Gellert's memory shimmered in the air, growing into a globe of light that resembled the moon. All memories were luminous, no matter whom they belonged to or what manner of event they showed, as if to prove that, in its complexity, the human mind was as wondrous and powerful as magic.
A first look at the glowing sphere allowed a glimpse of brown with a golden sheen. Upon a second glance, the shapes and colours within became easier to distinguish. This memory came from inside a carriage for wizards, as testified by the satin-draped walls, the upholstered seats, and the gentle rocking. Clouds were speeding away behind two oval windows.
Despite the Glamour Charm that masked his features, Gellert drew the gaze. His travelling clothes hung loose on his frame, which had been rendered slighter with magic. His eyes—an uncharacteristic shade of hazel—were downcast and pained. It had been a few short weeks since Ariana had passed away. By his side rested a suitcase, as well as a wrapped canvas. If anyone should wonder, he was a young painter exploring the Russian Empire.
There were but two families sharing the carriage with the wizard, though the incessant jumping of children lent it the sense of crowdedness. Olive-skinned, those boy and girl wore the clothes often encountered in Caucasus: a chokha with a fur hat and a dress with floor-length sleeves respectively. Their parents' language was difficult to pinpoint; the father, however, carried both a wand and a dagger on his belt while his wife had a veil trailing from her velvet hat. The other couple appeared Russian, and they were undoubtedly newlyweds. The colourful embroidery on the girl's sundress matched the young man's belt; her long tresses, coiled at the back of her head, were as coppery as his overcoat.
Whether the German wizard was aware of the others' presence and clamour, one could not tell. As still as an effigy, he stared at the ground. When the carriage flew lower and lower, the travellers readied themselves for landing. He trailed behind them as they filed out, his suitcase in one hand and his canvas in the other. From aside, the coach looked smaller, and it had been pulled by magnificent Granian horses. In truth, magnificent was an appropriate word for the view, and even though it was a memory, one could almost feel the breeze on one's skin or the scent of falling leaves. The village ahead was golden, except where it blushed: autumn had robed the trees and paths and gardens in the warmest shades.
Some of the houses were larger than others, but most were made of wood and boasted elaborate frames around their windows, which matched the crenel-like ornaments on the sloped roofs. The most imposing ones had shaded verandas and tall enclosures. A little further away towered a church.
Confidently, Gellert strode towards the centre of the village in search of an inn. He could not have come at a more picturesque time of the year. There was even more to this place than charm: a sense of dignified majesty and quiet cheer. Not that it seemed sleepy—on the contrary, many inhabitants were pursuing chores outside of their homes, their chatter blending with the sounds made by horses, owls, and eagles. Rather, this feeling pertained to magic. Dark magic always left traces, and nothing Dark had transpired in this village in recent history; this much was evident.
Few paid the newcomer much attention except for a merry group of gypsies, who waved at him as they sang, the wheels of their carriage rolling of their own accord. At the inn, the host escorted him into a room on the first floor. It was spacious, decorated in the tones of red, and furnished with a fluffy carpet. Gellert did not look at his surroundings twice. The minute he was left alone, he put his luggage down and closed his eyes. The Glamour Charm faded away. His true appearance was back: the tense wide shoulders, golden curls grown so long they fell into his tormented eyes, lips clamped shut. Unwilling to remain alone with his thoughts, he unpacked and busied himself with his sketches.
The next memory came from the following morning, and it started with laughter from behind the window. Distracted from his morning routine, the young man peered through the glass panes to see who was causing the noise. The culprits were revealed to be two witches, three wizards, and a flaming red fox. With an abundance of jokes, the people were passing each other glasses of dark fizzy drink while the fox—someone's familiar, to be sure—sniffed the ground by their feet. Gellert retreated; he was nearly ready to head out and start his research on the Elder Wand.
If his expectations had aroused hope, a quick search of the local library promptly put it to rest—two hours sufficed to establish how little information on wandlore he could find in those panelled rooms. All was not lost, though: equipped with the detailed directions the librarian had imparted to him in Latin, he set off on his way to a different dwelling. After leaving the village behind, he spent ten minutes walking through the woods. At last, he stood on a vast plain in front of a three-storey tall house with a garden patch and smoke billowing out of a stout chimney. There was not the slightest trace of magical protection around it.
All it took was a brief hesitation, then the Disillusionment Charm. His feet carried him onto a veranda, where thin pillars formed the pleasant effect of an arcade, and through the front door. A rural house it was: wooden, warmed with magic, and very disorderly. Carving tools, pieces of wood, branches both tiny and large, sheets of parchment, and all manner of other items formed chaos in every room including the kitchen, where the invisible intruder came face to face with an aproned woman and barely held back a gasp. Fortunately for his endeavour, she was too absorbed in casting cleaning spells inside the pantry to sense his presence.
Diving back into the hallway, he made his way to a small parlour. There, he froze once again. A man was sitting at a desk, reading a letter. Earlier that morning, Gellert had already glimpsed this man under his window in the company of friends and a fox. He could be in his forties; his hair and beard were a mousy blond, and his good-natured grey eyes were darting across the parchment.
An annoyed reprimand rang out of the kitchen, causing Gellert to jump. His Russian was poor, yet not so poor as to miss the name she had pronounced: Mokiy Gennadievich, the first and patronymic names of the wandmaker Gregorovitch. If this truly was him—it had to be, for he responded with a mild reassurance—he could not have looked more different from the noble and wealthy Ollivanders. If one had met him on a stroll, one would not have thought him famous, so unassuming his countenance was.
As soundlessly as possible, the young man towed out of the parlour. Not until a staircase brought him to the first floor did he find what he was searching for: a room full of bookshelves containing more books on wandlore than he had ever seen. They were in Russian, Latin, Greek, German, and English. The rest of this makeshift library was drowning in wand boxes. A deep sigh, one of relief as well as anticipation, escaped him. Gellert reached for the nearest volume and started reading.
Memories were succeeding each other now, swifter and more fleeting. After this first secret visit, the traveller started returning to the wandmaker's house every day. Elusive like a ghost, he would linger in the shadows, devouring one book after another and watching the older man work. In most wizarding houses, such a feat would have been unthinkable; Gregorovitch, however, was trusting to a rare degree and had no wards around his property. Everyone from the village and beyond was welcome to come and see him. It was hardly even necessary that Gellert remember to put the perused items back in place, for the wandmaker never noticed. Stealing a little food, such as an apple or a piece of bread from the pantry, was even easier. Only the housekeeper was apt to spot inconsistencies, and she came to clean only three times a week. Invariably, she would groan at the state of the house, throw her hands helplessly in the air, and straighten every room as best as she could. Two days later, the ritual would repeat itself.
She, unlike her employer, was not without suspicion. Once, she entered the library so abruptly that Gellert had no time to conceal himself with magic. The dark outline of his figure behind a shelf sent her racing downstairs, where Gregorovitch listened to her agitated words with absent-minded confusion.
"Жучки, паучки, вот мои дружки," was all he said.
Nevertheless, she did not fail to come again and again. She and the villagers, not to mention the wandmaker's numerous assistants, loved him because, as anyone could tell, he possessed a heart of gold.
While Ollivander remembered every wand he had ever sold, Gregorovitch remembered every tree he had ever encountered. On most mornings, one could observe him walking in the woods and speaking to the trees. Running his hand over their trunks, as if comforting animals, he would listen to the sounds of the forest. He would often pat the trees and stroll away, or, with a word of thanks, he would take a small branch.
Contrary to what the public might have thought, wandmaking did not claim all his time. He was an avid reader and maintained abundant correspondence with the heads of his shops across Europe. He was equally fond of good company, sparing no expense in treating the villagers to meals. But when the process of creating a new wand began, he would find himself absorbed for days at a time, his fingers casting intuitive spells. The designs he chose were not as polished as Ollivander's; rather, they were rustic in appearance.
All matters considered, he appeared to be an artist before anything else—a sympathetic if frustrating trait, as far as his assistants were concerned. Gellert once watched, unseen in the shadows, as the wandmaker received a Tatar family for lunch. After testing the couple's three children thoroughly, he let them take new wands as gifts—a decision that earned him a lengthy rant from his assistant as soon as the door on the guests snapped shut.
It was inevitable that the clandestine visitor should gain respect for a man so generous. If so, Gellert showed his appreciation by taking even more precautions in concealing himself from view. It was almost as though he wished to protect his host from his presence. Still, they often stayed in the library at the same time, separated by bookcases and pouring over different texts.
It was during an evening like these that Gregorovitch first displayed peculiar behaviour. Earlier that day, the housekeeper, grown tired of stumbling over wand boxes, had gathered and stacked them all in neat lines along the wall. What exactly caused the Russian wizard to wince and recoil on his way to the window was unclear; Gellert could only assume it was one of the wands. After wavering for what could not be less than two minutes, Gregorovitch started advancing when someone's knock on the front door distracted him. No sooner was he gone than the young man positioned himself at the same spot to test whether he could identify the source behind such unease. There appeared to be nothing.
His arm outstretched, he took a step forward, then another, and two more. He sensed it suddenly. Something tangible yet immaterial and very, very Dark vibrated against the tips of his fingers. He squatted in front of the boxes. It could have come from any of them; only, he had no time to investigate just yet—the door to the library had been left wide open. All Gellert could do was memorise the aspect of those boxes and wait.
For several evenings, Gregorovitch avoided the library. At last, he returned, his features pale in the light of the fire he cast in the hearth. Slowly, he turned towards the place that emanated Dark energy. His hands shook as he retrieved an ordinary-looking box, which revealed an even plainer wand: a long and dark one, roughly carved, not unlike a branch with berry clusters along its length. Behind the bookshelf, an intrigued Gellert frowned. It was strange indeed that a wandmaker should fear a simple wand.
But there was more than horror to the older wizard's expression when, with a shudder, he lifted the wand out of the box. There was also compassion. One could have thought he was contemplating something monstrous that was in pain.
What followed was an odd, almost dream-like sequence of actions. Gregorovitch descended to the kitchen to place the wand onto the warm stove. He left it there for a while, using the time to read from a book in ancient Greek. Once retrieved, the wand was taken back into the library and put on top of several books, mere feet away from the fireplace. The wizard was now kneeling beside it, one hand held over the slender wood to assess its energies, murmuring a soft litany of Russian words, which sounded like comforting reassurance. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, but his voice was now stronger with purpose.
Fascinated, Gellert watched the scene until the end—for how long, he could not say. All he could note was that Gregorovitch looked considerably happier now that the wand had basked in the warmth of the flames. Gently, the stick was eased back into the box and hidden inside the bottom drawer at the back of the library. Gregorovitch was much too exhausted and perturbed to remember he ought to extinguish the fire on his way out.
As soon as Gellert checked the ancient Greek book in question—it was a collection of writings by the philosopher Anaximander—he pulled the fearsome wand out of its hiding place. It still felt Dark—even Darker now, in fact—but it was only a wand. Even once he repeatedly examined its every inch, he found no evidence to the contrary. Impatient with himself for having wasted an entire evening, the young man returned to his research.
A quarter of the library had been explored at this point. The German wizard had no intention of altering his plan: he would find out where the Elder Wand had likely been concealed by its last owner and leave. He saw no need for Gregorovitch to ever find out he had been stalked by a shadow. In this, he had not counted on fate—or the higher forces, whichever term one preferred—to decide for him. So when, the following day, he arrived to the wandmaker's house and saw the other man coming from behind the dwelling at an uncharacteristic hour, he was grateful for his Glamour Charm and the canvas he had had the foresight to bring along. He was not, however, quick enough to duck out of sight. He could already hear the man's amiable voice calling to him. Impossible to flee now.
He spun around, lending his magically altered features a timid smile.
"Oh, I am sorry. I'm from Germany. I'm travelling," he said in Latin with a self-explanatory gesture towards the canvas.
Gregorovitch had reached him. He was not very tall, but his aura, peaceful though it was, seemed to magnify his presence. Thin lines formed in the corners of his eyes as a genuine smile lit his face.
"Oh, I see! You are a painter." His German was perfectly correct, his accent notwithstanding. "I'm Gregorovitch. It's a pleasure to meet you."
He held out his hand, which took Gellert aback. Thinking quickly, the young man dropped the canvas with a commendable display of awkwardness and a shy apology. He knew the wandmaker was fully versed in Druid magic and could read the emotions of trees themselves, to say nothing of humans. The idea of shaking hands with such a person was not one a Dark wizard could find convenient. Aura was difficult to mask as it was; if physical touch was involved, it would be impossible.
"Ah, you are, um … the Gregorovitch?" he asked, his hazel eyes widening in awe. "I'm sorry—it's just, you are so well-known. I've heard so much about you."
With a convincing blush, he pretended to notice the fallen canvas. The older man bent down to help him lift it off the ground, his kindly smile unwavering. The grey eyes briefly contemplated the painting in progress—forest scenery.
"Thank you," he said in response to the compliment. "You have arrived at a very beautiful time. I hope you'll enjoy your stay. Are you travelling across Russia?"
"Yes, I think so…" Gellert smiled. "I just finished school, and… I don't really know what to do next. Well, I suppose it's not that uncommon for us Germans. It's just, this is the only time when you can travel, see new places, meet people… and paint as well."
Gregorovitch nodded before turning to motion towards the house.
"I'm pleased you have come to visit our village. If you aren't pressed for time, would you like to have a meal? I was just heading back for a bite, and I would be honoured if you joined me."
The offer was met with a flustered gasp. "A meal? Ahh, it's true, I've read Russians welcome travellers with food…"
Without finishing the sentence, Gellert flashed him another smile. It was not his usual charming one, but one of gratitude, followed by an enthusiastic nod and a sheepish thank you. He did not forget for a second he was performing.
"I still can't believe it—you are the Gregorovitch! If I tell somebody, they won't believe me!"
The wandmaker chuckled, leading the way towards the front door, which swung open onto the disorderly hall Gellert had already come to know inside out.
"It's no big deal. Please make yourself at home—I hope you'll excuse this modest arrangement. How may I call you, young man?"
"Um, my name is Dieter Heiderfeld." The guest glanced around him with shy curiosity, as though he truly had entered the house for the first time. Ironically, he did resemble the bashful and insecure Dieter at that instant.
"Mr Heiderfeld—that's a beautiful name."
He was asked to settle down at the dining table in the sitting room while Gregorovitch excused himself to briefly go to the kitchen. He returned with plates floating around him in the air: meat and cabbage pies, pickles, pancakes with sour cream, fruit, and a samovar full of tea.
The pickles were the first ones to draw Gellert's attention. He pointed, unsure about the etiquette.
"May I? I really like these. They serve really good ones at the inn I'm staying at."
Wandlessly, the other wizard pushed the jar towards him, waiting for him to start eating before tucking in himself.
"Nastienka makes the very best ones," he agreed warmly. "So you have decided to become a painter, Mr Heiderfeld?"
"I… think so." There was a pensive pause. "I feel, though… you know, paintings, they are the end-result. What I like is writing because, every time you read, you paint in your head. And just when you feel different, you get a different picture. But also…" Without warning, he blushed. "I know it's pretentious to speak to a master of his art—the master, in fact—like this, but, um… I've heard you must be born a wandmaker. Is it true?"
Gregorovitch swallowed a piece of a pear, his face thoughtful.
"Every wand has a distinct personality," he admitted. "Being chosen by a wand is similar, in a way, to being chosen by a partner. To create a wand with a strong personality and capacity for attachment—a peaceful wand—you combine several aspects. The nature of the wood is important, and so is the source of the core, the length of the wand, and its flexibility. You can study the properties of trees and animals and learn how to balance them. So I believe… there is only one thing you should possess from the start: empathy. If you know how to listen to the living creatures that gift you with cores and wood, you will succeed in creating wands that can love."
Gellert blinked, his confusion unfeigned.
"Love?" He quickly caught himself. "Um, I recently went to see the Ollivander shop in Rome. They just had… labels. On trees and animals, I mean."
This brought a smile in response.
"The Ollivanders are the masters of their craft. We may disagree on some of our beliefs, but their wands are strong, beautiful, and loyal."
It was the youth's turn to chuckle.
"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to badmouth them. I know you aren't the kind of wizard who would enjoy bashing his rivals. Um… is your workshop in here?"
"It's upstairs." The older man pointed guilelessly towards the staircase. "Truth be told, I don't use it as much as I should. Sometimes I carve in the reading room or even here. Poor Marusya—the nice lady from the village who comes to help me out—has been very patient with me." He put his cup down and smiled. "Painting and wandmaking aren't all that different. If you are interested, you are very welcome to join me sometime. A birch tree from about half a mile to the east has given me a branch. I'm not yet sure which core would go best with it. It's a mature tree that shelters a woodpecker nest. Maybe your insight would help me make the right choice."
"R-really?" Gellert exhaled in wonder. "I… I can? I mean… I was going to the woods just now to find some scenery… I'll take a look at the birch tree."
The memory dissolved. A new one took its place: the same house, only busier. The buzz of voices and pops of Apparition kept multiplying. Every few minutes, wizards and witches from various countries, clad in colourful robes, materialised on the lawn and were welcomed in by Marusya the housekeeper. It was a convention of Gregorovitch's salesmen—an important event that warranted magical protection the wandmaker would otherwise have avoided.
Watching from behind the treeline, Gellert rendered himself invisible in the hope of slipping unnoticed behind the last visitor. He did so seconds before the wards were erected, and it took a while before he could find a spot in the sitting room where no one would brush him by accident and where he was not in danger of being hit by the dishes swishing through the air. True to his habits, Gregorovitch intended to treat his guests to a meal before business was addressed, and it was frustrating for the onlooker to hide in plain view, forbidden from joining in while everyone else ate. All Gellert could do to pass the time was attempt to divine the salespeople's origins—there were wizards from as far as Mongolia and Finland—and chuckle at the rather haughty airs of the youngest salesman: a fashionable youth with wavy black hair and ocean blue eyes, who kept nibbling at olives and throwing his colleagues impatient looks.
When Marusya cleared the table, everyone drew closer together, switching to Latin, which was the one language all of them spoke fluently. The host barely finished with words of introduction when the youth advanced to offer a speech. He had prepared sheets of parchment and was handing them out as he spoke.
"I have taken the liberty to perform calculations and draw a forecast, based on the last five years of sales." He turned around to glance at all the attendees before drawing a deep breath. "What I am about to share is very personal to me. Like all of you, I am proud to be advancing Mokiy Gennadievich's work and making his creations well-known and accessible to my countrymen." With a small bow towards the mentioned wizard, he carried on. "Most of the world has forgotten that Greece is, in fact, the birthplace of wandmaking in Europe. A large part of it is due to the Ollivanders' influence—the way this Roman family has claimed ownership of this art for nigh two millennia is, one could say, a symbol of what the Roman Empire has done to us. They have taken from us, taken credit for our creations, and left us drained. Alas, I can't deny the Ollivanders are good at what they do. They are skilled businesswizards, grown cunning with centuries."
He inhaled, breathless with indignation. With one hand, he gestured at the sheets of parchment his colleagues were now holding.
"If you take a moment to study these figures, you will find that while the scope of our merchandise has expanded, the numbers have gradually been declining. If we consider the societal tension wizards in many of our countries currently experience, combined with the growing prices and the ruthless competition from Rome, our outlook could be called dire. It pains me to admit that from whichever angle I approach our future, I find our cause threatened."
At this point, he faced the wandmaker directly, his gestures growing impassioned.
"The Ollivanders don't have a fraction of your moral integrity," he implored. "But what they do have is a failproof strategy. They create wands with a choice of three cores, and three only: phoenix feather, unicorn hair, or dragon heartstring. These cores are equal in magical power and cost, which means every wand can be sold at the same price. You have chosen differently. I know why, and I respect you more deeply than I could ever express. This is why I'm asking you: please let me—us—help you.
"At the end of the day, all our customers wish to feel special, powerful, invincible. Without good wands for companions, magical children cannot achieve their full potential. And it is difficult to make a case for wands that have weak cores."
Something about the silence in the room appeared to grow tenser. While none of the other salesmen moved to protest, the disapproval of some was perceptible in their expressions. The youth ploughed through ever more insistently, determined to make the most of the instant of spotlight he had been granted.
"Phoenix feathers are rare. Unicorn hair does not fit every temperament. Dragon heartstring is forbidden to us altogether. But there are no creatures of equal magical power in Europe. With Horned Serpents having become endangered, we are fortunate to occasionally obtain a Thunderbird feather. So what do we do the rest of the time? We must content ourselves with cores such as salamander skin or Kneazle hair. Those can never be sold for the same price as unicorn hair. What is more, who would buy a cheap wand? Again and again, I see parents who won't let their children be chosen by a wand that suits them. They will buy a costly model with a phoenix feather only because they believe it is better for being more powerful. And if it proves to be a poor fit, it is you they will blame. They will say you cannot create strong wands. They will go to Rome for replacement. And all our efforts will be for naught."
Under his Disillusionment Charm, Gellert arched a sardonic eyebrow. Several listeners had opened their mouths to intervene, which prompted the young man to deliver his last line—the one he had been building towards.
"If you allowed us to include dragon heartstring—responsibly sourced, it goes without saying—I'm certain we could bring revival to our sales."
The suggestion was met with murmurs and objections. As for Gregorovitch, he was already by the youth's side, his demeanour soothing.
"I understand your concern, Apollodoros," came a gentle reassurance, "and I am honoured by the effort and care you have poured into this vision. I'm afraid, though, no dragon heart can be sourced responsibly. Dragons are killed in great numbers, all to serve us."
Annoyance flashed in the youth's sea-blue eyes.
"Of course, Mokiy Gennadievich. Only, I feel it's my duty—and it's with all due respect that I'm bringing this up to your attention—to study my customers. I couldn't help but conclude that many were dissatisfied with what I, personally, could offer them in terms of wand cores. Maybe some of you haven't had this experience, but—"
This time, the answer came from a dark-haired witch with a rose-shaped embroidery on her black velvet robes.
"But surely, we can educate our customers. Take the very same Kneazles and salamanders: why not cast magical projections of those animals inside the shop? For each core, you could include a text that explains the creature's properties. Children love all animals, and as for their parents, no one will scoff even at a snail if they can see it and learn what makes it special."
"Sometimes, you can even bring the real creature to the shop," another woman—a tall one with long brown hair, who was still holding a plateful of meat pies—added. "My Kneazle Schneekugel, for instance, prefers to come to work with me, rather than stay alone at home. Quite honestly, he makes half the sales for me."
Seeing the others nod convinced Apollodoros he was outnumbered in his view and that there was little merit in pursuing the matter. With a stiff nod, he retreated to the back of the room. There was little else Gregorovitch could do besides changing the topic.
"That's a nice point, Elfriede. How are you feeling about your first half-year at the head of the Munich shop?"
The witch quickly swallowed her mouthful of pie before smiling and launching into an enthusiastic account. The rest of the meeting took two more hours, by the end of which, Apollodoros was the first one to charge out of the door. Once all the guests departed, followed by the housekeeper, it was safe for the stalker to vanish as well.
Naturally, he could not admit to the wandmaker he had been present as an uninvited guest. Still, an occasion to address what he had witnessed presented itself within a few days. He was having supper at the dining area of his inn when he heard Gregorovitch's voice exchanging greetings and pleasantries. Having eavesdropped on the Russian wizard's conversations, he had known in advance the latter would be coming to the village. He felt gratified when, despite the busy hour, Gregorovitch noticed him and made his way to the solitary table with a wide smile.
"Mr Heiderfeld, it's a pleasure to see you! I see you've had a walk in the woods."
Gellert rose to his feet to return the courtesy. His overcoat was, indeed, dusty: he had taken it off in the forest for the express purpose of dragging it through the leaves.
"That I have. I wanted to see one of those beautiful wolves, but they must be shy." He grinned, his countenance more confident now. After the initial meeting, Dieter would have felt at ease in the wandmaker's company as well. "How have you been, Mr Gennadievich? I recently glimpsed a few foreign wizards around here. Did they come to visit you?"
Gesturing for him to sit back down, the older man accepted his wordless invitation to join him at the table. Several people approached to shake his hand, but the interruption did not take long.
"You must have seen my colleagues—they run shops in different countries. One of them is Elfriede, a lovely lady from Dresden—perhaps you have met her?"
The young German frowned.
"Ooh… I'm from Bremen—can't say that I've ever visited the South-East. Um, is she nice?"
"Oh, yes; she is clever and lively. They all are, in truth—I'm fortunate to be working with such wizards and witches."
"People from the South-East aren't nice."
This was a slip-up on Gellert's part—one that he instantly attempted to mask with Dieter's own declaration from earlier that summer:
"I'm sorry. It's just, I'm from the North, and… it's a bit unfair. Muggles from the Southern regions are notoriously stuck-up. They even declared themselves a separate kingdom at one point, and they snub the rest of the empire every chance they get."
Gregorovitch glanced up from the glasses of kvass he had poured for them both.
"Ah, well, there are disagreements between most of us. All individuals are different and believe in something greater than themselves. It's how it should be despite the tensions we often experience as a result."
This produced another frown.
"Do you really believe that?" Gellert questioned absently. "What about Dark wizards then? Aren't they bad?"
Unperturbed, the wandmaker shook his head.
"There are no bad people. There are ignorant people and those who have been severely hurt. There are also some who believe in ideas which promise good, not realizing how destructive those ideas might become."
The young man gazed at him. His mask nearly slipped off yet again.
"You are a very good person. A very trusting one too. I've met someone like you only once before… But you need to be careful. When you talk about those who believe in ideas which promise good but can be destructive—those make the most dangerous kind."
Gregorovitch's features softened in a smile.
"You are a good person as well, Mr Heiderfeld. Also, I firmly believe that friendship and love—in all their forms—can make a world of difference. You are right, perhaps, that some people's determination to do good can end up causing much harm. Why, even here…"
The words trailed away, replaced by a sigh. Gellert leaned in, his attention spiking.
"Even here—what? This village must honestly be the Lightest one I've been to yet."
"It is," the Russian agreed. "What I mean is, the country… many of us, and especially the Muggle folk, have suffered injustice; it still takes place. And those who would stop it, while well-intentioned, risk to cause even more harm."
"Ahh…"
As understanding dawned on the youth, he sat back thoughtfully.
"But why are you so afraid? It's a good thing… You know, before I came here, I'd been to Britain, and I saw something similar among their wizards: in some circles, Muggles and Muggle-borns are strongly disliked. I don't think it's right—oppressing someone, hurting them. It starts with small things, but then it escalates and becomes unstoppable. Why is it wrong to want to change this? All people are created equal and should not fight each other."
"You are correct by all means," Gregorovitch said earnestly. "We live in a flawed world where many people suffer. But there is good in this world too. At least we wizards can help our Muggles where possible. Now if you change one way of life for another very fast and very fundamentally, the price to pay for such a transformation will be the death of many people. A revolutionary might succeed in eradicating the society's flaws; only, he might eradicate everything good about it too. And if we are forbidden from interfering… the idea disturbs me a great deal."
Once again, they were interrupted by a pair of villagers, who came forward to exchange greetings. Gellert waited patiently for them to withdraw.
"I saw wizards act very suspiciously towards each other. This, I imagine, is what you are referring to: the way the Statute of Secrecy might forbid interference if the tension among your Muggles keeps growing." He gestured animatedly. "It's bad in England too—I'm afraid war will break out there, but among wizards. Just imagine what it would be like if we didn't have the Statute of Secrecy and could treat each other more humanely. If we could sit down with your Muggles at the same table, the way we are sitting now. They are people like us—wronged people. So I really can't blame the revolutionaries for wanting to establish more equality. If we could just… hear each other out, just listen to each other. Like I said, in England, they don't. You know, I made a friend there. When I invited him out, he was afraid to go because some wizards he knew—pure-bloods, they called themselves—didn't like his kind. I find that very sad. If such things happen among wizards, how can we even begin to discuss our relations with Muggles? All in all, I think it's a good thing if the revolutionary Muggles succeed."
He took in his companion's face and sighed.
"But that's not what worries you, is it? You are thinking of the methods they will resort to, all the people they will hurt. The bad, as you put it."
The other man gave a nod; his voice, usually serene, had gained a tint of sadness.
"The world you describe and where we could live freely with Muggles by our side—a world where your English friend wouldn't face prejudice for having Muggle blood—would be perfect. Is it achievable, though? Once you tear apart thousands of families in the name of an idea, you won't be left with peace. You will be left with trauma and suffering."
It could be an erroneous impression, and yet, Gellert's straight countenance seemed to exude something inflexible and steely.
"I see," he declared simply. "But to do nothing? Don't you feel sorry for the Muggles who suffer under servitude? To be born a serf—I can't imagine anything worse. A human being is born free. Free he should remain."
The wandmaker did not answer. His hand, however—the one not resting on his drinking glass—moved closer towards Gellert's: not close enough to touch, but close enough to sense the young man's magic. Unless it was a trick of the light, they grey eyes betrayed a hint of alertness.
At once, Gellert resorted to Occlumency. Once certain his mind was shielded, he forced a smile.
"I'm sorry. You are right, of course. I was just… a little upset on behalf of my English friend." He cleared his throat. "So how did the meeting go? With your colleagues."
Blinking his unease away, Gregorovitch took a sip of kvass. "It went very well. As always, I had the chance to learn something new."
It was his return to shyness—an accurate impersonation of Dieter—that helped the impostor put the older man at ease again.
"If I may ask… it must be difficult. So many cultures! When I was in Italy, it shocked me how expressive they were. It's not like that where I'm from. I felt very out of place."
Sure enough, this did the trick. The Russian's chuckle was all but playful. It was interesting to observe how easily his emotions changed with every turn of the conversation.
"If it ever gets difficult, remember this, Mr Heiderfeld: food is one of the securest ways of bringing us all together."
"Ah, did the Greek lad like the pickles? In Italy, they are all about pasta… and then they say I'm the one who goes on about common prejudice." Gellert joined in the laughter while maintaining slightly awkward airs. "Oh, and the columns! They like their columns: every other building in wizarding Rome has them, including the Ollivander shop. They've planted trees between the arcades, so it's like walking from one park to another, and there is so much to see. Somehow, I imagine Greece can offer similar sights, but I haven't been there yet."
"In some way, perhaps." Gregorovitch was smiling still. "I'm not sure if Apollodoros tasted the pickles. He is a healthy young man. Marusya brought fresh olives for him."
At this, Gellert rolled his eyes.
"Of course. What else could a Greek wizard want in Russia? Some olives… because they grow in such abundance here. Well, I like pickles, as well as all those potato dishes." His chuckles subsiding, he looked bashfully at the other wizard. "Um, is he nice? Apollodoros, I mean. I did catch a glimpse of a good-looking Greek lad. Usually, girls go crazy over his type: tall, muscular, blue-eyed, you know… The rest of us can only dream of such physique. But the vibe I got from him… I'm not sure. That's why I'm asking."
Unaware of the true identity of the young man before him, the wandmaker could not discern the humour in such a remark.
"Apollodoros is bright—very clever and passionate about his causes. He was a little upset, that's all. It comes down to our choice of cores. I'll never use dragon heartstring in my wands, but many disagree."
"And why not?" Gellert shot out, intrigued.
"Well, if you take something from a living being against their will, you will create resentment. This is something you cannot avoid." It was Gregorovitch's turn to grow animated, his gestures empathic. "Dragons are immensely magical, yes, but they are wild, independent predators. It's very rare for them to form bonds with wizards. And even so, how could you ask a dragon to sacrifice its heart? To die so that you could use its body as a tool? Such a sacrifice shouldn't be asked of any animal. I will therefore take only what the trees and creatures give me willingly. I may create fewer wands, but each one of them will love its owner."
The youth's mouth fell open.
"I… I've never thought…" Pensively, he bit his lip. When the hazel eyes rose, they shone with genuine admiration. "I think I understand now," he murmured. "This is what you mean when you say the revolutionary Muggles might bring death and suffering. The ideas… they are good, but the methods needed to achieve them… The tsar won't just hand everything over of his own free will; it's not how it works. And the people starved for justice will go along with violence, justifying it as a means to achieve their goal. The necessary evil. The Greater Good. Even the Ollivanders, for all their claims of using responsibly sourced dragon heartstring, aren't innocent. What dragon would want to submit to death and be fashioned into a little piece of itself, which would forever serve its murderers?"
It was a rhetorical question, and he did not wait for a response before pronouncing his verdict:
"You know, sir… you are remarkable."
The faintest blush coloured the wandmaker's cheeks. With a modest wave of his hand, he stood up, inviting the teenager to do the same.
"You are too kind. Come, let me introduce you to some good friends."
The memory ended. So did the golden autumn in the Russian village. It was clear from the next recollection that October was coming to a close. Every single book on wandlore that Gregorovitch possessed had been examined from cover to cover, and Gellert still had found no clues on the Elder Wand's whereabouts. Doubt was creeping in—had he committed a mistake, he wondered, in coming to Russia? —and so was despair. It was exhausting to imagine starting his research anew in a different country. As for leaving the peaceful village and the hospitable wooden house behind… One fact could not be contested: there was only one Gregorovitch. It was unlikely one could encounter such a person on one's travels again.
Having run out of ideas, the German wizard decided to turn to genealogy. Since this branch of history was not the wandmaker's focus, back to the village library it was. Once there, Gellert drew a list of all the known owners of the Elder Wand in the hopes of tracking down their bloodiness through the study of their family trees. It was meticulous work, inexact and less than rewarding.
Antioch Peverell had had no heirs the medieval historians had heard of. Whether Emeric the Evil or Egbert the Egregious had even been married was unknown. There was not a word to be found on Hereward's family legacy except for the cruel murder he had perpetrated against his father—this particular incident had, for once, been recorded in gruesome detail. Such was the trouble with those historic figures: nothing was known about their lives except for the grisly elements.
A discouraged Gellert sagged against the back of his chair. He was alone in the library's reading room, and it was getting late. Closing the nearest book, he watched the withering pages release a cloud of dust. But then, as he reached to shut the remaining tones, his hand froze in mid-air. The words ignis caeruleus, printed on yellow parchment, had caught his attention. The text spoke of Barnabas Deverill—specifically, of the blue flames he would cast when faced with enemies.
The books were reopened with renewed eagerness. It was no longer about examining the bloodlines; what interested the young German were the references of fire. One paragraph mentioned a village burned to the ground by Loxias. Another one was dedicated to Godelot, the author of Magick Moste Evile, whose methodical experiments could have filled a collection of horror stories. And then there was a curious line in a book so thick and ancient that it threatened to crumble in Gellert's hands: Arcus had died in the land of Móðuharðindin, slain in a duel feet away from the erebus. This was to say that Arcus had perished in Iceland near a volcano.
Gellert positively shoved the books back onto the shelves, impatient to be on his way. By now, he knew Gregorovitch's routine better than he did his own. When the night fell and he was certain no one in the wooden house was awake, he crept inside and headed for the library. There, he lit a fire and walked towards the drawers where the old wand reposed. It felt Dark in his hands, as it always had done; only, he was too agitated, too excited to notice. Inhaling deeply, he tossed the wand into the fireplace.
The flames went out as if smothered. For the briefest of instants, the wand glowed bright before his spellbound gaze. It had in fact absorbed the fire, which, in turn, had illuminated the stick from within. The entire inside of the wooden shell was covered in minuscule rune symbols. There was something else too—something that made Gellert's breath hitch in his throat—but he had to be certain.
He lifted the wand—it was warm to the touch—and lit the fire again. This time, an enchantment was added to protect his hands from the heat. Crouching by the hearth, the wand held firmly between his fingers, he lowered his hands into the flames. They died down again, illuminating the wand for another second.
It was there: the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. Antioch Peverell had carved it on the inside of the wand, at the very end of the handle. It flashed like a bolt of lightning, dazzling and unmistakable. But this wasn't the only reason the wizard's eyes had widened in shock. He had now glimpsed the shape of the wand's core, and it was neither a feather nor a strand of hair. It was something fleshier, tangled and stuffed into the narrow fissure. It had twitched at the contact with the fire.
With a small, sharp click, the wooden stick fell to the ground as the wizard backed away. It was not at once that his chest stopped rising and falling rapidly. Only when he fully regained control of his limbs did he pick up the mysterious object to place it back in its box inside the drawer.
The time had come for the last memory. It opened onto the cosy room in the inn, yet what it truly showed was Gellert's private hell. He paced over the fluffy carpet. He sat on the bed, rocking slightly and pressing his knees to his chest. He tapped the tip of his quill against the wooden desk, as if the rhythmic sound could soothe his tension. He stood in front of the mirror for what felt like ages, staring silently into his own eyes, his features now devoid of disguise.
The night had fallen again. Not a single word had been uttered in the previous twenty-four hours. But the final, inevitable decision, which had taken root the evening before, had solidified in his mind. The rest of his doubt fled with one last sigh. When Gellert turned to leave the inn, there was hardness to his eyes.
Havoc reigned behind the door. Only magic could prevent him from becoming soaked and frozen in the thunderstorm. The wind kept deflecting the rain, which fell in oblique curtains of water, and leaves were flying into the wizard's face. He kept walking, his coat flapping behind him, while the wind pushed against his chest, as though it meant to stop him.
The woods were dark—no moonlight or stars on that night—and even with the aid of Lumos, Gellert stumbled more than once. At last, the wandmaker's house came into view, its windows unlit. The intruder pushed in. Considering the late hour, the Glamour Charm appeared unnecessary. The young man did, however, take a few seconds to dry his clothes, as well as the soles of his shoes. On the stairs, his steps became stealthier. If he succeeded, the wandmaker would sleep peacefully through the night and would never find out why or how the Elder Wand had disappeared. It was easy to lose an object in a disorderly house.
But one step into the library was enough to stop him in his tracks. Everything looked different: all the wand boxes were gone. Dumbfounded, Gellert crossed the unusually neat room, contemplating the bookshelves in which the books now stood perfectly straight while the loose sheets of parchment formed a pile on a single desk. The drawer at the back was empty.
Something was wrong. He could stop now, except this was the only option he refused to entertain. Tiptoeing out of the library, he checked the other rooms. Nothing in the sitting room or the bedrooms; nothing in the storage closet; nothing in the kitchen. He even checked the corridors. Only the attic remained: Gregorovitch's workshop.
Holding the old door to prevent it from creaking, Gellert peeked inside. They were there, the boxes. The housekeeper, one could assume, had determined that the library should henceforth be used only for reading while the wands' place was in the workshop.
It was with an overwhelming sense of relief that he stepped in to examine the tall pile. His fingers brushed against the identical boxes, striving to detect the Dark energy specific to the Elder Wand. And yet, he could not sense it, not even when he ran his hands up and down every box in the pile. Nervously, he started anew.
A strong gust of wind bore against the windowpanes. Something within the house responded with a dull creak. The wizard did not notice; he was hardly even conscious of the hair that fell into his eyes. It was the Dark magic he sought, and it was missing: the fire-loving creature that served as the Wand's core might as well have evaporated from the house. This notion was more torturous than he could bear. When he failed to identify the Elder Wand's energies for a second time, he had no choice but to start opening the boxes. There were wands of every wood and length and shape, but the one he was searching for—the longest one of all—was nowhere to be found.
His restraint was gone: he no longer resisted the feeling of frantic disbelief. One by one, the lids were pushed away, and he was working his way to the bottom of the pile…
The wind howled behind the window; there was no other word for the sound. Something creaked again, this time on the floor below. One could have sworn the stars had aligned to stop Gellert from taking the Elder Wand.
And now his frenzied fingers were ripping open the last boxes, and the sound of footsteps could be heard from behind the door.
The Elder Wand had been concealed—or had it hidden itself? —below all the other wands. It lay inside its box, old and frail and rustic. Under different circumstances, it would have been difficult to believe something this small and worn could cause so much turmoil. But the young wizard's fingers had closed around it and would not let go. In a wink, the window burst open under his spell. Not five seconds later, the door swung on its hinges.
A lantern illuminated Gregorovitch's features. His startled gaze flew over the disarray of boxes and lids before coming to rest on the intruder, and it was patent he knew who he was dealing with. Even though he had never seen Gellert's true appearance before, he had recognised the wizard's aura. The grey eyes blinked, alarmed and betrayed in equal measure.
"Dieter Heiderfeld," he whispered.
Incredibly, a smile started creeping up Gellert's lips. His fingers tightened around the wand.
"Yes," he breathed. He straightened up, facing the older man. "How unfortunate that you woke up tonight. Usually, you could have slept through an earthquake."
The wandmaker did not move. While his pupils remained delated, the expression of betrayed trust was fading behind a different emotion: understanding.
"Don't do this," he said gently. "You don't know what it is. It can't give you what you want. Please, let me help you."
The unhinged smile widened.
"I want to kill," came a soft confession. It was followed by a chuckle. "Don't look so shocked; I have already killed. Why else do you think I wouldn't let you shake my hand when we first spoke?"
The fingers holding the lantern shook. Despite his pallor, Gregorovitch reiterated his plea.
"I will help you. I know something has happened to you. This wand… it will only make it worse. You are not alone."
It was too much. Gellert started laughing, as if presented with a highly amusing proposition.
"You just don't want to make it easy, do you?"
With a wave of the accursed wand, an entire cupboard collapsed, causing Gregorovitch to flinch. He barely held on to the lantern. The spine-chilling ambience was only intensifying, though. Gellert had never looked so mad. With his free hand, he pushed the overgrown strands of hair out of his face.
"Look at that," he murmured, smiling, "it obeys me already. Isn't it fun?"
Focused on the sapphire eyes, the wandmaker took a cautious step forward.
"It's not like any other wand," he explained, his voice as gentle as ever. "It should never have been created. The more you use it, the more it will take from you. But it can never be satisfied."
Gellert tore his eyes off the wand. For an instant, his laughter had halted.
"It feeds?"
A small nod confirmed those words. "It has greatly suffered in the hands of wizards. Please, let it rest. It doesn't make a faithful companion to any human."
The pragmatism in his reasoning appeared to have touched the young man. A few seconds later, however, the disturbing smile was back. It had been an illusion.
"Perfect," came a pronouncement. "Judging by everything you have told me about wandlore, I imagine it's hungry for blood. That makes two of us." Gellert stared into the grey eyes. "And now, I'll have to kill you."
He was gripping the wand so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. But the wandmaker did not advance, nor did he try to defend himself. The tension was becoming unbearable. And so, with a sudden flick of his hand, the young man attacked, his laughter now impossible to contain. Gregorovitch sank to the floor.
Turning his back on the ravaged room, the wind sweeping through his hair, Gellert sprang out into the storm. The rain muffled his laughter, and before long, the memory imploded into a single luminous strand. Darkness had fallen on the cell.
It took Albus a moment to recover from what he had witnessed. Gellert's maniacal laughter rang in his mind, and there was no escaping the flashes of the wandmaker's betrayed expression, of the forlorn creature inside the Elder Wand, of the flames dissipating of their own accord, or the storm…
"That night, something tried to stop you," he uttered. "But you did it anyway because… you wanted to protect Gregorovitch. From those who would seek the Elder Wand after you. Those who might not be so lenient as to let him live."
Gellert—his mature self—looked down. "Well, I'm not proud of my actions. But I wasn't entirely lying to him either. By that time, I already was a killer." He heaved a sigh. "It still makes me sad, of course. This isn't how I intended to leave. I couldn't even retrieve my belongings from the inn. Gregorovitch was—still is, I imagine—well-loved. As I ran, I could already hear the hounds. And so… now you know. This is how I found the Third Hallow."
Their hands lay joined between them, their hold never loosening. With a valiant effort, Albus spoke through the emotions he could hardly master.
"What is it then? The creature inside the Elder Wand. One that loves fire and that has been hurt by wizards. What is it Harry will inherit from us?"
"Ah, now that will be something that would gladly kill us all, if I am honest." Gellert's voice was dark with meaning. "I believe it was Summoned here. It is not from this world."