AN: Okay, it just seems reeeeally obvious that Ollivander is immortal. 382 B.C., seriously? Anyway, what if Tom was slightly more perceptive and slightly more willing to compromise in his quest for immortality?

There is more to come . . . I was just too lazy to finish it. I do have an ending in mind though.

When Voldemort Went After the Obvious Solution to Immortality:

Ollivander's Maker of Fine Wands since 328 B.C.

Eleven-year-old Tom Riddle entered the shop, greeted with the sight of a withered old man. He did not make much of the sign (after all, 328 B.C.? Probably a family business), instead choosing to observe the dusty orderliness around him. Ollivander was a genius, but an organized genius. Each wand clearly had its own place. He seemed as old as a mountain- albeit one that would blow away at the faintest trace of wind. His voice was wispy and his hair was thin, yet he stood straight and chased away these signs of mortality with bright silver eyes.

There was no sign of a child or any heir to his business.

How strange, mused Tom as he left fingering his yew wand. The old man would probably die soon.

Tom was fourteen and he pushed the door open. The chimes rang with a light tinkle. The Lestrange child trailed behind him. Tom did not care for the arrogant boy, born into everything Tom had not been. However, Tom had been tasked with taking Lestrange Hogwarts shopping, and Tom had no desire to offend such a wealthy family.

Ollivander was still old and the place still smelled of dust. Tom wrinkled his nose. Tom despised dirt and filth. Any wizard as magical as Ollivander could surely whisk this dust away with a twitch of his wand, but Ollivander had not. It probably added to his mystique. Tom watched as the Lestrange brat opened his eyes with wonder, and watched as Ollivander performed his part, playing the mysterious wandmaker.

It really was pathetic how Ollivander pandered to his audience.

Tom eyed the orphans dispassionately. The orphanage had evacuated into the Underground, and Tom had to witness these pathetic snivelling Muggles become even more pathetic and snivelling. When the all clear was finally given, Tom was relieved, but not for the same reason that most of his fellow orphans were relieved. Tom couldn't spend another second surrounded by these idiots without murdering someone. Luckily he would be turning seventeen in two years, so this was the second-to-last miserable summer he'd have to spend with Mrs. Cole.

Tom was also a little disturbed. While Muggle were nothing more than cattle, and their deaths meant as such, Tom was a wizard. He did not want his life in the hands of some Nazi moron who might decide to aim a little left instead of a little right. No, Tom wanted absolute control over his life. Truth be told, he was also scared. He was not ready for death, not when he had just begun to live.

Perhaps he needed to pay the library a visit.

"Have you really been alive since 382 B.C.?" asked an innocent voice surrounded by an angel's face and a childlike countenance.

Ollivander stooped low, for Tom was still short enough that he could play the 'cute' card, and whispered, "Magic creates many mysteries. Some are not for wizards to solve."

He slowly smiled, and with one wink of a silver eye, left to the back of the shop.

Tom stood there, fuming. He had asked an important question, lowered himself to asking others for information, and was patronized for it. His anger grew until he spun on his heel and slammed the door. He needed to go to Knockturn Alley.

Tom was twenty-four and armed with power. He had considered using horcruxes, but the idea of sentencing a piece of himself to possibly an eternity of loneliness didn't appeal to him. Especially if he was that piece. Tom's minions formed a protective ring around the wand shop, like that would do anything. If Ollivander had been alive for as long as he suspected, simpletons with wands would not provide even a distraction. Tom himself had performed a complex ward around the perimeter, but even that might not hold the wandmaker.

The old man was waiting for him. His eyes caught Tom's.

With a flick of his wand, Tom shut the doors and hit Ollivander with the strongest, most obscure body bind spell he knew of.

"Impressive," creaked Ollivander, barely fazed. This only confirmed Tom's suspicions. Ollivander looked so ancient because he was ancient. The sign on the door was no advertising scheme, Ollivander had actually been working his wand shop since 382 B.C. Everything Tom had dug up on him pointed to it. The only reason the wizarding community ignored this blatant immortal was because they were blind and lacked common sense. If Nicholas Flamel hadn't broadcasted his discovery, Tom doubted his schoolmates would have ever known about it.

"Tell me how you did it," Tom aimed his wand at Ollivander and considered him. With his other hand, he slightly motioned toward the wall of wands.

"Clever, clever Tom." Ollivander didn't beat around the bush.

"How would you like to become a wandmaker."

Tom blinked. That was unexpected.