Written for QLFC as the Keeper for the Arrows (prompt: Write from the POV of a wand).

Written for Challenges by the Dozen at Caesar's Palace (prompt: Write ten different pairings).

Written for September event at Hogwarts (prompts: (location) Hogsmeade, (object) Quill and Ink).

WC: 1,164

Hello. I am fifty years old, which isn't that old, and I'm only twelve inches tall, which isn't that tall. I've been told that I'm quite flexible and pleasant, a bit dramatic, but with a great potential to be powerful… which I think means I'm very impressive.

Oh, and my name is Herbert.

But enough about me.

I'm just a channel, a helpful servant to a great Witch. What more could I ask for?

Our story begins like most stories do. The newborn gets a name and at least one parent, usually the mother who just spent a few hours birthing it.

However, I am a wand, so I have a father, and his name is Ollivander.

Naturally, he named me Herbert, and I was put on the shelf to entertain myself in a tiny box while
I waited for the right match to come along. Every so often, I would feel someone come into a shop who had a different aura from the rest of the customers.

These people were clean, their auras untouched by any other wand like myself.

Sometimes their auras clashed with mine, and I knew I would not be happy with them, and that they would not be happy with me. On these occasions, Ollivander did not come to get me.

Sometimes the auras fit almost just right, save a tiny detail or two. Ollivander would grab me down from the shelf and bring me to the front, and I would wait patiently for him to open the box so I could get some fresh air and go for a swish or two. If anything felt wrong, I would buck and squeal until Ollivander got the message.

Wands are very picky, but I feel that we are entitled to be picky in choosing the human whom we will serve for the rest of their lives.

So, let me tell you about the girl who changed my life.

A period that stands out to me is a period when I was really starting to enjoy myself. The way she and I had bonded was apparent in the way she held me comfortably in her hand and didn't stumble when she performed quick tasks like folding the clothes with a swish and a flick. She was sixteen at the time, and she'd been practicing producing a Patronus.

Most of the time, the memories that slipped from her to me were sparse, a few seconds of a snippet, a sound of shaking a box on Christmas day, or the smell of a jam cookie.

But this time, something had been different.

"Gryffindor!" the Sorting Hat shouts with certainty.

She jumps up from the seat, prepared to give the hat a handshake if she could.

Gryffindor is clapping, cheering, and whistling, and she is swelling, smiling, and ready to burst. With the pride of a lion, she sits down at the end of the table. Her heart pounds against her ribs like a bird beating its wings, and she almost wants to be sorted again to have the same experience.

Perhaps she can be brave.

A silvery cat slid out from me and licked its own paw, looking very matter-of-fact about the whole thing.

My owner would think of that memory a lot when she would cast Patronuses. I suppose there's something about feeling like you're being accepted into a community, if you're human, that is.

Over the years, I learned that memory through and through. I knew exactly the inflection of the Sorting Hat and how many seconds she waited to get up from the chair. Sometimes, she would add a new detail to the memory or take one away, and I knew she was eventually forgetting what had truly happened.

There was no way for me to tell her, but Patronuses are my favorite spell to cast. I wish she would cast them more. They're one of the only spells that allows me to see, but it's even better that I get to see the happiest moments of the caster's life.

"Minny," a boy with black hair says, nervously twitching. "Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?"

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" she asks incredulously, putting her quill down next to her ink jar.

"Minnie, don't do this to me... "

At this point, the pulse in Minnie's ears roars to the rush of a river, and she's almost sure that she's blushing like a beet. The boy before her looks like he might be feeling the same.

"Sorry," she mutters. "I'm just surprised is all. Of course I'll go."

The smile that lights up his face must be a million watts.

I like that memory.

And, well, all good things come in threes, so I'll tell you one more.

She was older at the time that she cast this Patronus, and we had even through a lot. We had grown so comfortable with each other over the years that she barely thought before she Transfigured herself into her animagus, or flicked the kettle on at the stove. We moved as slick as an oiled machine.

She'd taken up teaching, so she was performing the same spells every hour of the day, doing the same cycle of spells every year. While I enjoyed knowing what I was doing, it did get a little repetitive after a while.

I wondered if she even could still cast more advanced spells, but I also wondered if I could handle it.

But at least we could Transfigure a brick into a feather.

Her magic had been humming anxiously the whole night. The past few weeks, anxiety had been brushing the surface of her skin, and I wasn't surprised to see that it had mounted to a boil. All around me, I sensed magical emptiness, the signs of Dementors.

"Who's there?" she asked as a chill ran down her spine.

We both knew what was right outside her office door.

Suddenly, her anxiety slipped away. I felt her reach deep inside herself to pull out the happiest memory she could think of.

The boy had been lying in the hospital for days. She didn't doubt Pomfrey's experience and ability, but even she was worried.

He'd been so reckless, going off into secret passageways just because he thought he would be able to deal with Voldemort better than an adult. An eleven year old!

Though she may act stern and unyielding, she has grown fond of this boy.

She turns to a wise old man sitting beside her. "Do you think he'll be all right, Albus?"

"Oh," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "I think he'll be all right for now."

At that moment, the doors to the Great Hall fly open.

"Speak of the Devil," she mutters.

She sees the boy embrace his friends, and her heart is pricked on all sides by pride, relief, and affection. It doesn't surprise her that she has come to love this boy so fast.