The Wands of Albus Dumbledore

Cocobolo and Dragon Heartstring, 11½"

Vine and Phoenix Feather, 11"

My father, Gervaise Ollivander, told me about Dumbledore's first wand years after I had finished Hogwarts, after I had given Dumbledore his second wand.

Apparently, the eldest Dumbledore had entered my shop when he was eleven, but had stood out from the others his age because of a powerful magic that had a sense of violence about him. By this point, my father remembered that the boy's father had been sent to Azkaban for killing several muggle children, so he assumed Albus was just like his father.

There was nothing for it but to give his magic what it wanted, which was a cocobolo wand with dragon heartstring, the kind of wand built for attack and revenge when in the hands of someone as troubled as Albus was as a boy.

7½ years later …

Dumbledore returned to the wand shop during a violent storm in November of 1899. By this point, Gervaise Ollivander had brought me in to start learning the art and we were both there to greet him. He looked horrid, with bloodshot eyes and his auburn hair disheveled and wet. He didn't try to dry himself or wipe the freezing rain from his face. To this day, I can remember the anguish in Dumbledore's blue eyes and the look on his face like he was restraining a painful scream. The magic that we all knew was inherent in Albus Dumbledore was pouring off him in spades, seeming to be fighting with the air to get restrained. We were silent as Dumbledore put his old, cocobolo wand, snapped in two with the dried dragon heartstring between it, on the front desk. To see the heartstring so dry, Dumbledore would have had to have snapped it months ago. I gasped sharply at the sight, earning a reproving glance from my father.

"A new wand, please." Albus' voice was raspy, like he hadn't spoken in some time. His father look from his to Albus, deciding something.

He turned to Albus with a look of indifference. "Is it alright if Garrick takes your measurements?"

Dumbledore looked at once like he wanted to argue, like a wand from someone as small and as inexperienced as I was could never stand up to something my father would give him. Then, as if realizing what he was about to say, you could see the anguish deflate him until he sagged over himself.

"Fine. Thank you."

I admit, I was mostly silent, working with Albus. He seemed so completely in pain, I was afraid to let my measuring tape touch him. It was like treating a wounded animal, unsure if you should take care of his wounds or whether he would snap at you.

But the measuring tape always did as I asked. Albus was tall, but not enough for an abnormally-sized wand. I nodded to my father, expecting him to take over once I had jotted down the measurements, but he didn't. He left me alone, retreating to the backroom with his wands, and leaving me with the volatile, powerful wizard.

"Um… let's see what I can pull for you."

I scurried off into the shelves, wondering what on earth kind of wand would match with a grief-stricken man of such power. Power and comfort often didn't go hand-in-hand in wands, certainly not to the same extent. People who needed power found comfort in powerful wands, great for ego-boosting those with low self-esteem. Those who had power, like Albus, but wanted more took to cocobolo, ebony, or yew most of the time. But the self-loathing person, I'd never had to deal with it on such a scale. Usually other attributes evened them out, but this man was consumed.

So, maybe he did need self-esteem and a powerful wand. Ollivander pulled an old lignum vitae wand from the stacks, fit with unicorn hair. Anyone in tears months after the fact had to have a pure heart, he reasoned. Unicorn hair could be remarkably pleasant at times.

But the second it entered Dumbledore's grasp, tears entered the man's eyes and he threw the wand on the desk, as if he could never touch it again. I remember that it took only a few minutes, a few more wands, to figure out what was wrong with my perception of him.

That reaction to unicorn hair … it only came from those who had broached dark magic. Most would thrust it away, saying it felt wrong. They truly could not stand the proximity. Albus … a dark wizard. I shook at the knowledge, but kept myself calm. This, this was different. I knew this match would be important today.

I tried dragon heartstring and various lighter woods, hoping to balance the power of the dragon core with the light magic energy of apple or cherry. Still, the man seemed to sag beneath each wand.

"Albus …" I had to avert my gaze, unable to look into his pained blue eyes, "what do you want in a wand?"

There was a long silence. I considered, for a moment, that he wouldn't answer. But them, his voice expressed softly, "A new start."

At his words, a bang went through one of the shelves. Jumping at the loud noise, I ducked around to find a wand had punched through the end of its box, manifesting a rare, unseen bit of magic seemingly on its own. I took the box from the shelf gently and opened it. The wand was intact, so it certainly wasn't fault.

I looked back to Albus, then back at the wand. Vine wasn't necessarily one that had a great deal of power, or one that didn't; it was a delicate wood that was extremely sensitive, always reaching. It didn't seem like Albus needed the vine wood, as vine was one he had only seen placed once, with a young boy who had fondly declared he wanted to be Minister of Magic one day. Still, the wand wanted Albus near it.

Hesitantly, he brought the wand forward and extended it to the Dumbledore.

"Vine and phoenix feather, eleven inches," I said, offering him the handle. "Slightly springy."

Dumbledore seemed to flinch at the idea of trying a phoenix feather wand, but still took the wand in his hand. The magic which had heretofore been circling him like a dark storm seemed to retract slowly, and a small gust of air ran through Dumbledore's hair.

Dumbledore didn't smile, or say anything. He placed his coins on the table, the wand in his pocket, and walked out of the shop. I didn't see him anywhere for years and years, not until he became the Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts. But I'd never forgotten, however hard I could, how much I hoped that he found peace.

From the perspective of Gerrick Ollivander ... Next time, Tom Riddle!