LXXIII: A Tale of Two Wands

PART TWELVE

LXXIII: A Tale of Two Wands

Minerva woke early the next morning and stumbled into the shower. In this, she was more like her mother than her father. Although she could sometimes sleep late mornings, once she was awake, she generally couldn't fall asleep again unless she was truly exhausted, and so six-fifteen found her in a warm shower, her eyes still closed, but trying to think about the day ahead. Instead, her mind kept turning to the previous day, the lovely picnic Albus had brought her on, the kind and yet authoritative way that he dealt with Brennan and Melina, and then their evening together. It had been so lovely, and yet, standing there in the shower, Minerva found herself feeling empty and wistful. She should be much happier than she had been a few weeks before, when it seemed that Albus had forgotten her presence in the castle, their friendship, and all that they had shared over the years. And, on a certain level, she was happier. The time they had spent together over the last few weeks had been lovely, even though it had been punctuated with Albus's occasional and uncharacteristic moodiness. Minerva felt closer to him than ever she had felt before; he had even begun to tell her something of his past, though she was sure that there was far more that he hadn't told her – about both the defeat of Grindelwald and about his relationship with Valerianna, as different as those two stories were likely to be. And it seemed that he might tell her something about Grindelwald, eventually.

The history books told of Dumbledore's final mission with a handful of Aurors, how they had set out to find the Dark Wizard and take advantage of his weakening position and the distraction of his increasingly failing grip on the Muggles whom he had thought he could exploit for his own purposes.

The Muggles had made their own choices over the previous ten or fifteen years, there was no doubt about that, but Grindelwald took advantage of those choices, particularly those in Germany. When the Weimar Republic slid away into the Third Reich, Grindelwald had believed that he had his best opportunity to insinuate himself into the affairs of the Muggle world. It had never worked precisely as he had planned. Muggles were far more independent and single-minded than he had anticipated, even those in the authoritarian Nazi regime. While he was able to manipulate certain people and events in the Muggle world in order to make things easier for him to obtain a crushing grip on the German and, later, European, wizarding world, he never achieved the level of control over the Muggle government that he had desired. Nonetheless, believing that a war-ravaged Europe and an authoritarian Muggle state would eventually enable him to take full control of the European Muggle world once he had established himself as sole ruler over the wizarding world, Grindelwald assisted the Nazis and the German army in discreet and not-so-discreet ways, from providing intelligence on the movement of Allied troops to eliminating "obstacles" – usually individual Muggles – to the Nazi campaign. And although Grindelwald cared nothing about ethnicity, "race," religion, or any of the other Muggle prejudices that drove much of the Nazi agenda, he saw their mass murders as further weakening the Muggle world, and so was happy to assist in finding people who were in hiding.

It wasn't long, however, before Grindelwald found that he couldn't spare many wizards on his operation to undermine the Muggle world, and although he maintained a small network of spies and manipulators within the Nazi war machine, he devoted most of his resources to obtaining and maintaining control over his ever-expanding corner of the wizarding world. It was harder than he had anticipated, particularly once Dumbledore was enlisted to work against him. Not merely a believer in the superiority of wizards over Muggles, Grindelwald also believed in the superiority of wizards over witches; nonetheless, as a pragmatist, he found himself having to recruit witches and treat them as more than mere chattel in order to maintain his grip on wizarding Europe. Unlike some pure-bloods, Grindelwald didn't care about parentage; what mattered to him was power and intellect. Muggle-born, half-blood, pure-blood, he didn't care; if you were powerful, intelligent, well-trained, and were willing to devote your power to his cause, he would have you. Woe betide any who stood against him, however – they were quickly eliminated, as were any whom Grindelwald came to perceive as a rival within his own sphere. He didn't hesitate to dine with a wizard one day and kill him the next.

The history books were weak on the details of Grindelwald's defeat and capture, and in the immediate aftermath of the war, the wizarding world was so giddy with relief, they asked few questions about it. Later, it was done and over with, and the wizarding world was eager to move into the future, with even greater international co-operation and stricter rules governing the secrecy of their world. All that Minerva knew was that a small party had set out with the aim to find Grindelwald in his stronghold and put an end to him. The Ministry had worried when nothing was heard from any of them for more than three days. When the bodies of one of the witches and two of the wizards were found, expectations were grim. But then the wards fell around Grindelwald's secret headquarters; a short time later, an Auror who had been with Dumbledore reported that Grindelwald had been captured, and within hours, a team of international Aurors was swarming over the ancient castle Grindelwald had called home. All reports were consistent that Dumbledore had single-handedly defeated Grindelwald in a duel while a few of the Aurors who had been with him kept any of the Dark Wizard's followers at bay. Minerva had seen Scrimgeour quoted, and while he seemed happy to play up his own role in the battle, he had said nothing of Dumbledore other than that, without him, Grindelwald would still be safe in his castle.

Minerva stepped from the shower, dried her hair, and dressed quickly in a set of lightweight robes that her parents had given her the summer before. The skirt was a soft, muted tartan of green, brown, and blue, and the bodice and sleeves were a heathery green. There was also a light shawl that matched the skirt. The colours reminded Minerva of the robes that Albus had worn on their hike the morning before. But it seemed that almost everything reminded her of Albus. She sighed and looked at her vanity.

She was in danger of creating a small shrine to Albus, Minerva thought glumly, yet she felt no desire to change or remove a thing. Before she had gone to bed, she had cast a quick Siccus spell to dry and preserve the rosebud, then she stuck it to an upper corner of the small frame holding Albus's photograph. She then placed the two white stones, the original and its twin, on the vanity in front of the picture. The evil-eye talisman hung above it from the corner of the mirror.

Minerva picked up the photograph of Albus and looked at it. Even though it was black-and-white, she could see that he had more grey in his beard and less white than he did now. Over the last twelve years, the auburn had turned almost entirely to grey and the grey to white. Minerva could envision the day when his hair and beard would be entirely white; she hoped that she would still know him then, that they would still be friends, that she wouldn't ruin their relationship by doing anything foolish.

Touching the delicate bud that she had so carefully preserved and attached to the frame, Minerva thought of the old meanings for various flowers. Albus had been drawn to the flowers and had wished to purchase some for her, she thought, but his hand had hovered over the yellow roses, which she believed denoted friendship, though her memory was hazy on that point. It was the vendor who had drawn Albus's attention to the red roses, and the vendor who had suggested just the single flower. Albus had agreed with the choice, of course . . . but it did not have the same meaning as it would have had Albus, unprompted, simply presented her with a single red rose: you alone hold my heart, I love you. But he had said that there was not a rose as beautiful as she . . . . Minerva blushed at the memory. He had simply been agreeing with the street vendor who, no doubt, was merely trying to get Albus to buy a flower. And yet, Albus had placed the rose in her hair so lovingly and had told her she was beautiful . . . and he had told the portrait of Paris that she was beautiful . . .

Minerva shook herself. No, Albus had only ever agreed with someone else when he'd said she was beautiful; well, that wasn't precisely true. He had told her on other occasions that she looked lovely, that her hair or her eyes – no, this was not what she should be thinking about. And whatever compliments Albus paid her, appreciating someone's appearance was a far cry from declaring love. After all, if that were so, she'd be in love with Quin, who was certainly one of the most handsome wizards she'd ever seen. Or even with Minister Tapper, for that matter, who was quite good-looking and distinguished, but for whom Minerva could barely conjure any feeling beyond friendly courtesy. Still, some purely emotional part of Minerva ignored those rational protests and rejoiced in the knowledge that Albus found her beautiful, even as that emotional part of her simultaneously despaired that Albus would ever find her attractive . . . or that he would love her the way that she loved him.

Minerva sighed and set the photograph back in its place. She grabbed her shawl and set off for her walk. As much as she needed a cup of tea, she didn't want to call Blampa for one, and she didn't want to take the time to make one herself. She was eager to get out into the fresh air. Tea could wait.

Her footsteps echoing in the near-deserted castle, Minerva hurried down the stairs. Tomorrow there was another committee meeting scheduled, and several people would be returning to the school for it. At the moment, though, Minerva was pleased enough with her solitude and did not anticipate meeting anyone on her morning walk, especially as it was not yet even seven o'clock. That suited her just fine. She might even be able to get in some time in her Animagus form without any audience.

Minerva was quite startled, then, to encounter someone as soon as she stepped out through the great front doors. Albus was sitting near the bottom of the stairs on the low wall that ran along beside them.

He only turned his head slightly at the sound of the door opening, but he cheerily greeted her. "Good morning, Professor McGonagall!"

"Good morning, Professor Dumbledore!"

Although she had looked forward to a solitary walk, Minerva was not at all displeased to find Albus sitting there . . . smoking his pipe? She had almost thought that the pipe and tobacco he had carried the day before had been mere props for his trip to the Muggle world, yet here he was, dressed in sky blue robes with silver piping, a matching brimless hat on his head, smoking his pipe. And Minerva had to admit that it suited him, and the tobacco he was smoking had a chocolatey aroma to it. She supposed it was not up to her to point out to him that even wizards were not entirely immune to the negative effects of tobacco smoke, although her mother had always said that pipes weren't as bad as cigarettes, and she tolerated it in Merwyn as a minor and infrequent vice.

Minerva came and stood beside Albus where he sat comfortably, leaning back against the end of the upper wall that rose up beside the top few steps before it became the low wall on which he was perched.

"You're up quite early," Minerva remarked. She did not believe that Albus was normally an early riser, despite the fact that he was burning the candle at both ends of the day lately.

"I had a task to do this morning. I had started it a few days ago, but the days have been too hectic for me to finish it. I thought if I rose early, I could finally get it done."

Minerva looked up at him from the base of the stairs. "I know you don't like me to fuss, Albus, but remember what Poppy said about getting enough sleep – and I'm sure that whatever it was could have waited a bit longer if it had waited this long already."

"Perhaps, my dear, but this was a favour to a friend, a promise I had made to someone very dear to me, and I didn't want to leave it undone any longer, lest my friend believe I had forgotten or was being neglectful of my promises." Albus stood and stepped down to her, banishing his pipe as he did so.

"Well, if this person is a friend, they'd likely understand that you have many duties that call upon your time," Minerva answered, thinking that he was likely speaking of Gertrude . . . or perhaps of someone whom she didn't even know.

"I am sure you would be very understanding, Minerva, but I felt it was important. I wanted to make the time for you . . . perhaps to make up for my earlier neglect." He took her arm and they began to walk around the castle toward the lake.

"Me? I mean, I was the friend?"

Whatever could Albus have been doing for her so early in the morning? Then, just as Minerva was remembering the way that he had looked at her little newspaper photograph of him and promised her a better picture of himself, Albus pulled a flat, brightly wrapped present from his pocket.

"For you, Minerva. I did not forget," he said, handing it to her.

"The photograph. Oh, Albus. Thank you! But you could have taken your time; I know how very busy you've been. And you just did me and my family a very big favour yesterday – "

"But this is just for you, my dear. And I hope that it is all right. I wasn't sure . . . after I did it. But have a look!"

"Here, let's go sit on that bench so I can do this properly," Minerva replied, indicating a bench near the edge of the lake.

As they sat down together, Minerva thanked him again.

"Well, wait until you've seen it. But I hope you will like it."

Minerva pulled the bright purple and gold wrapping paper from the present and turned the photograph over to look at it. Not only had he given her a copy of the picture that he must have shown Robert and Thea, but he had framed it, as well. The frame was gold with a narrow silver band running along the inside next to the picture. It was all Minerva could do not to gasp when she saw it, not because it was lovely, which it was, but because in the upper left hand corner, there was a single rosebud, exquisitely done in gold, each petal carefully defined, a single small leaf on its thornless stem, looking for all the world as though the rose that he had presented her the night before had been somehow affixed to the corner, turned to gold, then melted into the frame. The rest of the frame was adorned with an interesting bas relief of climbing vines against a subtle pattern that resembled the bark of a tree.

The photograph itself startled Minerva, as well. In it, she was in the act of turning away from a few well-wishers who stood in the shadowy background; just as the photo was being taken, she caught sight of Albus, and her smile widened as she saw her mentor. Minerva had not taken in Albus's expression very clearly at that moment, she had been so elated with her victory, and then, seconds later, she had been rushed off by the French Minister and the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, but now she saw that Albus was smiling, his full attention on her, his eyes warm, and when Minerva turned and smiled at him in the photograph, it seemed that his smile brightened more. There was such pride and affection in his gaze. . . .

Minerva's eyes filled with tears as she looked wordlessly at the present that Albus had given her.

"Is it . . . is it all right, Minerva?" Albus asked softly, somewhat hesitantly.

"Oh, it's beautiful, Albus. Simply – " Minerva's voice broke and she couldn't continue.

"I'm very glad you like it, my dear," Albus said quietly.

"I love it, Albus, I just . . . it's just . . ." Minerva was so overwhelmed, she could not even feel embarrassed by the tears that now ran down her face. She blinked, and a few fell on the picture. There was some kind of charm on it, however, something in lieu of picture glass, and the tears simply rolled right off.

Albus placed a hand on her arm and looked at her in concern. "Are you sure? The frame . . . I wasn't sure about the frame. I could get a different one for you, or have it framed professionally, if you prefer."

Albus was uneasy with Minerva's reaction. Had he chosen badly? He had other pictures of himself, of course, but this picture had always been special to him and was the first one he had thought of giving her, never even considering any others. And the frame . . . he was no artist, and the frame had given him a devil of a time before he was pleased with it. He had used some old Muggle money, old gold and silver pieces that hadn't been in circulation in decades – or even centuries, for some of them, collected and forgotten by several generations of Dumbledores. They had lain about, shifted from drawer to drawer over the years, largely forgotten, and when Albus was thinking about how to frame the photograph, he drew the bag from its current home and removed the heaviest and purest of the coins. Albus had finished the frame just that morning, making some subtle changes to the vines and their backdrop, but he still hadn't been completely pleased with it. Then, on a sudden impulse, he pulled out some old gold sovereigns and Transfigured a gold facsimile of the rose he had given to Minerva the night before. He was pleased with the result, although a part of him was uneasy with its potential symbolism, which only occurred to him when he was looking at the finished frame. Despite that, Albus couldn't bring himself to remove the rose, without which the frame seemed strangely incomplete. Besides, he did love her, even if he could never tell her.

"No, Albus! No, the frame is perfect." Minerva brought her hand to her face and smudged away some of her tears, the beginnings of embarrassment creeping up on her. "I just didn't expect this. I didn't expect anything this special. And I love the frame. I would never consider changing it." She took the lilac-coloured handkerchief Albus offered her, and she wiped her tears away.

"Where did you ever get it?" she asked, wondering whether it was some chance find somewhere in one of Hogwarts storerooms.

"I, um, made it. From some old coins I had. It gave me a little trouble, but then I finished it this morning." He relaxed and smiled. "I'm glad it's all right."

"Oh, it's wonderful, not simply all right. And it's even more wonderful knowing that you made it yourself. Thank you, Albus!"

Minerva held the picture to herself, then reached out one arm and put it around him in a joyful embrace. When she felt Albus's arms go around her, she leaned her forehead on his shoulder and relaxed. All of the tension and emptiness that she had felt earlier that morning seemed to melt away to nothing. But then Albus patted her back and pulled back slightly. He smiled down at her, and Minerva gathered herself together and sat up straight.

"Would you mind some company on your walk, Minerva? And then perhaps some breakfast? Unless you've already eaten . . ."

"I would enjoy your company very much. And breakfast, as well," she answered. "Would you mind keeping this for me until we return to the castle? The pockets in this robe are not very roomy, and I don't want to have anything happen to it."

Albus nodded and accepted the picture, tucking it back into his pocket.

"Along the lake, my dear?" he asked.

"That would be nice, yes."

Minerva had been going to exercise in her Animagus form in the stand of trees near Hagrid's cabin, but after the way she had behaved with Albus the last time she'd become a cat in his presence, she wasn't going remind him of it, nor did she want to risk losing control of her emotions again. It had been nice, though, she thought wistfully, to let go and allow him to hold her and cuddle her. Turning her thoughts to the gift that Albus had so thoughtfully made for her, she asked, "Where did you get that photograph, Albus? It was all such a blur to me at the time . . ."

"There was a photographer there from the Voyant-Clair," Albus replied, mentioning the French-language counterpart to the Daily Prophet, "and I asked him if I might not have a copy of one of the photographs, explaining that you had been a student of mine. Later that night, he found me at the dinner and very kindly gave me that one and wouldn't hear of payment." Albus chuckled. "He said he received payment enough in observing you in the Challenge, and this was his way of thanking me for having taught you well. Of course, it was your skill and dedication that he admired, Minerva, but I was quite happy to have the photo."

Minerva blushed slightly. "Well, I'm glad he gave it to you. It's nice . . . that it's of us both. Fitting, I suppose."

Albus nodded.

"And the frame? I had no idea you had such artistic skill, or such ability with metals."

"I'm not particularly artistic – that's part of what took me so long to get it done – but I did have a design in mind, and I had done a lot of work with metals when I was young . . . as a part of my study of Alchemy. I'd never done anything quite like that before, though. I am glad it was satisfactory."

"More than satisfactory, Albus – it is beautiful." At Albus's shake-of-the-head and slight noise of dismissal, she added, "It is, truly. I would appreciate it anyway, because you gave it to me, but it really is wonderful. I was wondering . . ." She paused and Albus looked at her inquiringly. "Well, just, the rose . . . how did you come to make that?"

Minerva thought she detected a slight twitch from Albus before he responded, as though he were uncomfortable with the question.

"I needed to finish the frame this morning. I had duplicated the photograph a few days ago and begun work on the frame, but I wasn't satisfied with it, and even after I worked on it again today, it needed something more. I just . . . remembered your flower from last night. Just an idea that popped into my head. So I added it. If you don't like it, I can remove it easily," Albus said, looking at her.

"Oh, no, I think it is perfect. The rose was perfect." Tears threatened her eyes again, but Minerva subdued them. "It's just that – you'll no doubt think me silly, Albus," she said, shrugging and giving him a rueful smile, "but last night, it had been such a nice day, and I took the flower from my hair . . . I dried it to keep it. That's all." She felt peculiar enough without adding that she had fixed the dried rosebud to the corner of the small frame holding his picture, in much the same way that he had incorporated the rosebud into the design of the frame – it was one thing to have him think her sentimental, and quite another to have him believe her overly attached to him and to the gesture he had made when he gave her the flower.

Albus smiled. "It was a very nice day, wasn't it? And I enjoyed our time together. That must be what inspired me to add the rose – the frame just seemed to be missing something until I added that."

Minerva nodded. "And the rest of the design?"

"Climbing vines against the bark of a tree. I had you in mind," Albus answered. "Your wand, to be more precise." He paused and gestured toward a rock, Transfiguring it into a stone bench.

Minerva sat, unquestioning, on the bench beside him.

"May I see it a moment, Minerva?"

She drew her wand from her pocket and handed it to him, arranging her shawl about her shoulders. The breeze off the lake was cool. Albus smiled and held her wand between his hands, balancing it on his index fingers, then he took it in his right hand and cast a Warming Charm over them both.

"Tell me of your wand, Minerva," Albus said, handing it back to her.

Minerva raised her eyebrows. What was there to say of a wand? "It is, as you have indicated, of vinewood, with a dragon heartstring core." What else might he want to know? "It is an Ollivander wand, of course." She remembered the day when her father had brought her into Ollivander's to get her wand. She had been so excited, she'd barely been able to speak to the peculiar man who had handed her one wand after another, merely squeaking at him like a tongue-tied mouse. Come to think of it, there was more to say about her wand; she simply hadn't thought about it in a very long time. Minerva looked out over the water, her eyes losing their focus as she called to memory that morning over twenty years before. "My father brought me to his shop a few weeks before I started at Hogwarts. I remember it felt as though I had waited forever to finally get my wand. I was dreadfully impatient with everything back then – I was the youngest in my family by far, and it always seemed to me that I would never catch up with them. Murdoch finished his seventh year when I was only six, and I felt I would never get to Hogwarts myself."

Minerva laughed slightly. "I was quite a melodramatic child, I'm afraid. Even more so than Melina was at that age. And then I turned eleven, and it was still months before my parents would agree to bring me to get my wand. Finally, when my Hogwarts letter came, Dad agreed to bring me to Diagon Alley the very next day for my schoolbooks and my wand. I don't think I slept a wink the night before. The books weren't nearly as exciting to me as the prospect of getting my wand – I had already read or tried to read just about every book in our library, including all of the old schoolbooks. But the wand! Well, that meant I was finally growing up, I thought. And then when we got to Ollivander's and he began to hand me one wand after another, and they all seemed to reject me and he plucked them from my hand, discarding them to shove another wand toward me, I'll confess to you now that I cried, Albus. I thought I wouldn't be getting a wand that day, after all. I knew I was a witch. There was no question of that. But I thought that no wand wanted me and that I would never go to Hogwarts. And Mr Ollivander, who was a peculiar fellow, anyway, and a little frightening to a child, became impatient with me, though I see now that he was trying, in his own way, to reassure me. Every witch or wizard, he said, would get a wand if they didn't cry about it. It was simply important that they get the right wand."

Minerva sighed and, despite the Warming Charm, pulled her shawl around her more closely. "He started muttering about the wands of my parents and brothers, then he measured me again, taking more time and more measurements than he had before, then he disappeared into the back of the shop and came out several minutes later with an old brown box in which there lay three wands on a dark green cloth. He took out one, put the others under his counter, then came around, squinted at me for what seemed ages, and finally, he handed me this wand." Minerva held up the unremarkable-looking brown stick. "He had long before stopped saying what the various wands were made of, we had gone through so many. But when he handed me this wand, he said, 'vinewood, of a special sort, dragon heartstring core, unusual source.' I took it, it was warm, it practically vibrated in my hand, and I completely forgot my tears. I waved the wand and the most glorious shimmers and sparkles flowed from it . . . if he hadn't declared that that was my wand, I would have run from the shop with it anyway!" Minerva laughed slightly and looked at her wand. "I'm afraid I've grown to rather take it for granted. I'd almost forgotten how much time it took to find it."

She looked over at Albus, who had listened to her story with a small smile on his face. "I'm sorry, Albus, that must have bored you. But I didn't know exactly what it was you wanted to know."

"Did Ollivander ever tell you, or did you ever learn, anything more about the components of your wand?"

Minerva shook her head slowly. "No . . . no, although I suppose I was a little curious at the time, I was more excited and relieved, and it didn't occur to me to ask any other questions, then once I began using it, it just became . . . my wand. What it was. I hadn't really thought much about it again." She looked at him curiously. "Why do you ask? And does this have anything to do with the fact that I could use your wand so well last night? And why did you have me try your wand at all?"

Albus chuckled. "Well, I see that I have reignited your curiosity. It does have to do with my wand and the reason I had you try it. As to why . . . it is perhaps too long a story to tell in its entirety right now, but I will tell you some of it and answer the questions you just asked.

"Many, many years ago, I required a new wand . . . someday I may tell you of the circumstances that led to that, but it is too long a story for this morning. I went to Ollivander's, as most wizards in Britain do, to see about this. The current Mr Ollivander was barely middle-aged at the time, and it was his uncle with whom I spoke about my needs. We discussed the matter and made certain arrangements. Three weeks later, I returned to his shop to try the wands he had crafted specifically for me to try – something that he rarely attempted, and which I understand the current Mr Ollivander does not do, or that he has not done, at any rate. This wand," Albus said, drawing his wand from his pocket, "was the wand that chose me. There was another, very much like it, that I tried first. It felt warm in my hand and did my bidding, but its lacklustre response did not satisfy Mr Ollivander, and when I tried this wand, I agreed with him about the unsuitability of the other." Albus quirked a smile. "If you think the current Mr Ollivander is peculiar and off-putting, you should have met his uncle. It was of no consequence to him how I felt about the wands; he knew his art and he knew when a wand had not chosen its wizard – or witch – and was quite contemptuous of my opinion in the matter," he said with a nod at Minerva. "My wand has a core of dragon heartstring. The other wand of which I spoke, the one I had tried but which did not choose me, had a heartstring core from the same dragon which provided the core to mine."

Minerva sat, her attention rivetted. She anticipated what Dumbledore was about to tell her, but she waited for him to finish his story.

"I assume that you know something of wands and their construction, Minerva, that wands with both core and wood from the same sources are called twins and those with cores from the same source are called brothers. The Ollivanders have never made twin wands, for reasons of their own which they do not deign to share with others, although you can find other wandmakers who do that, but they have made the occasional brother wands over the years. Of course, there are a good many wands that might be classified as 'brothers' given the loose criteria I just laid out, but to be a true brother wand, there may be only two wands with the core provided by the same source. With each wand that is made using a core from the same source, the effect of the matched cores decreases exponentially, although no one but a wandmaker could tell you why that is, and they do not share this information . . . although I do have some ideas about it myself. One unicorn, for example, may provide dozens of tail or mane hairs over its life, and, because the brother-effect is diluted to such a degree as to be completely inoperable in actual use if even only one additional wand is made using such a core, it is impossible to discern that they have matching cores except through special tests. When, however, there are only two wands with near-identical cores, cores from the same source . . . the effects are most interesting. At this point, I should say that it is very rare for there to be more than one wand with a dragon heartstring from the same animal. Wandmakers almost invariably extract only one heartstring from each organ. There are reasons for this, Ollivander told me, although he would not say what it was. It may be mere superstition or long-held tradition . . . I do not know."

Albus took a breath and looked at the wand in his hands. "As I said, there are brother wands and there are twins, and the Ollivanders have never made twins. There exists something even rarer still . . . while twin wands have their cores from the same magical creature and their wood comes from the same plant, usually a tree of some kind native to the area, brother wands are two wands, and only two, that have virtually identical cores, since they originate from the same creature, but whose woods are different. The Ollivanders have made several sets of such brother wands over the last few centuries." Albus paused again and seemed to be considering his words carefully.

"This third category of related wands, rarer than brothers, and rarer even than twins, shares similarities with the other two types. As with brother wands and twins, their core material comes from the same source and there may be only two wands with cores from that source, or the effect dissipates completely. Unlike twins, their wood is not from the same source. So what, you may ask, is the difference between brother wands and these others? It is this: the woods are related. I do not mean that in the sense that the parent plant is the same – but that they are related in some other manner. It is unusual to find two such plants, and even more unusual for wands to be made from both of them, and then for those wands to contain cores from the same magical source . . . as I said, it is very rare.

"My wand," he said, holding it out in front of him, "is of dragon heartstring and yew wood. The wand that I had tried, and that was somewhat responsive, was of dragon heartstring and vinewood from a variety of magical ivy, Hedera pythonica. The dragon heartstrings in the two wands were from the same heart. The woods were related . . . the ivy from which Ollivander made the other wand was taken from a vine that had grown up and around the yew from which this wand was made. Both had thrived together. These wands were the first mated wands that the Ollivanders had made in four centuries.

"Some years later, several decades, in fact, I received an owl from the current Mr Ollivander, informing me that the mate to my wand had just chosen a witch. I inquired further and learned the identity of this witch. A year later . . . I met her. I met you, Minerva. I was very pleased to discover that the other wand had gone to such a delightful owner. And that is how I came to sometimes use my secondary wand while teaching. You needed to learn to use your wand and to focus your magic without the effect of my wand being nearby. The effects of mated wands are not as well studied as those of brothers and twins simply because they are so rare, and even when there are mated wands, the persons to whom they have attached themselves may never meet, although . . . they usually do. I was unsure whether carrying my wand in your presence might have some effect, positive or negative, on your own wand-use, particularly as you were so young and still learning to use it, and I," Albus said chuckling, "I was far from young, very well-practiced, and, if you take no offense at this, rather more powerful. It was conceivable to me that the strength of my magic combined with the presence of the mated wand would keep you from reaching your full potential. I didn't carry my secondary wand all of the time, of course. Sometimes I would simply leave my wand in my office, particularly as you became more skilled. And during our project after your sixth year, I used my primary wand exclusively. I do think that there was some . . . amplification of its effect when I used my wand and you were nearby with yours. And the few times that we cast a spell together to test a ward, I was certain of it."

It seemed that Albus had finished his story, and he looked at Minerva, seeming to anticipate a barrage of questions. Minerva, however, sat and considered what he had told her, and it was several moments before she asked her first question, and when she did, it was not a question he expected.

"The first time you used my wand, that wasn't an accident or a mistake, was it?" she asked, looking at him.

"No . . . it was rude of me, but I didn't plan it, even though it wasn't an accident that first time. I had wondered for a while what it would feel like to use it, now that it had chosen its true owner, whether it would respond well to me, whether it would feel anything like my own wand. I don't even remember exactly what we were doing at the time, but I remember needing to demonstrate something and seeing your wand there. I simply picked it up and used it, knowing it was yours . . . my only excuse for my rudeness, other than my somewhat unrestrained curiosity, is that the idea popped into my head and, in that moment, I did it without reflecting upon it."

"We were doing organic Transfigurations – Transfiguring one living creature into another living creature, I believe. It was my fourth year, in my tutorial, not in class. I later surmised that you were having me work on such exercises because you were already considering asking me if I wanted to try to become an Animagus."

Albus nodded. "Yes, I was thinking you might have the aptitude for it, and your ability to perform advanced organic Transfigurations convinced me it was worth offering you." He looked uneasy. "I am sorry that I hadn't told you about the wands before this, Minerva. When you were a student, it seemed inadvisable at first, and then . . . later, I just thought it better to wait. There was no need for you to know about them – it would have been an interesting fact, but little more. It was useful for me to be aware of, of course, both to avoid using it while teaching you and to benefit from it when working on the wards that year. And after you left Hogwarts . . . it's not as though I forgot about your wand, but it seemed irrelevant and it never occurred to me to tell you about the relationship between our two wands. It would have been peculiar teatime conversation, at any rate, and it never came up. But now that we are working together in the same place, there may be times when it may have some practical application or effect – or there may not be. And last night on the walk up to the castle, it just occurred to me, and I wondered whether my wand would work at all well for you; not knowing its origin, you wouldn't have any preconceptions about it." Albus shrugged. "There was a time in my life when studying these two wands would have intrigued me, compellingly so. At one time, I may not have even considered you and any possible effect it might have on you, but insisted on researching the properties of the wands even when you were a student, a child still developing her magic."

"I can't imagine that – "

"I can," Albus said abruptly, interrupting her. "Perhaps my better nature would have won and I would not have, I can only hope so and can never know, but it was not even a temptation by the time I taught you. My only temptation was to try your wand without your permission; I gave into that temptation, and I am sorry. My apology comes many years too late, but it is sincere, and you have it, for whatever it's worth."

Minerva laughed softly. "The only reason you are apologising all these years later, and that you even remember it, Albus, is because you were curious about that particular wand. I can't count the number of times that one of my brothers or a friend or Melina has just picked up my wand because it was close to them and used it, knowing full well it wasn't theirs, and without asking my permission first. And after that first time, you always did ask. I wondered why you would use my wand rather than Summon your own, but I suppose I see now. And you haven't done it in a long time. So, you're forgiven your moment of slight rudeness." Minerva shook her head, wondering whether that moment had actually bothered him for so many years. Albus was a strange and complicated wizard, but she didn't love him any the less for being so.

"Now, I have many more questions, Professor Dumbledore," she said briskly, "but they must wait. I am more hungry for food at the moment than I am for answers." Minerva reached out and rubbed Albus's upper arm reassuringly. "And it will be good to get in out of this wind, as well. As nice as your Warming Charm was, I think it's time to go in and find our breakfast."

"Very well, Professor McGonagall, breakfast it is! If I may be so presumptuous, perhaps we might eat in your sitting room?"

"That would be lovely." Minerva smiled and took his arm as they stood. "And I can put my wonderful present in where it belongs, as well. Thank you, Albus, for everything." She squeezed his arm slightly.

"You are very welcome, my dear." He smiled down at her. "It is the very least I can do to express my appreciation for your putting up with me."

Minerva laughed in response, and they headed up to the castle to find their breakfast.