Pairing: Ollivander/Florian Fortescue. Yes, it could happen.

Rating: PG.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Both the wand-maker and ice-cream churner are owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: Ice-cream and wands...

Author's Notes: Written for the blame-fest on LiveJournal. Blamed on Gwendolyn Grace and Minerva McTabby.

Florian Fortescue slumped against the lamppost in front of his shop and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. The hottest day of the summer had turned to night with no appreciable drop in temperature, and even the mild effort of rolling up the awning and levitating the chairs onto the outdoor tables was enough to leave him winded. It had been like this for almost two weeks now, the worst heat wave in anyone's memory. The Muggle-born witches and wizards tut-tutted over their sundaes and spoke of global warming and holes in something called "the zone layer." The rest of the wizarding world just sighed a lot and practiced their cooling charms. Florian had been keeping his shop open two hours past his usual closing time, to give the other business owners in Diagon Alley their chance to drop in for a treat after locking up their own establishments. It was hardly an altruistic gesture -- he just wanted the extra business -- but it garnered him more expressions of gratitude than he'd ever had in his life.

The last group of customers had walked out fifteen minutes before, and now there was nothing left to do except clean up and retire to his rooms upstairs. Florian peeled his sweaty shoulder away from the lamppost and took the first step toward the door, when a brusque voice behind him demanded, "Is it too late to be served?"

Florian gave a little yelp as he spun around; he hadn't heard anyone approaching. The sudden voice in the darkness was quite a shock, but not nearly as much so as the sight of the silver-eyed old man standing at the edge of the pavement. In all the years Florian Fortescue had spent living and working in Diagon Alley, he had never seen Mr. Ollivander outside of his wand shop.

Ollivander looked tired and cross, and his heavy, old-fashioned robes hung in limp, rumpled folds that suggested he'd been sweating profusely into them all day. He looked around with that unnerving, unblinking gaze that Florian remembered since he was eleven, taking in the rolled-up awning, the lowered window grate, the spindly-legged chairs stacked upside-down on top of the lacy wrought-iron tables.

"You're closed," he said in a flat voice.

"No!" Florian blurted out. "I mean, I was just about-- well, not for a few more minutes-- I was closing up, but I'm not finished yet, and I'd be happy to-- that is..." He trailed off, feeling like an idiot. He was not normally given to babbling, but this was an exceptional circumstance. Ollivander was as much a part of his shop as the peeling gold sign and the mountainous stack of wand cases. He never patronized any of the other establishments in Diagon. He did not shop in the shops; he did not drink in the pubs; he did not eat in the restaurants. And yet, here he was, looking at the open door with an expression that could only be described as avid. Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was about to score a coup.

"Why don't you come in, Sir? It's cooler in the shop." Florian hurried inside, turning up the lights he'd dimmed earlier and conjuring a table cloth onto a table near the counter. His hands were sweaty, from nerves as much as the heat, and he had to clutch tightly at his wand, but the familiar spell went off without a hitch. Florian circled to the far side of the counter, glad that he hadn't yet turned off the cooling charms or moved the ice cream tubs to the freezer for the night. "So, what can I get you?"

Ollivander just stood there, still watching Florian with those amazing silver eyes. Too big to be human, those eyes, too round, too still, too intent. Florian recalled himself and his classmates gathered in the first-year Hufflepuff dorm, talking about their wand-buying experiences in hushed tones, and speculating if Mr. Ollivander might be part owl. Owl or not, he managed to make Florian feel all of eleven years old again.

"Florian Fortescue," Ollivander stepped closer to the counter and rested his hands on the glass top. They were rather nice hands, Florian thought irrelevantly. Long and slender. Pale. Surprisingly unwrinkled. "Summer of 1965. Nine and a half inches. Cherry. Unicorn tail hair."

"That's right." Florian grinned wryly as he remembered all the teasing he'd taken during his school days. "The virgin wand."

Ollivander kept staring, no sign of comprehension on his face, and Florian felt his face growing hot. Hotter. "You know," he muttered sheepishly. "Cherry... unicorn... virgin wand. It was the big joke of my year. In my third year, some of the Slytherin boys told me it would stop working if I ever had sex. I was crushed. Took me weeks to realize they were making it up, and even then I don't think I really stopped believing it until--" He broke off abruptly, realizing in horror that he was not only babbling, but heading deep into territory that really should never be discussed with customers.

"So," he squeaked desperately, "have you decided what you want yet?"

"I want an ice cream," Ollivander said imperiously.

"Of course, Sir." Florian plastered on his best professional smile. "What flavour?"

"There's more than one kind?" Ollivander sounded put out. Now it was Florian's turn to stare.

"Haven't you ever had an ice cream before?"

Ollivander drummed his fingers on the counter. Was it Florian's imagination, or did he look... shy? "The opportunity has not presented itself." He leaned forward until the tip of his nose touched the glass. "What would you suggest?"

Florian felt a giddy grin spreading across his face, and made no attempt to restrain it. He was in his element now. The mysterious Mr. Ollivander was ignorant and he, Florian Fortescue, possessed the arcane knowledge.

"You will have to sample them all," he said, "until you find the right one. After all, the ice cream chooses the wizard."

Ollivander lifted his head with a jerk. "Nonsense," he snapped. "How can an ice cream choose?"

"How can a wand?"

Ollivander looked deeply. "Wands," he hissed, "are unique and powerful magical artifacts!"

"And yet, on a day like today, all the wizards still come here." Florian dug into the box of tiny wooden spoons that he kept for giving out samples. "Let's start you off with the basics, I think. Vanilla?"

He held out the spoon, expecting the other man to just take it from him. Instead, Ollivander leaned over the counter and licked the little glob of ice cream right out of the spoon with one quick, neat dart of his tongue. Then he tilted his head back a little, licked his lips, and looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Too bland," was his final verdict.

Florian's mouth abruptly went dry. He coughed unobtrusively and shifted his feet behind the counter. "Uh... all right. How about some chocolate, then?"

This time, Ollivander's tongue actually brushed against his fingers. It felt dry and a little raspy, like a cat's.

"Too rich."

Florian had to take several deep breaths before he felt steady enough to offer up a sample of strawberry-peanut butter swirl, which was rejected as "too sticky." And he was to distracted to even note why the next six flavours were turned down.

And then: "Ahhh..." Ollivander rocked back on his heels, an expression of serene bliss on his face as he smacked his lips. Florian watched with amazement as, for the first time in anyone's memory, Ollivander's eyes actually blinked. His eyelashes were white, and extremely long and feathery. Maybe he was part owl after all. "Yes. That one."

"An excellent choice, Sir." Florian had to look down to see what he'd just offered. "Green tea. Very subtle. Not everyone has the palate to appreciate it." He waved an unsteady hand toward the linen-draped table. "Why don't you have a seat, and I'll bring your order."

Ollivander sat. Florian scooped two perfectly spherical scoops of green tea ice cream into a tulip-shaped glass dish, garnished it with a sprig of mint, put it on a saucer along with a long-handled silver spoon and carried the whole thing over to the table. Ollivander ate three spoonfuls with visible pleasure before looking up.

"Join me?" he said.

"Don't mind if I do." Florian served himself a scoop of chocolate-raspberry swirl and pulled up a chair.

For a couple of minutes, there was contented silence as both men savored their ice cream. Florian tried not to stare too obtrusively at the way Ollivander's pink tongue kept swirling around the bowl of his spoon after every mouthful, but he wasn't sure if he was succeeding. He nearly jumped out of his chair when Ollivander spoke again.

"It's not true, you know," he announced.

Florian blinked. "What's not true, Sir?"

"Your wand. It will not stop working if you have sex."

Florian grinned broadly as he reached across the table and brushed a small smudge of ice cream from Ollivander's lower lip.

"I know," he said.