I do not own Harry Potter.
Chosen
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You are not the boy the wand chose all those years ago.
You are sick. Twisted. You have no friends and family is only a word used to describe wizards and witches—
and muggles—
who have similar blood.
You revel at pain and quietly gasp in delight when the green light sparks like fireworks, silently taking away a gasp for air. Sick. Twisted. Sadistic.
But the wand chose a boy with a difficult past and many, many paths. It chose a boy shrouded in pain he does not want to know and remember and so much potential, it almost wasn't fair.
It chose a leader who understood and could charm people with his silky words, meaning no real harm, quietly looking both ways. It chose someone who could resist temptation.
Problem being, Tom Riddle didn't.
But the wand kept on, silently disproving in every spell, waiting for you to change your ways.
Except you don't.
Not for your mother, whom you believe was tricked by a good-for-nothing muggle. Not for your father, who was young and stupid and drunk on muggle power. Not for family, which was full of users and deserters. And certainly not for your wand, who was the only thing you've ever really loved and the only thing that's never failed you yet.
Until it does, and the curse bounces off the child straight to you.
Still, you keep it, but then it refuses to expand your growing power and gives you a limit.
Your boundless, beautiful wand.
So you choose another, one with more names than you've made. But it too gives a limit, an end, a refusal.
And you realize that it never chose you, never would, and your real wand deserted you because it found you inadequate. You bury the knowledge somewhere underneath until the green light you so dearly love is once more coming at you and you can't stop it this time.
You miss your old self, the one the wand chose.
