'So there will be no wandering off to meet friends, no stopping in at Fortescue's for ice cream, and no spending an hour browsing the goods in Quality Quidditch Supplies.'
'No fun is more like it,' James mumbled.
Ginny Potter threw one hand up in the air in exasperation. 'Exactly! Finally, it is sentient! You are grounded, James Sirius Potter. And if your father hadn't relented and strongarmed me into bringing you today, you'd damned well be sitting at home right now, so you'd best be happy you're even here.'
'Yea James just be glad you're here,' Lily goaded. If they hadn't been standing in the middle of a rather busy Diagon Alley at that moment, James would have reached over and boxed her ears. She always knew just how to get under his skin.
'Lily, Albus, I don't have time to babysit today, so you're to keep your eyes on James. School shopping only. Nobody is to set foot in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Understood?'
Al groaned, but Lily flicked her hair irritably. 'As if I'd want to go into that madhouse, anyway.'
'Oh, you're so mature Lily,' James hissed.
'Grow up, James.'
'Periculum!'
Without warning, brilliant red sparks exploded all around the children's heads. They filled James' vision, momentarily blinding him. The explosion left his ears ringing and his hands clutching the sides of his head in vain.
'Mum!' all three chorused, though none could hear their own voice.
'I've done my years of babysitting you three,' Ginny huffed. 'Start acting your age, not your wand size.'
And with that, she strode off and was soon lost in the crowd, leaving three rather sullen Potter children glaring balefully in her wake.
'Sod that,' James growled, crossing his arms. His ears were still ringing, but slowly, the dull roar of a teeming Diagon Alley began to reassert its dominance.
'No, James,' Lilly snapped. She moved to plant herself firmly in James' path.
'I'm going to see Fred,' he said, making to push past her.
But in the effort of doing so, he felt her brush up against him. The barest hint of a pressure across his waistband, and when she spun away she held his wand, dangling delicately between her fingertips. Her black-painted nails glimmered in the midday sun.
'Give it back, Lil.' James deadpanned.
'Nah-uh. You're coming with us- hey, this wand looks different-'
'Give it back!' James swiped at it. A little chill crept in to his stomach. He didn't even know how to begin explaining the wand's backstory. Nor did he want to.
'Did you charm it to try and look more badass, James? Oh, you're such a boy!'
'Give it here! You're such a… a little Slytherin!'
'And proud of it!' With a laugh, Lily twirled, her hair flying wild around her, and her pale green dress flaring, chosen as if to emphasise her house affinity. With a final waggle of her finger, she hefted James' wand and disappeared it down the front of her dress.
'Lily, give it- gross!'
She blinked innocently back at him. 'Well, where else do you think a lady stores her wand when wearing a dress?'
'It's the Slytherin,' James muttered, shaking his head. 'It's gotten to you. You're all mental.'
'Now there's something we can agree on,' Al chimed in. He'd managed to slip off in the furore and grab himself an ice cream.
'Hey!' Lily sulked, mock-hurt.
'What can I say,' Al shrugged. 'Any house capable of producing a girl willing to date James must have something wrong with it.'
James gave Al one final shove before setting off up the street, angling towards the great golden doors of Gringotts. He was down to his last Galleon, and his list of school supplies for OWL year was long. Not to mention all the newest broomcare products he had his eye on.
The doors to Gringotts stood ajar. The dusting of gold leaf that adorned them shone with a burnished glow wherever it caught glimpse of the sun. The towering, marble edifice sparkled brilliant and white. Strong enough to make James shield his eyes as he gazed upon the many-storied façade. Cracks and damages from the last wizarding war had been healed with veins of gold, so that it seemed a map of shining rivers criss-crossed through the gleaming marble. A network of veins pumping gold into the heart of wealth of Wizarding Britain.
'Your wands. Now.'
The goblin who manned – goblinned? – the desk leered down at them. His long, knuckly fingers wrapped around the edge of the desk, and jagged, pointed nails tapped impatiently, despite the fact that they'd only just been asked.
'So rude,' Lily huffed, just loud enough to be heard. James' heart stuttered for a second as the goblin's eyes rose to study her flatly. But he said not a word, only jutting out one hand to receive first Al's wand, and then Lily and James. A small, lacy cloth was produced, and the goblin made a show of vigorously scrubbing both James and Lily's wands. The act only made her scowl deepen. James smirked in her direction, content that his point had been proved.
When the goblin got to James' wand, he paused, holding it out at arms' length (which admittedly isn't very far for a goblin), as if it were a thing diseased. He glared first at the wand, and then down at James, peering over the edge of his desk and wielding a sharp, beady eyes stare that rooted James to the spot.
'This is your wand, Mister Potter?' There was a strong emphasis on the word. Lily and Al were shooting James confused looks.
'Well, I'd hardly be wandering around the place with another wizard's wand. That's… that would be a sacrilege.'
The goblin didn't react in the slightest to his false bravado. Only peered closer at James. A subtle sneer began to curl his lips, revealing to James a needle-like row of pointed teeth. They matched the fouled whites of the goblin's eyes in their faded-parchment colouring.
The moment hung between them for several breaths, stretched taught and fine as spider's silk. And then, the goblin relented, retreating back behind his desk and making a note with a long, black quill into his notebook.
Al and Lily's wand, the goblin kept for the duration of their visit – an enforcement brought about since the last Wizarding War that Harry, Ron and Hermione reluctantly claimed responsibility for. But to James, the goblin returned his wand.
'I'll not hold onto this for a moment longer. Keep it out of sight if you value your safety here. Away with the lot of you.'
They didn't need telling twice. The three children scurried off to join the line to be guided down to their family vault. Al and Lily shot him questioning looks, but he waved them away, making sure his wand was stowed safely in his waistband. At least he'd managed to get it back from Lily.
A modicum of revenge was exacted as they careened down through the myriad tunnels towards the family vault, and Lily began to progressively turn a shade of green fit to match her dress. Al and James had no such qualms, and Al nattered away constantly, in awe of the massive scale of the tunnels and caves that were periodically revealed to them as they hurtled through the darkness.
'Did you know these tunnels are some of the oldest known excavations in wizarding Britain? They're pre-Roman, pre-everything, and all man-made! Look – there's no way flint erodes like that.'
James barely caught a glimpse of a black, smoky smear among the finely bedded sandstones that whipped by on either side. A glowing lantern up ahead announced a swath of vaults – but not yet theirs. Lily just groaned her displeasure.
They past through the platform. James counted nearly a dozen vaults. The lantern light was little more than blurry golden streaks in his periphery. Beyond, a wide, yawning chasm opened up, and the cart continued, on rail supported wholly by magic, for there was nothing beneath them at all. They could as well have been flying. Lily made the mistake of cracking open her eyes, and ended up nearly vomiting on James' shoes.
'Amazing, isn't it!' Al was yelling. The rush of air was trying to tug the words from James' ears. 'Look at the scale of it all, there's no way Muggles could have done this. What you're looking at is evidence for some of the earliest settlers in Britain having been wizards!'
James supposed that was rather interesting. In a very stuffy, bookish, Al kind of way. The cavern beneath them was massive. It yawned dark and foreboding and – without any light to penetrate it – utterly bottomless. Perhaps Lily's unease wasn't entirely unwarranted.
Their cart made a sudden lurch, and pitched downwards at an eye-watering angle, heading towards a narrow seam in the rock strata – a horizontal opening where some unit or other had weathered away. It was filled instead with what looked like row upon row of giant teeth – stalactites. The opening grinned menacingly at them as they hurtled towards it. Lily dropped all of her aloof Slytherin airs and started screaming.
The wall of stale air hit them like a physical thing as they zipped in through the narrow gap in the rocks. Alongside them, illuminated fitfully by the lantern attached to their cart, the rock formations loomed like gigantic, statuesque trees, and they darted in and out between the boles like some playful forest sprite, zigging and zagging around the great structures haphazardly. Occasionally, one wheel or another would lift clean off the track, and James felt his heart in his mouth more than once.
'They say these tunnels criss-cross the entirety of London!' Al called, as another cluster of lights zipped past, revealing yet more vaults squatting amongst this strange, forested world. 'The Muggles keep digging tunnels for their trains and intersecting them. The scale of them is mind-boggling!'
A thought rose, unbidden to James mind, and he allowed it to bubble forth, more a question than an actual statement. 'One of the Seven Secret entrances to the Ministry of Magic.'
Al frowned. 'The what?'
'Nothing. Something Cat said once. I think she mentioned one of them was an underground tunnel.'
'Maybe,' Al shrugged. 'Do you think the first wizards lived underground? It's said that in one of these caverns lies a gigantic lake of fresh water.'
Their cart left the forest of stalactites, and climbed briefly through a roughly circular tunnel. James felt them beginning to slow as they approached a platform high above, cut into a dark, midnight-hued rock.
'This is an odd subject to know so much about,' James said, a touch dismissively.
Al shrugged as the cart came to a halt outside their family vault. 'Magical history intrigues me. It's the greatest mystery of our kind. There are records going back hundreds of years, and then, suddenly, nothing. Not a trace.'
'Maybe that was the day that Wizards learned to write,' James shrugged, stepping out of the cart and on to the flat, unadorned platform.
'That can't be the case. Oral histories-'
Mercifully, Al was cut short, as Lily shoved past him and vomited all over the platform – narrowly avoiding both James and their goblin escort with the violent splashback. She rolled onto her back atop a clear section of stonework and James looked down at her pale, drawn features. He found not a drop of sympathy within himself, as her pleasure at his predicament still stung fierce in his memory.
'Clean this,' the goblin barked, dropping a greasy, oily rag next to Lily without another word, and turned to face the door to the vault. James and Al stepped clear of the mess, hoping Lily's grumbles of 'manners' and 'ugly midget' didn't get them all thrown out.
Thankfully, there was much less kerfuffle involved with actually extracting the money, and James and Al were both wise enough to stand well clear when Lily bundled herself out of the cart at the end of the return journey. At least this time she managed to find a small, unused pail to fill with her displeasure.
It was little surprise that James found Lily much more bearable after the incident at Gringotts, and even managed to enjoy the time spent with his siblings – something he realised was a rarity these days. Al's fiercely inquisitive mind was a wonder, and held all kinds of facts and knowledge – some of it actually useful. James had no hesitation in abusing this upon discovering that Al knew all about the secret passages and false doors of Hogwarts' more secluded levels.
Al and James, in turn, made a game of trying to crack the frosty, Slytherin façade that Lily had adopted ever since she had started Hogwarts. It was like she had some kind of ideal of what the perfect, most Slytherin lady ought to be in her mind; some kind of sneering ice-queen. A frankly ridiculous notion, as far as James was concerned. The only two Slytherin girls he truly knew were anything but.
It was James, eventually, who emerged the victor, getting Lily to jump like an eager child to reach a bar of chocolate he held aloft just out of her reach. Though it was hardly fair sport – Lily would do just about anything for chocolate.
By the time the day had begun to wind down, and they were on their final stop – Flourish and Blott's to purchase a King's ransom in textbooks – James realised that the day had been one of the best of his holidays so far. Which made what he had planned to do sit a little uncomfortably with him. Far easier, had the pair teased and goaded him all day, then his betrayal would have been a thing easily done.
The bell affixed to the shop door tinkled lightly at their entry. The low light in the store forced all three of them to strain their eyes to see. A few spectral figures ghosted in and out between the aisles up ahead, though this late in the day had most shoppers headed home for dinner. The maze-like configuration of shelves towered above them, as they slowly wended their way through the store, blotting out what meagre light the sputtering candles and lamps provided and casting looming shadows across their passage.
'How is anyone meant to read in a bookshop that's so dark?' Lily hissed, clutching James' shirt with one hand so as not to get separated. He'd have to change that.
'Al, I'd heard they have a new history section on the upper level,' James whispered. The nearness and the stillness precluded proper speech. The book store was just one of those places where it felt wrong to speak too loud.
No sooner had James mentioned it, than Al was off, leaving just the two of them behind. James paused in a little clearing – he could think of no other word for it – and turned to Lily.
'I'm going to go and read some Quidditch magazines before we do all the boring shopping. I hear the Tutshill Tornadoes have issued a new player strip for this season. And the Magpies signed a new broom sponsorship deal, and-'
'Yawn. I'm going to the politics section. Meet you back here in ten?'
Such a wannabe Slytherin. 'Make it fifteen.'
Lily nodded, and James slipped away, ostensibly in search of his Quidditch mags, but he wasted no time in doubling back around and slipping out the door and into the street.
'Get out-Slytherined, Lily,' he chuckled, out in the sunlight once more.
James turned to face back down the street. Away from the riot of colour and cavalcade of noise that was only now beginning to peter out as the day drew to a close. He kept his head down and his collar up, fearful that he might run into his mother as she went about her own errands, and so ruin his carefully laid-out plan.
He made a beeline towards Ollivander's. Though Garrick Ollivander himself had long since passed, the store and tradition was still carried on in his name by some distant cousin or nephew. It was where James had got his wand – his first wand, anyway – before he started Hogwarts.
A thin veneer of greasy dust coated all the windows – and had done for as long as James remembered the place. He pushed against the door and heard a chime sound somewhere deep in the shop. The lighting inside was woeful, and he had to blink several times before he could make out more than the general shape of the broad, battered desk and the man who stood behind it.
'Well?' he barked, causing James to start. He made his way tentatively across the floor, stubbing his toe on a wonky floorboard and resolving to put out a hand to steady himself like a blind man as he went.
'I've a question about a- about my wand,' James said, suddenly uncertain. The idea had seemed sound when he'd thought of it, laying in his bed, bored out of his mind grounded. But suddenly, in the leering face of this grizzled old man of indeterminate age, he was having second thoughts.
'No refunds,' the man barked. 'If you can't get the wand to function, that is your failure. I am never wrong.'
James knew Harry and Ron called him Young Ollivander. Perhaps Young was really his first name, as there was nothing truly youthful about his liver-spotted, wispy-haired appearance that James could make out.
'I- it's not a refund I'm after. I was wondering if you could just have a brief look at my wand.'
'Is it one of mine? If not, you're wasting both our time.'
Hmm. How to answer that?
'Er-'
'What's your name, boy?'
'Potter – James Potter. I bought my wand from you five years ago.'
Technically not a lie, it just wasn't this wand, he'd purchased.
Young Ollivander gave a grunt, and disappeared down behind his desk for a moment, returning with a massive tome that looked to weigh as much at least as James did. He set it down upon the desk with a foreboding whump, kicking up a cloud of dust significant enough to set James to hacking and coughing.
'Don't get your diseases all over my shop, boy,' Ollivander growled. Then, to himself, 'Potter… Potter, where are you. How in the hell Garrick could recall all of this waffle I'll never know…'
He eventually found it, and gave a triumphant little whoop, before rounding on James once more.
'Maple and Dragon Heart, ten-and-a-half inches, reasonably pliant.'
'That was it,' James agreed.
'Was? What do you mean, was? Changed your wand have you, boy? Transfigured it to something else? That's impossible, you know, Transfiguring wands. And only a short step to madness, if my research is anything to go by.'
'Er, well… you see-'
'Give it here. I've not got all day.'
James proffered his ash and bone wand tentatively, painfully aware of his lie, but holding it out point-first for Young Ollivander to take. A gnarled, and bony hand leaped forth from the folded sleeves of his long, black robe and swiped James wand. He held it for only a moment before letting out a shout, and dropping it, as if stung. The clattering of wood across the tabletop echoed overly loud in the empty, dingy space.
'Is this some kind of a sick joke? What is that… that thing? Get out, boy. Out!'
James reached forward to grab his wand, backpedalling as fast as he could in the dimly-lit space. His mouth was working frantically, stammering out meaningless half-sentences and frightened gibberish.
'What is- how did- what's wrong with it?'
'You just hand me the dead ghost of every wand ever created and you ask me what's bloody wrong with it? Boy, get out of my sight, and consider yourself lucky I don't Hex you from here till bloody Hogwarts. Out, I say, get! And don't ever return!'
James stumbled from the room as Young Ollivander gesticulated wildly with one arm, whilst the other clawed at his head as if he'd become suddenly afflicted with a debilitating migraine. The bell tinkled, James burst through the door, and a wash of sunlight assaulted him as he blinked and staggered his way up the street, putting as much distance between himself and Ollivander's as he dared. Even as he threw a glance back over his shoulder, he saw the shutters snap down and the lights flick off, sealing the place up.
The ash and bone wand was cool and implacable in James' hand. It gave no hint or recognition of the disturbance it had created. Determined to get his answer, James gritted his teeth and made his way purposefully up the street towards Strange's Things, in an attempt to get a second opinion.
When Garrick Ollivander had passed away, many had decried the wandsmithing trade as dead, and bemoaned the last true wandwright. But in the months that followed, dozens had sprouted up in Diagon Alley, each one eager to carve out their own little niche within the massive shadow that his legacy had cast. Many were fraudsters, some few more were genuine but incompetent, and one promising young woman was put out of business when a nasty explosion had obliterated her shop and killed three patrons within it. In the space of twelve months, their numbers had been reduced to two. And when Young Ollivander emerged from relative obscurity to claim the mantle of his forebear, that number was reduced again.
Claretta Strange was the sole other wandsmith in Diagon Alley. She was fiery, spirited and incorrigible. And her wands were much the same. She crafted from only Beech or Pear woods, and hand-picked everything that went into the magical cores of her wands. She had become renowned for being the first British witch to use Chimaera Spine as a core – previously deemed weak and sporadic.
But her wands were notoriously hard to master. She would suffer each student trying only a handful of her wands before she would banish them, deeming them unfit to be wielders. Those who were chosen, more often than not, were forced to return, sheepishly, to another Wandwright the following year and find something easier to bend to their will.
So it was with much trepidation that James entered the store, even going so far as to flinch at the chimes that tinkled above the door, even though this space was as open and well-lit as Ollivander's was gloomy and dreary. Just as timid, was he, when the Wandsmith herself, Mistress Strange, appeared at the doorway to the back of the shop shouting and cursing and gesticulating wildly with her own wand drawn.
'Out! Out of my shop, heathen! Don't you dare bring that taint in here, that foul, evil manifestation. I'll have you, boy!'
James ducked and bolted out the door. He hadn't even opened his mouth, let alone drawn his wand. But her response mirrored Ollivander's, if perhaps a little more visceral and instinctive. Both together only served to stoke the chill flames of James' fears.
There was one final stop he had to make. One that he had hoped to avoid. He checked his watch. He'd just barely manage it. He bolted from the flower-bedecked frontage of Mistress Strange's shop and tore off down Diagon Alley, to where the cobblestones became uneven underfoot, more shops were boarded up than peddling their wares, and a sharp right hand bend was pathetically guarded by a melted iron gate: Knockturn Alley.
There was, of course, one final option. The dark and festering underbelly to the Trinity of Wandsmiths that magical Britain had to offer. Seldom mentioned in the same breath as Ollivander or Strange, and never in polite company, the dingy store of one Royland Griffin was the final destination on James' short list.
Disgraced years ago, the story went. In the initial onrush of would-be Wandwrights following Ollivander's untimely end, few distinguished themselves as true masters of the craft. It was infamy, rather than fame that set Griffin apart from the rest. Crafter of wands said to possess minds of their own, and to look deep into the hearts of their wielders, he was a fast favourite among the edgier of would-be wielders. His popularity momentarily bloomed, until a few disgruntled customers started making noises that the wands weren't quite what they appeared to be.
They reported hearing voices, these new wielders. No, not voices, a voice. Just the one, appearing in the minds of the dozens or so who had purchased a Griffin wand. Voices that grew louder with each passing day. Many of the victims, in their last days, were found to be saying the voice came from the wands themselves. Whatever they said, the wielders would not utter repetition, but it was enough to drive them to insanity. A wave of despicable atrocities followed, all committed at the hands of a Griffin wielder, before the Aurors – Harry and Ron foremost among them – clamped down on Griffin and outlawed all of his trade.
That he had resurfaced only a few months later was little surprise to many. Ostensibly as a purveyor of magical antiquities and curios of a more… dubious provenance, it was still whispered, more often than not, that one could still purchase a wand from Royland Griffin, if one knew the right things to say.
James had pieced all of this together over the summer, as his father and Ron reminisced on past victories together over a glass or three of Firewhiskey. It had been them that had given him the idea, initially. Though he had hoped it wouldn't come to this.
Knockturn Alley itself was a grim and foreboding place. The cobbles underfoot were weathered and uneven, and coated in a thin film of slimy filth that made footing all the more treacherous. Piles of trash and debris had gathered up against walls and in corners, and added a rotting, pungent odour that assaulted the senses. Weeds sprouted up, somehow finding life among the filth, clinging desperately to the thinnest veneer of soil, and vines clung desperately to shop fronts, offering the only splash of colour to this bleak and dreary world. Overhead, even the sun was held at bay, as the upper floors of the houses and shops leaned towards one another in some sort of drunken embrace, blocking out all but the thinnest sliver of blue.
James hugged himself as he tried to peer at the faded, peeled names painted above the doorways. The air was suddenly cool and dank. The breeze that stirred the hairs on his arms left him covered in gooseflesh. The scant few souls he did pass, he ignored fiercely, hoping that they would do the same. But none seemed eager to dally, and each had wrapped their own private business around themselves so tightly that there was no penetrating that barrier, either in or out.
Eventually, James found it. A dilapidated building no more or less ramshackle than any other on the street. It was notable only that it had once been whitewashed, when all others were painted black. Even that had faded now, though, and left it a faded, grainy grey, somehow even more nondescript and dreary. A low light barely managed to penetrate through the thick patina of grime coating the windows. James put his hand on the door and pushed. It wouldn't budge. He laid his shoulder against it and heaved, forcing it open in a sudden motion that left him staggering into the dark environs within.
Behind him, the door swung shut on hinges that were perfectly oiled, all of a sudden.
The store, as far as he could make out, was just a single room. The door through which he'd entered was the only way in or out. Each of the four walls supported floor to ceiling shelving, and these groaned under the weight of more obviously-magical paraphernalia than James had ever seen in one place in his life. There were paintings and sculptures and little figurines. There were knives and swords and a pair of matching muskets. There was something that looked like a metallic Catherine Wheel, the size of James' head. There was an upside-down pail that rattled occasionally, as if it held something monstrous underneath it. There was a balled-up bundle of rags that emitted a gentle, orange glow, as well as an overwhelming sense of dread whenever James looked in its direction. And then there were things he couldn't even begin to describe, whose function he certainly had no hope of fathoming. They crowded atop one another on the shelves, each vying for attention, each one seeking to be the most ominous, or promise the most pain.
'The hour is late, to be receiving such esteemed guests.'
James jumped clean out of his skin, as a man had suddenly appeared at the giant table that dominated the centre of the room. He was sure that he hadn't been there a moment ago. The desk behind which the figure stood was a massive thing of warped, faded grey wood. None of the legs matched, and James could see the splinters peeling off the surface even through the dim lighting, but it was cluttered with tools and items that spoke of a frequent use. A small pile of sticks, in various states of carving were stacked up closest to James – wand wood, he surmised, in the process of being formed. Proof, then, of the illegality of Griffin's operation.
Just what James was looking for.
'I've a question about my wand, that I thought you might answer.'
Griffin leered at James. That yellow-toothed smile sent shivers down his spine. His wispy, grey hair belonged on a much older man. Eyes that never stood still regarded James for the briefest of seconds, then skittered away, then back again a moment later, always moving, always flighty.
'You'll find no wands in 'ere,' Griffin said. Despite evidence to the contrary littering the table between them.
'Nobody else could help me,' James said. 'You're the only one that could know.'
Perhaps subtle flattery would get him what he wanted.
'Then, boy, you ought to have come to me first.'
Or perhaps not.
'I think you'll find this wand a little more interesting than most.'
'Boy, if I hadn't sensed just what you held in that lint-filled pocket of yours the moment you walked in my door you'd have been out on your arse by now, and we both know it. Bring it here.'
Yellowing fingers bedecked with black, rotted nails beckoned James closer. He took a tentative step, drawing his wand and holding it out for Griffin to take. Trepidation filled him, expecting a reaction similar to Ollivander.
But when Griffin took it in his disgusting little hands, there was no screaming, no accusations or wailing. Instead, a slow, simpering smile spread across his face as he caressed the wand, turning immediately away from James to cradle it close to his chest.
'Oh yes,' he was crooning. James wasn't even sure if he knew he was still there. 'How it whispers. Such sweet words. Blessed oblivion. Death hear me, I entreat you. It is I, your most loyal of servants…'
James took a step nearer the table, resting a hand gingerly on the surface. 'I was wondering if you could tell me-'
'Silence!'
And without warning, Griffin spun, raising James' wand high overhead for a moment and bringing it savagely down, point-first towards the table. Before James could even cry out and try stop him, the wand drove deep into the warped and buckled wood, as if it were a fine steel dagger, and razor sharp. It quivered a moment, buried more than half-way into the solid wood of the table. Griffin released his grip on it, a rapt, reverent expression making a mockery of his twisted features as he crowded over the wand in awe.
James made to reach out for it, but froze as a chill descended upon the room, and thin streamers of murky grey mist started rising from the floor, creeping up the bowed, mismatched table-legs to swirl softly around, centred on James' wand. Small drops of condensation had beaded on the dull grey surface. James watched as they gathered, swelled, and tumbled to soak the boards of the table.
Griffin kept some rare flowers in a grubby jar of water. Where the mist flowed over them, they wilted and died. His pile of sacred wand-wood curled and splintered and bowed as the mist rolled over it. Wherever it touched, it left a warped, flinching death in its wake.
'He is close,' Griffin whispered, avidly. 'Death stalks this room, waiting. Do you feel him?'
James turned, as if expecting to see Death. He felt nothing of the wrongness that had assailed him last time they had met. He briefly wondered at Griffin's sensitivities. The glimmer of a crazed zealot that was burgeoning in his eye was too much for James to bear.
'I- I think I'd best be going now,' he stammered.
James reached out for his wand, but Griffin was a half-second quicker, snatching it from the table, and clutching it to his chest, leaving the ribbons of mist as ruined, tattered streamers floating on an unfelt breeze. They slowly dissipated, but the chill remained. James suddenly realised that he could see his breath. His throat grew dry as his own wand was levelled towards him.
'I think not,' Griffin crooned. The smile affixed to his face could be described in no other way than insane. 'Death's presence demands action. Demands… sacrifice. And this prize is too great a gift for unholy hands such as yours. Yes… I think, that is what he wants. It makes sense. This is why you have come to me, I see it now.'
'W-what are you talking about?' James stammered, taking an involuntary step backwards. He felt his back collide with the hard, unyielding shelves that lined the wall. Griffin advanced upon him, all the while keeping the wand trained upon James' chest. The last remnants of the mist were slowly fading to nothing behind him, slinking back through the floor into nothingness.
'This wand- if it is not Death's own, then it is one very much like it. It bears the remnants of every wand ever broke, the ghost of every bond between a wizard and his wand. Here, in my hands, I feel them all clamouring, crying out to be heard the loudest. The cacophony is a joyous agony. Every witch or wizard that has died, every wand that has obediently fallen alongside its master, written in ash and bone, held now in the hands of Death's truest disciple. You are unworthy of such greatness, boy. It is mine! It shall be mine! Avada-'
But he never even came close to finishing the spell. As the words leapt forth from his lips, the ragged remnants of smoky mist blossomed into a great, furling cloud, encapsulating Griffin whole. It became so dense that James could not even see his body, only the occasional flailing limb. It did not stop the soul-rending screams from leaking out, the desperate pleas, nor the thick, cloying sound of blood bubbling forth. Instinctively, James held out his hand, and his wand sprung forth obediently into it. He wasted no time in dashing from the room, leaving the all-consuming mists to finish their job in Death's name.
There was the briefest moment before he closed the door behind him, when he turned to take one last look upon the ill-fated shop, that the sense of wrong assailed him, and the faintest of shimmers in the air caught his eye. But James lingered not, and sped forth from the store with all of the haste he could muster, not stopping until he was back in the safety of Diagon Alley, and not even caring to still his racing breath as he hustled to re-join his siblings. He didn't care if Ginny shouted at him all the way through to the start of the school year, even that would be better than another second alone in Knockturn Alley.
As he tucked his wand securely away in the waistband of his jeans, finally in the relative safety of Flourish and Blott's he heard a soft, susurrating whisper, emanating from nowhere, and yet seemingly from everywhere at once.
'Finally… awakened…'
A/N: I don't like to linger overlong on pre-Hogwarts activities, so next chapter we'll be starting the school year. Let me know what you think.
J
