"Thank you," Harry said, stepping into the shop.
The woman bustled around the place, looking for something, while the skinny man stood behind a counter, seemingly bored.
"Just give me a moment to find our measuring tape," the woman called out from the back room.
"Forget the tape, dear, he looks like a nine-incher to me," the man called back.
When she didn't reply, Harry glanced around the room nervously, trying to make some conversation to ease the awkwardness. "So… you're Wanda and Wandel?"
"No," the man said with a shrug. "They were my grandparents. They're now both dead. I'm Wendell - that's my wife Wendy."
"I see."
Apparently, the wandcrafters' grandson decided to continue to carry the conversation while his wife continued to bustle in the back room. "So, what exactly happened to your wand?"
Harry smiled sheepishly. "It kind of fizzled out when I went for a time spell. Nothing serious."
"Ah." Wendell nodded knowingly. "Badly matched wand?"
"Something like that." Harry was saved from having to explain further by Wendy's return. She held up a measuring tape, and, just like his first time at Ollivander's, Harry held out his arms as it measured him out.
"Nine inches," she finally read off after a moment. Harry blinked. That hadn't taken nearly as long as it had at Ollivander's. Maybe these people really knew what they were doing.
"Told you," Wendell said with a grin.
"All right," Wendy conceded. She turned back to Harry as her husband began pulling out wand cases from the cabinets. "What was your last wand made of?"
"I never found out," Harry confessed as he quickly spun a story about the wand's origin. "It was a bit of a loaner. Belonged to an ancestor of mine. I figured it might work out fine seeing that I was able to use it in a couple of tight spots, but apparently not."
Wendy's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You used a loaned wand for years?"
"Just a couple of days, actually. My first wand kind of broke before that."
Wendy shook her head dramatically as she took some cases from her husband. "Antique wands are utterly useless. We believe that one ought to buy a new wand every couple of years or so - why, we have clients who go through their wands in a few months! After all, if the wand chooses the wizard, what happens when the wizard changes who he is, a couple of years down the road?"
"I've always wondered about that," Harry mused.
"All right… nine inches. Come over here, dear."
Harry followed her over to the table, where her husband had set out a long row of wands in parchment envelopes. Each envelope was printed with a different pattern - after a brief moment, Harry recognized them as the same motifs carved on the wands on display in the window.
"Just pick a design you like and try it out," Wendy encouraged.
Staring at the available motifs, Harry immediately found a few that he was sure he didn't want to pick. Running around with a wand carved with little bunnies wasn't exactly something that was high on his list of priorities… and he wouldn't want to be caught dead with a wand carved in rat motifs, of all things. Some of the designs were a step up from that, but roses just wasn't his thing, and he didn't think he'd garner a lot of respects with a wand covered in tiny dragons or unicorns - although, he had to admit, they did look rather cute.
He finally opted for an abstract design that did look rather nice, and was about as close to a plain wand as he could come in this place. He reached in and picked up one of the corresponding envelopes.
"Excellent!" Wendy exclaimed. "Open it and give it a try."
Harry was pleased to discover upon opening the envelope that it contained a rather plain looking wand with an innocuous carved motif that he decided he could come to like. It was a dark brown hue, oak, maybe. He gave it an experimental wave, and was delighted to see sparks fly out. "I guess it works," he observed, though he noticed that they were distinctly duller and smaller than they had been when he had been matched with his original holly wand.
"Wonderful!" Wendy declared gleefully. "Will you be taking this one, then?"
"I guess so."
"That'll be five galleons."
Harry fished out the requested money, wincing internally at having to shell out more of his dwindling stock of gold, and handed it over. "Thank you for your time," he said, grateful that he wouldn't be facing a whole party full of potential dark wizards unarmed.
"Not a problem," Wendell replied curtly.
Harry took his leave and briskly returned to the Leaky Cauldron, giving Tom a grateful nod as he passed the bar and was asked if he'd been successful. He drew his new wand and tried for the time spell again, relieved when instead of sparks, the actual time did come out of the tip of his wand. If he floo'ed now, he would be there at precisely seven o'clock.
Harry grabbed a pinch of floo powder, tossed it into the fire, and stepped into the green flames. Only then did he remember he hated to floo, as vertigo overtook him, turning him around and around in a dizzying display of spinning fireplaces and possible exits. He thought he spotted No. 12 Grimmauld Place, and tentatively stepped toward it.
He tumbled out of the fireplace of a very familiar living room, though the furnishings were rather different than he was used to. It took all of his self-control and willpower to remain standing and instead of stumbling out of the fireplace.
"Who are you?" A suspicious voice greeted him. Harry's head shot up as he straightened, and he came face to face with the late Mrs. Walburga Black. Well, she was dead in his time, but here she was alive and well in the flesh. Her portrait, Harry absently noticed, barely did her justice, as it probably had been painted a few years in the future. Right now, she was a strikingly beautiful woman, somewhere in her mid-forties, he guessed, though she looked about as young and fit as any thirty-year old. Her voice also wasn't nearly as shrill as her portrait's had been, but the piercing glare that seemed to evaluate him and measure him up to some unknown standard was already present.
"Mr. Harry Ashworth." He straightened his posture and made to absently brush some soot off his cloak, schooling his face into a neutral expression. It wouldn't do to give away the fact that he recognized her now.
He resisted the urge to squirm under her intense scrutiny, and after a second, he seemed to have passed as she nodded haughtily and waved him in. "Madame Walburga Black." She gestured to another woman who had just entered the room. "This is Druella Black, nee Rosier, my sister. The dining room is that way. Bellatrix!"
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