: A final goodbye.
Completion: Complete
Rita hadn't forgotten Ollivander's birthday. When she'd glanced at her calendar on the 29th, she'd smiled, thinking of him, and wondered how many leap years that was now. She hadn't owled him, though, or gone to see him. Her conversation with him weeks ago had been strange - he'd seemed at once uncaring and hurt by her choice to end the non-platonic aspects of their friendship. She wouldn't presume to understand his emotions, not really, but she suspected the hurt might have come more from her selfish naivety in presuming that the only thing 'non-platonic' in their friendship was the physical side, and that it could otherwise exist unchanged.
His birthday had seemed to soon to see him. She didn't know how long would be long enough for their relationship to adjust to her new parameters, but February had been too soon. Perhaps March would be too soon, as well. She didn't want to stay away forever, but she was frightened of what might have changed. Openness, depth - perhaps those were things that Ollivander had shared with her and not others, and perhaps they were what he would hold back now that he considered their relationship purely platonic.
But that didn't stop her noticing the date when it passed, or hearing his name spoken in the street. She was at the Pour House when she heard two elderly witches talking.
"The shop's been closed up for days, I haven't seen anyone go in or out."
"There was no note on the door when I took my granddaughter by, and no answer when I knocked."
"It's not like Ollivander to disappear without telling anyone. My sister's shop was right by his for years in Diagon, and he always put a sign in the window, or told his neighbours when he'd be back. That was why everyone was so concerned when he disappeared during the war."
"I've never known him to not be around to sell a wand to someone who needs one. I even tried to go in - I thought he might be ill, but the place was locked up with stronger magic than I could get through."
The muffin she'd eaten turned to lead in her stomach. She forced herself to finish her coffee, drinking in slow, deliberate mouthfuls. By the time she emptied the mug, she'd ceased to taste whatever delicate blend held the disparate flavours of sugar and coffee together, and all she could taste was bitter and sickly sweet with no harmony at all.
Closed for days. Warded up. What did that mean? Had he disappeared, or...?
She set the coffee cup down with a clatter and strode out of the cafe. A moment later, a soft pop announced her arrival outside the shop. Even looking at the facade, the knot in her stomach intensified. The windows were dark, the curtains drawn. There was no 'closed' sign on the door, and Ollivander was always diligent with the sign. With a hand that trembled, Rita tried the door.
It opened. The old witch had said she'd tried, said the place was protected by more magic than she could get past. Rita stood with the door half open, remembering the sight of him slumped over the kitchen table, and that horrible thought...
She had no idea if he'd recovered or not. She'd told him to go to the hospital if the fever came back. Oh, Merlin, she should have come by to check on him. He was a stubborn old man, and he had no idea how to look after himself. He wouldn't have gone to the hospital.
The shop was dark and silent. Rita had never seen it so dark before. Inside was barely warmer than out, and the air felt thick and heavy with something, though perhaps that was just her imagination. The door clicked closed behind her and she stood there for a few moments as though expecting Ollivander to come out and greet her.
In that time, she became aware that it wasn't so silent after all. The sound crept out at her, a frequency almost too high to hear. Deep within the shop, a harmonic hum seemed to come from one of the rooms. It sounded like a lament, but at the same time an aria. Rita had never quite understood what Ollivander meant when he told her his creations spoke to him, but she did now. The wands were singing. She followed their voices.
The kitchen was as silent and dark as the shop had been, and the sound in here was higher, almost a vibration. Little more than a feeling. She turned in a circle, unsure whether to go into the workroom or up the stairs. Ollivander's workroom had always been his private sanctuary, and even the idea of entering it felt like a violation, but that was where the noise was coming from, and Rita didn't think she could stand to walk up the darkened staircase and across humming floorboards (not when she already knew, somehow, that it would be pointless).
The workroom was full of natural light and lined with shelves. Pale sunbeams caught eddies of dust, illuminated the ends of rows and rows of boxes. The sound had ceased to be noise, now, and instead she felt it right down to her bones, humming through her veins. She took a moment to focus on these things, to notice them, because it gave her a moment more to prepare herself for what she'd already seen.
He was slumped over the table, head pillowed on one arm and the other stretched out, fingers curled as if holding something. This time, there was no question. His skin had turned so white it was tinged with blue, and his back didn't rise or fall with breath. Ollivander was dead.
She hung in one place for a moment, then took a tentative step forward. She felt strangely empty, or perhaps so full of wand-sound that there wasn't room for anything else. She touched his hair, slipped her fingers onto his throat to check for a pulse and make sure. His skin was cold, and she pulled her hand away quickly. It was wrong for anyone to feel like that, and especially him. The last time she'd touched him, he'd been flushed and burning up with fever. Her hands remembered what his skin felt like warm. And now...
For a moment, the wand song trembled, at war with whatever was trying to well up in her.
There was a wand on the table by his hand. She couldn't identify the wood, but it looked fresh, unsealed, raw. Rita reached down and picked it up.
And felt his warm hand once again embracing hers, leading her to dance, offering her comfort. Tears stung at her eyes; she gripped the wood tight.
Characters: Rita Skeeter, Ollivander
Location: Ollivander's shop
Status: Private
Summary: A final goodbye.
Completion: Complete
Rita hadn't forgotten Ollivander's birthday. When she'd glanced at her calendar on the 29th, she'd smiled, thinking of him, and wondered how many leap years that was now. She hadn't owled him, though, or gone to see him. Her conversation with him weeks ago had been strange - he'd seemed at once uncaring and hurt by her choice to end the non-platonic aspects of their friendship. She wouldn't presume to understand his emotions, not really, but she suspected the hurt might have come more from her selfish naivety in presuming that the only thing 'non-platonic' in their friendship was the physical side, and that it could otherwise exist unchanged.
His birthday had seemed to soon to see him. She didn't know how long would be long enough for their relationship to adjust to her new parameters, but February had been too soon. Perhaps March would be too soon, as well. She didn't want to stay away forever, but she was frightened of what might have changed. Openness, depth - perhaps those were things that Ollivander had shared with her and not others, and perhaps they were what he would hold back now that he considered their relationship purely platonic.
But that didn't stop her noticing the date when it passed, or hearing his name spoken in the street. She was at the Pour House when she heard two elderly witches talking.
"The shop's been closed up for days, I haven't seen anyone go in or out."
"There was no note on the door when I took my granddaughter by, and no answer when I knocked."
"It's not like Ollivander to disappear without telling anyone. My sister's shop was right by his for years in Diagon, and he always put a sign in the window, or told his neighbours when he'd be back. That was why everyone was so concerned when he disappeared during the war."
"I've never known him to not be around to sell a wand to someone who needs one. I even tried to go in - I thought he might be ill, but the place was locked up with stronger magic than I could get through."
The muffin she'd eaten turned to lead in her stomach. She forced herself to finish her coffee, drinking in slow, deliberate mouthfuls. By the time she emptied the mug, she'd ceased to taste whatever delicate blend held the disparate flavours of sugar and coffee together, and all she could taste was bitter and sickly sweet with no harmony at all.
Closed for days. Warded up. What did that mean? Had he disappeared, or...?
She set the coffee cup down with a clatter and strode out of the cafe. A moment later, a soft pop announced her arrival outside the shop. Even looking at the facade, the knot in her stomach intensified. The windows were dark, the curtains drawn. There was no 'closed' sign on the door, and Ollivander was always diligent with the sign. With a hand that trembled, Rita tried the door.
It opened. The old witch had said she'd tried, said the place was protected by more magic than she could get past. Rita stood with the door half open, remembering the sight of him slumped over the kitchen table, and that horrible thought...
She had no idea if he'd recovered or not. She'd told him to go to the hospital if the fever came back. Oh, Merlin, she should have come by to check on him. He was a stubborn old man, and he had no idea how to look after himself. He wouldn't have gone to the hospital.
The shop was dark and silent. Rita had never seen it so dark before. Inside was barely warmer than out, and the air felt thick and heavy with something, though perhaps that was just her imagination. The door clicked closed behind her and she stood there for a few moments as though expecting Ollivander to come out and greet her.
In that time, she became aware that it wasn't so silent after all. The sound crept out at her, a frequency almost too high to hear. Deep within the shop, a harmonic hum seemed to come from one of the rooms. It sounded like a lament, but at the same time an aria. Rita had never quite understood what Ollivander meant when he told her his creations spoke to him, but she did now. The wands were singing. She followed their voices.
The kitchen was as silent and dark as the shop had been, and the sound in here was higher, almost a vibration. Little more than a feeling. She turned in a circle, unsure whether to go into the workroom or up the stairs. Ollivander's workroom had always been his private sanctuary, and even the idea of entering it felt like a violation, but that was where the noise was coming from, and Rita didn't think she could stand to walk up the darkened staircase and across humming floorboards (not when she already knew, somehow, that it would be pointless).
The workroom was full of natural light and lined with shelves. Pale sunbeams caught eddies of dust, illuminated the ends of rows and rows of boxes. The sound had ceased to be noise, now, and instead she felt it right down to her bones, humming through her veins. She took a moment to focus on these things, to notice them, because it gave her a moment more to prepare herself for what she'd already seen.
He was slumped over the table, head pillowed on one arm and the other stretched out, fingers curled as if holding something. This time, there was no question. His skin had turned so white it was tinged with blue, and his back didn't rise or fall with breath. Ollivander was dead.
She hung in one place for a moment, then took a tentative step forward. She felt strangely empty, or perhaps so full of wand-sound that there wasn't room for anything else. She touched his hair, slipped her fingers onto his throat to check for a pulse and make sure. His skin was cold, and she pulled her hand away quickly. It was wrong for anyone to feel like that, and especially him. The last time she'd touched him, he'd been flushed and burning up with fever. Her hands remembered what his skin felt like warm. And now...
For a moment, the wand song trembled, at war with whatever was trying to well up in her.
There was a wand on the table by his hand. She couldn't identify the wood, but it looked fresh, unsealed, raw. Rita reached down and picked it up.
And felt his warm hand once again embracing hers, leading her to dance, offering her comfort. Tears stung at her eyes; she gripped the wood tight.