When he'd bought the Ollivander building, it had looked to Paul that the shop had been opened and closed repeatedly over the last few years. It had been in partial disrepair. He'd gone up to the third floor, to the flat, an found it had pretty much been used as attic storage. The place needed gutted. And so he had, getting rid of the junk, getting rid of the broken plaster walls to expose the brick. Liking the look, he left it. He'd pursued second hand furniture as much as possible because he'd liked the lines of it. When he had his living space sorted and moved into, he decided it was time to go open up the shop.
Paul had saved this moment for last. It was what he had been looking forward to the most. He went down to the front of the shop, looked up at the time worn old sign and then the lettering above the store. He had no intention of touching it and modernizing it. Some things were too sacred to touch. He put the key into the lock, turning the key slowly, listening to the tumblers pull back the bolt. He opened the creeky door, determining that, yes, he might have to fix that and heard the tiny bell jingle upon being jostled by the door. He smiled at the sound and decided to leave the door open to let in the summer morning air.
He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath and sneezed. Behind the dust, it smelled like wood, like a carving shop, and indeed, it really was a carving shop of a sort. It smelled of wood and herbs and old paper, like great old books. He wanted it to smell like this forever. It was how Ollivander's was supposed to smell.
He put on the lights and looked at the shelves still overloaded with wands that, no doubt had been made by Garrick Ollivander years ago. Some were newer, presumably made by his son, and some that, had to have been made by whoever had had the shop sporadically after the Ollivanders had, tragically, gone. That was a shame. He wished the Ollivanders were still here because, even though he could make wands, he surely didn't measure up to the artisan that had been Garrick's legacy.
"I hope I do you proud, Mr. Ollivander," he said softly, looking up towards the ceiling, "wherever you are." Then he looked around him. First things first. He found a couple of clean scrub cloths and relegated them to dust rags and set a charm about them to freshening the shop. He lit the stove to put on a pot of tea, put a new sales ledger on the counter, checked the money in the old register, and then sat down the tall stool at the work desk, unable to hold back a happy smile. This was peace. This was where he wanted to be. A long forgotten disassembled wand lay yet on the work desk. The feather laying yet in the core wasn't worth a fraction of a sickle anymore. Ah, well, he decided to deal with the task immediately in front of him. The wand deserved to have its magic back.
He hadn't been there for more than an hour at best, replacing the wand core with a new hippogriff feather and sealing the core and remounting the handle when he glanced up and saw that woman again--the one he'd met briefly who had the odd little hippie shop in Hogsmeade. She was a woman who was hard to miss. He thought she was beautiful, but he didn't think for a moment that she'd ever have interest in someone like him. What was her name--something to do with a calendar. Sunlight, Sunshine, Sunbeam...damnit, that wasn't it. She appeared to be talking to someone quite a bit shorter than her, but because of the people in the street, he couldn't see--until she turned and headed for his shop door. She had a dog with her. A magnificent looking big dog with a stunning, shiny cream colored coat. He wasn't on leash, he was merely walking calmly beside her. The woman looked up and flashed him a smile. Solstice. That was her name.
She got to the doorway and smiled at him again. "May we come in?" She was speaking of her and that wonderful dog. There was no one else in the shop, so he motioned to her.
"Of course. Please--come in," he smiled. He watched them come in the little shop, noticing how well behaved the dog was. "Spectacular dog you've got," he said. "Does he bite?"
"No, certainly not," she smiled. "Introduce yourself, Fitz."
"Fitz?" Paul asked.
"Short for Fitzwhistle. His owner gave him that when he was a pup," she replied. Paul went over and the dog offered his paw for Paul to shake. Paul shook hands and looked into the dog's eyes. He looked like he was a bright dog, for whatever that meant. The cream colored long hair shone brightly in the morning light.
"He's great," Paul looked up at her, petting Fitz. "What kind of a name is Fitzwhistle?" he frowned.
"Not one I would choose personally," she cast him an amused smile. "I remember you asking me about a dog when you came to my shop and I showed you my clinic. Its why I'm here with Fitz. You're right--Fitz is an amazing animal, but his owner is an older gentleman who is going to be moving to Spain to move into his daughter's little apartment. The landlord won't allow pets, so he has to give Fitz up. He asked me to find another place for him, someone who would be good to Fitz, and I thought straight away of you. I thought maybe you'd like to have him for a day or so and see if you two might be suitable flat mates."
"Me?" Paul looked up at her. "Me and Fitz?" He felt like he was about eight again on Christmas morning. Smooth, Paul, do try to act a little mature here in front of her. Jumping up and down probably won't impress her much,he thought. He looked at the dog. "Whaddaya think, Fitz, wanna try it? I make a mean steak."
"Fitz," Solstice said, "go lie down. He seems to have been very well trained. I've had no trouble at all with him." The dog went over to the work desk and laid down right beside the stool that Paul had been sitting on. She opened her large shoulder bag and drew out a larger bag of kibbles. "In case you decided to try him," she explained. "He's got a bone, but I'm afraid he's only got one toy." She handed Paul a battered looking rope toy."
"I can manage toys, I think. Uh...do I need a leash or anything?"
"Shouldn't. He'll stick right with you."
"What kind of dog is he?"
"He's a English golden retriever--he's just got the cream coloring instead of a golden color. He's a pretty mellow guy, really. I think you two will do alright."
"We might at that."
"Shall I check back with you in a couple days?" she asked.
"That would be great," Paul smiled. "Thank you."
"Good luck to both of you, then," she smiled and left. Paul went back over to the desk, put the rope down beside Fitz and sat down on the stool. Fitz looked up and him and then settled in, thumping his tail happily on the hardwood floor, and settled in for a morning snooze. I have a dog, Paul thought, my dog. My dog Fitz.
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