Hagrid's Wand
You may believe this or not, as you like. This is my story, and I'll swear by it. My tale may help explain why Hagrid is so reluctant to give up his unique wand, broken and jerry-rigged though it be. And one should remember that the destruction of the wand at the hands of the Ministry was, after all, the result of a sly, under-handed trick by the Heir of Slytherin. True, Hagrid unlawfully kept an Acromantula, as Tom Riddle swore. But it was not Hagrid's "monster" that killed poor Myrtle Warren, though feasting on her tender flesh would be a pleasure for one of Aragog's species. And keep in mind this: Hagrid's wand deception is tacitly allowed. To deny so is to say that an old pink brolly that shoots stray sparks could fool the likes of Albus Dumbledore or Minerva McGonigall.
Hagrid's wand was loyal and true. For one thing, it was carved out of mighty English oak wood, from a tree that stood in town center at the founding of Hogsmeade. The oak was ancient even then. In the thirteenth century the gigantic tree was splintered by lightning in a rather terrifying thunderstorm. A craftsman knows a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when he sees it. Ollivander's ancestor stocked up on good English oak. Hagrid, like the oak, is faithful and true. His wand could no more switch allegiances than Hagrid himself. It is said that "oak is a wand for good times and bad, this is a friend as loyal as the wizard who deserves it." Hagrid is deserving. He is strong, courageous, and loyal to a fault.
The pointed tip of Hagrid's wand was capped with fossilized erumpent horn. Ollivander had a bit of this, a relic found among the hoard of carving materials in his father's quaint studio. Garrick Ollivander, the son, was as clever an artisan as the father, if not moreso. And though he wisely chose to limit the types of materials used for core, he did occasionally make the mystical, intuitive "quantum leap" that is characteristic of the creative mind and an earmark of true genius. For this giant of a wand (sixteen inches long), he was led to try a strange mixed core, intricately braided of the tail hairs of several magical beasts: the unicorn, the hippogriff, and the erumpent.
Yes, I know. Erumpent hair? But you see, the beast does have a little brush of stiff hair at the end of its leathery tail. You can see it in some drawings. Newt Scamander brought Ollivander this erumpent hair personally, from America in 1926, after one of the beasts broke loose in New York City and went on a rampage. It snagged a great tuft of its tail hair on a low-hanging tree limb in Central Park, and this, Scamander wisely collected. Now, don't expect Hagrid to go on a rampage in like kind. The erumpent does not attack unless provoked, and neither does Hagrid, generally speaking.
Continuing the theme of fidelity, no one has to ask why unicorn hair was chosen. But the hair of this lovely beast is fragile. For Hagrid, that just wouldn't do. His wand core is reinforced, not only with erumpent hair, but hippogriff's tail, and it also has a dragon's heartstring–powerful! So, Hagrid's wand does not have the fickle quality that allows some wands to switch allegiance or turn to the dark arts. One flaw of the dragon heartstring–further reflecting the character of its owner–it doesn't always behave as it ought; again, like Hagrid, who does have a tendency to chuck the rules and follow his own heart.
In this same vein, it shouldn't be any surprise that the wand master threw in one phoenix feather. Some wizards would resent this, but it suited Hagrid, and it suited the feather, which appreciated its owner's devil-may-care lifestyle. Taming the phoenix feather was no problem at all for Hagrid (easy as taming a giant scorpion).
Finally, one stormy grey hippogriff feather plucked with permission from the tuft of feathers that had crowned the head of Buckbeak's sire, was woven into the mix. The whole core was tightly wrapped in a sheath of Acromantula filament. "Rather bendy" (Ollivander's own words) was an understatement. That web! It's a thousand wonders anyone at Hogwarts was able to break that wand.
Ollivander had a little vial of "Pure Erumpent Calf Oil"–and indeed, it was a thick, viscous stuff, much oilier than his own boughten stock of Exploding Fluid. He had found the curious, aged, stoppered-glass bottle secreted away in a dusty old cupboard in his father's chemistry lab. It seemed stronger than the thin, but costly substance on today's market, which Ollivander strongly suspected was diluted (with good reason, he supposed). But he considered the pure oil to be rare and precious. On a hunch, he dipped the carbonized tip of the wand in this oil, several coats of it. Now, Ollivander was no man's fool. He knew enough to know that dried oil, in miniscule amounts, would not be volatile enough to cause a big explosion. Just enough to... well, we won't dwell on it, but remember Dudley's pig tail and be thankful it wasn't you.
It might seem peculiar, this curiosity of a wand, built to such precise specifications. One could say it had the best of all things. Or one could say, it was–well, frankly, a mutt, somewhat like its owner, and I mean that in a most affectionate way. Hagrid is one of a kind. As you might have guessed by now, Ollivander had some inkling of who might be the chosen wizard for this marvelous wand. For Ollivander knew Mr. Hagrid. They were old friends. He knew that Fridwulfa, the giantess, was a fickle, selfish sort, not deserving, really. Her little wizard husband had a joyous nature and a good heart–a big, loyal heart that loved unconditionally. So in 1928, when Ollivander learned of the couple's happy news, he gathered the lucky oak wood, the prized feathers, the hair, the horn, and the oil, and he started carving this masterpiece of a wand. He carved with great care, taking his time. This would be a labor of love.
Twelve years later, when the day came, when a giant of a boy came ambling into the wand shop with his diminutive papa at his side, and the wand chose young Rubeus Hagrid as its own, the usually reserved wandmaker was secretly so pleased with himself that honestly, he nearly gave himself away. He literally quivered with joy.
His fondest memory: he'd made a pretense of trying different wands for Rubeus. The wandmaker could hardly keep a straight face, recollecting the quizzical, sidewise glances that Hagrid and his father gave when he presented one absurd, flimsy little stick after another for the giant of a boy to "try." The regular wands looked like toothpicks in his massive little-boy hand. But the expressions of father and son when Ollivander pulled out "the" wand! Oh, it was a day to remember.
Certainly other wizards might be jealous to know that the wandmaker, just this once, had shown such favoritism; that twelve years previous, he actually had in mind the unborn giant of a spirit that would wield such a wand. And, truth be told, when the wand was broken (a travesty of justice), it was the craftsman himself who risked his license and covertly repaired Hagrid's wand–not Dumbledore, as some suspect. This is perhaps the one secret over the years that Hagrid has never let slip. Ollivander himself confessed this to me. And that's all I have to say.
–fantasy essay, written by dkp, a Ravenclaw, for Wandlore class in Azkaban Escapees (a Harry Potter group)
