CHAPTER – 5 A DEATH'S WAND

The stone archway at the back of the Leaky Cauldron might have marked the start of his journey into the magical world, but it was here, at Ollivanders, that his true odyssey began. Harry could still vividly recall the growing pile of unsuitable wands on the spindly chair while a delighted Mr. Ollivander tirelessly searched for the perfect fit, muttering about challenging customers. He remembered the sudden warmth that enveloped him the moment he first held his trusty holly wand. In its own way, the bright gold and red sparks had made magic feel more real than all of Diagon Alley and its wondrous sights.

Now, his wand lay lifeless, indistinguishable from an ordinary piece of wood.

And here he was, back where it had all started.

"Don't worry," he heard Sirius whisper, his godfather's hand reassuringly gripping his left shoulder. Harry couldn't deny that the gesture made him feel somewhat comforted, at least for a moment.

For a brief two seconds.

"But what if it goes wrong again?"

"You know what they say: 'Second time's the charm.'"

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Oh, come on," his godfather continued, "people lose wands all the time. Every witch or wizard has lost their wand at some point, whether it's due to a potion explosion or a spell gone awry. In my day, hit-wizards always had a spare wand holstered, just in case."

"Yeah, and how many of them just suddenly keeled over?"

For once, Sirius appeared lost for words.

"Look," his godfather tried again, "it was an inexplicable act of magic, a fluke. Exceptions don't prove the rules, Harry. They exist despite them."

It was a reasonable argument, except for one undeniable fact.

His life was a colossal exception.

"Now come on, there's no point lingering outside. Let's get you a new wand."

Harry cast a fleeting glance at the lone wand resting on the purple cushion in the dusty shop window as they passed by. The sound of a tinkling bell greeted them as they entered. The towering columns of wand boxes reinforced the feeling of being in an ancient, dusty, library-like setting—although Harry noticed that the boxes came in various sizes, and the towering structures appeared asymmetric at best and physically impossible at worst.

Magic appeared to be the likely culprit.

"Good afternoon," a calm, composed voice took him by surprise. Harry turned to his right, just in time to see a familiar elderly man making his way to the counter. His eyes sparkled in the dimness of the shop, and for the first time, Harry noticed flecks of silver in his otherwise deep golden-brown eyes.

But that wasn't the oddest part.

There was a peculiar sheen to these flecks, a semi-metallic shimmer of sorts. Harry might have dismissed it as a trick of the light if there had been any light in that corner in the first place. The flecks momentarily dimmed and then reappeared.

Inhuman.

Harry blinked, resisting the urge to step back as he wondered how he'd arrived at such a fantastical deduction. Sure, something about the peculiar, talkative, almost omniscient wandmaker had always seemed more magical than everything else. But never before— not even during the Wand-Weighing Ceremony—had he entertained such a whimsical idea.

And yet, some inexplicable instinct told him he might not be completely off the mark.

He glanced at the window, at the sign board.

Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

"You're just imagining things, Potter," he muttered to himself.

"I didn't expect to see you again so soon, Mr. Potter." The wandmaker drew closer, his unblinking eyes fixed on Harry's face, as though he were carefully examining every one of his facial features. "But I've heard the news. Felt the changes. It's a sorrowful thing to witness one's cherished wand perish right before their eyes."

Harry stared at him blankly.

Ollivander stared back, his eyes unwavering.

Why doesn't he blink?

Sirius cleared his throat.

"Ah, Sirius Black. Blackthorn, dragon heartstring, thirteen and a half inches. Reasonably springy."

"As accurate as always."

"Uh, Mr. Ollivander, about my wand..." Harry began. "What do you think caused it?"

The man regarded him with a searching look. "I haven't the faintest idea, Mr. Potter. But perhaps it was for the best. You are no longer the innocent, wide-eyed child who walked in here with Hagrid to find your first wand. You have grown and changed. You have learned, loved, lost. You have experienced success and failure, regret and betrayal. And..." Ollivander trailed off, leaning in close, mere inches from Harry's face, "you shall either perish or master Death."

Harry swallowed hard, and Ollivander seized the opportunity to cast a sharp glance at Sirius. "I dare say another phoenix wand may not be suitable for him any longer."

Harry froze at that. A phoenix wand wouldn't be suitable for him anymore? Why? The wand chooses the wizard, Ollivander had said. The holly and phoenix wand had chosen him, a rather curious occurrence, according to the man, given that its—

Harry stopped.

As Harry considered the peculiar connection between himself and Voldemort, he couldn't help but recall Tom Riddle from the diary. They shared several eerie similarities: both were half-bloods, orphans, and raised by Muggles. Moreover, they were probably the only two Parselmouths at Hogwarts since the time of Salazar Slytherin himself. Dumbledore had even acknowledged that some of Voldemort's powers had transferred to Harry on the fateful night he received his scar.

A nagging question gnawed at Harry's mind. Could something in the graveyard have triggered this inexplicable magic? Was that the root cause of their connection?

"Why is that?" Harry asked softly, sensing that the answer might be unsettling.

Ollivander met his gaze and began to explain, "Phoenixes are integral to the world's cycle, Mr. Potter. They represent creation, metamorphosis, eventual destruction, and rebirth from the ashes. They are highly selective creatures, often choosing bearers who are heralds of change."

Sirius raised a valid point, "But Harry had a phoenix wand before. What happened to that?"

"He did, but it is no longer with us," Ollivander admitted. "I must confess my curiosity regarding the form Harry's new wand will take. It possesses the rare ability to extinguish the eternal flames of a phoenix while being channeled through another magical instrument. This is an unprecedented case, even for me."

Harry's anxiety began to mount. Voldemort was back, and the Ministry was treating him as a potential threat while avoiding the harsh reality. His trusty old wand had failed him, and now this peculiar and unblinking wandmaker was making cryptic statements.

Desperation crept into Harry's voice as he implored, "Mr. Ollivander, are you certain there isn't a wand in your collection that could work for me?"

Ollivander's response was firm, "I remember every wand I've ever crafted, Mr. Potter. None of my existing creations would suit your unique magical disposition. I'll need to craft a new wand specifically tailored to you."

Sirius, intrigued, asked, "What makes this situation so unprecedented? Weren't all your wands crafted at some point?"

Ollivander offered a mysterious smile, "The intricacies of wandlore are complex, Mr. Black. Like my predecessors, I've crafted all the wands I'll ever sell during the first seven years of my Family Magic studies. We believe Mother Magic guides us to craft every possible wand we'll need in our lifetime. Thus far, no customer has left my shop without a suitable wand."

Harry scrutinized Ollivander with narrowed eyes. He'd always been somewhat intimidated by how effortlessly the eerie wandmaker assessed a person's wand just by a glance. It was as if he remembered people not by their names or achievements, but by the wands they held. The information was absolute, unwavering, and etched into the man's uncanny memory.

Could this ability be linked to the concept of Family Magic?

"Forgive me for forgetting, Mr. Ollivander, but I recall that your family is of noble lineage, much like the Blacks," Sirius mumbled.

Ollivander acknowledged, "Few remember that fact, and with good reason. My family has never been deeply involved in Wizengamot politics. But let's not digress; we have a wand to craft."

Ollivander retrieved his familiar tape measure adorned with silver markings, saying, "Now, let's commence, shall we?"

After an intricate measurement session, with Ollivander diligently taking notes, he approached Harry, holding a vial.

"This part of the process is concealed from view, Mr. Potter. The creation of a wand is a closely guarded secret among wandmakers. I'll need three drops of your blood, given willingly."

Terror coursed through Harry as he grappled with memories of the last time someone forcibly extracted his blood for a ritual. He shut his eyes and regained his composure, his face a mask of unwavering control.

"Blood?" Harry inquired.

"Yes," Ollivander affirmed. "A wand as personalized as this can only function effectively when bound to its wielder's blood. It strengthens the connection between the wand and its owner. Given your unique circumstances, you must appreciate the importance of this."

Harry's mind raced, recalling the horrific experience of Pettigrew extracting his blood. Now, Ollivander was requesting a similar offering, though willingly given, to craft a wand. Two eerily similar situations but with vastly different implications.

In the past, Harry might have kept his reservations to himself. However, his current disposition compelled his mouth to speak his mind.

"I have an issue with that, Mr. Ollivander," he confessed. "You may not be aware, but Voldemort has returned."

Ollivander displayed no signs of fear or skepticism. Instead, he simply tilted his head to the side, his response composed, "I've heard."

Harry continued, "He was resurrected, transformed from an abhorrent snake-like baby to a grotesque snake-like man, using my blood. Peter Pettigrew forcibly extracted it from me."

The old wandmaker's eyes sparked with intrigue. "Did he indeed?"

Harry nodded.

Ollivander adjusted his glasses and explained, "I understand your concerns. If the Dark Lord shares a blood connection with you and your wand, you fear it may result in a connection akin to that scar."

Harry instinctively touched the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, his fingers tracing the once-painful mark. Now, it appeared more like an aged, faded wound. While Voldemort's touch had once caused unbearable agony, it now felt like nothing more than a distant memory.

Almost like an ordinary scar.

"However, there's no need for concern, Mr. Potter," Ollivander reassured. "While blood, especially magical blood, holds immense power in rituals, the method of extraction supersedes all else. Unicorn blood, for instance, can heal grievous injuries when willingly given but can inflict curses more sinister than the darkest spells when forcibly taken. Wizard blood follows a similar principle."

This assurance eased some of Harry's apprehension.

"I require three drops of your blood, willingly given. Any hesitation would disrupt the ritual, and I would rather not proceed with crafting such a wand under those circumstances."

Sirius glanced at Harry and asked, "Harry, are you alright?"

Harry summoned his practiced fake smile, a tool he had often used to evade Hermione's probing questions.

"I'm fine, truly."

Regrettably, Sirius remained unconvinced.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, resolute in his decision.

"Very well," he declared, extending his right arm, "I offer my blood for this wand. Freely."

Ollivander responded with a smile, "That's the spirit, my boy. The next phase of the process is not something I can demonstrate. Crafting a wand is a meticulous and time-consuming art. If you have other matters to attend to, I suggest returning once you've completed them."

Harry and Sirius exchanged a glance and concurred, "We'll do that."

Although Harry was no stranger to shopping, having been tasked by Petunia with various errands to instill 'character development,' this experience with Sirius was beyond anything he had encountered. Harry couldn't even describe it as shopping; it felt more like a whirlwind of extravagance. Sirius purchased anything that caught Harry's attention without hesitation. Even if Harry glanced at something twice, it somehow found its way into Sirius's possession. Some items were utterly unnecessary for Harry's life, yet they were now his.

If this was how Lucius Malfoy raised Draco, Harry could almost sympathize with the upbringing that molded the Malfoy heir's attitude. It made sense why Draco believed his father could solve any problem.

Now, it was Harry's turn.

After an indulgent spending spree that lasted over four hours, Harry and Sirius exited Diagon Alley. Sirius's wallet had significantly lightened during their shopping spree, revealing the affluence of the House of Black—an Ancient family, even older than the Malfoys.

It was enough to make Harry's substantial vault seem like mere pocket change.

As they sipped butterbeer at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry couldn't help but inquire, "How much did all of this cost you?" Tom, the barman, had thoughtfully placed them at a secluded table near the walls, and Sirius had cast a Notice-Me-Not charm to ward off unwanted attention.

Sirius took a sip of his drink before replying, "Four hundred and seventy galleons and some change. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," Harry murmured, his brows furrowing as he glanced at the enchanted pouch securely fastened to his belt. It was imbued with a potent Undetectable Extension Charm, allowing it to hold an array of items that could fill an entire room and more. Despite its capacity, it remained astonishingly lightweight, suggesting the presence of an anti-weight charm.

Magic had its undeniable advantages.

Nonetheless, the price tag of four hundred and seventy galleons couldn't be ignored. It was a significant sum, especially when spent on luxuries. Still, Harry possessed sufficient funds in his Gringotts vault to comfortably cover the expenses. Strangely, his Gringotts vault was his one source of solace in this magical world.

"Speaking of which, I have this home," Sirius began.

"Where I'll be living?" Harry's heart raced with anticipation.

"Yes, among other things."

Harry asked, "What do you mean? I can handle cleaning and cooking, but I might need some time to get used to London for groceries and—"

He halted, noticing the blank expression on Sirius's face.

"What's wrong?"

"Cleaning and cooking?" Sirius practically exploded. "Harry, you're my godson, not a house-elf!"

Harry cautioned, "Let's not let Hermione overhear that comment." He instinctively scanned the vicinity for his bushy-haired friend. He didn't comprehend why Sirius had reacted so strongly. After all, he had been performing household chores for the Dursleys his entire life, even making his own bed and maintaining order at Hogwarts. While he had been spared from cooking and laundry duties, thanks to the school's house-elves, he had always assumed his parents had prepaid his tuition.

Or something along those lines. Hagrid's explanation had been rather vague, mentioning that his name had been registered at Hogwarts shortly after his birth.

But what about Muggle-borns like Hermione? Surely her parents had to agree to send her to the school, involving living arrangements for a whole year in a distant Scottish school, as well as her personal expenses and books, which couldn't have been cheap.

He had never really inquired about such financial matters before.

"Hey, Sirius," he inquired, "how much does it cost to attend Hogwarts?"

"Hmm?"

"How much does it cost to attend Hogwarts?"

"One hundred and thirty-three galleons per year, so roughly…"

"Nine hundred and thirty-one galleons," Harry calculated mentally. "That's quite a sum."

"It's not really," Sirius replied casually, shrugging. "My father once showed me the amount of money Hogwarts spends on each student, and the annual tuition covers less than half of it."

"Then why?" Harry inquired. It didn't make sense for Hogwarts to spend more than it earned. Unless... a thought crossed his mind.

"Is it funded by the Board of Governors?"

Sirius chuckled. "No."

"The Ministry of Magic?"

Sirius shook his head.

Harry raised an eyebrow, running out of possibilities.

"The Wizengamot?"

"I wondered when you'd mention that," Sirius said with a smile. "But no, the Board of Governors does make substantial donations, but it's primarily Hogwarts itself that provides most of the funding."

Harry blinked in confusion. "Alright, you've lost me."

"History of Magic isn't your favorite subject, is it?"

"Have you seen Professor Binns?"

The dog animagus laughed. "Point taken. However, that subject becomes a lot more interesting in your OWL year and beyond."

"Sure," Harry responded with a level of sincerity appropriate for such a statement.

Sirius grinned, seeming to understand Harry's perspective. "Tell me, Harry, do you know who the highest-paid professor at Hogwarts is?"

"Um... Professor Dumbledore?"

"Nope, it's Pomona Sprout. She earns double the Headmaster's salary, actually."

"Huh? Why?"

"Think about it."

Harry did and arrived at one plausible answer. "The greenhouses?"

Sirius beamed. "Exactly. Hogwarts boasts one of the largest greenhouse plantations in all of magical Europe, not to mention it's the largest supplier of mandragora, shrivel figs, and bubotuber pus. In fact, Hogwarts holds a freeholding license with the ICW as a business entity."

"This is going over my head."

"It means the ICW officially registers Hogwarts as a business."

"Not as a school?"

"Nope."

"But—"

"Have you ever wondered why you have four Herbology sessions each week, Harry? That's more than Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, right?"

Harry began to answer but then hesitated before quietly shutting his mouth.

"It's because Pomona Sprout utilizes students' assistance to maintain the greenhouses," Sirius explained. "Moreover, it's not just that. Everything at Hogwarts—such as the contract with the merpeople in the Black Lake or the centaur herd in the Forbidden Forest—has a purpose, and it isn't solely about magic and camaraderie."

"Okay, that's all fascinating, and I promise to look up 'camaraderie' later," Harry remarked, shaking his head. All this financial talk was making his head spin. Why didn't Hogwarts offer a class on this topic, or something? He thought he might ask Sirius about it later.

Ask Sirius.

The notion felt comforting in an unusual way. Was this what it was like to have a parent? To be able to approach someone and inquire when he didn't know something? To request food when he was hungry without the threat of painful projectiles aimed at his head?

"—Harry."

His godfather's voice snapped him back to the present. "Uh, sorry, I was just—"

"Nonsense," Sirius dismissed it. "Anyway, why are you concerned about all this now?"

"Um, well, I need to repay you, and—"

His words trailed off as Sirius gripped his shoulder firmly.

Tight.

"Harry," Sirius replied, his tone as serious as it had ever been, "I'm not Petunia Dursley; I'm your godfather. It means I stand in place of your parents to take care of you, provide you with a home, and shield you from any harm that may come your way. If I hadn't made such foolish decisions in the past, you would have grown up with me, as your mum and dad would have wanted."

His voice quivered slightly.

"But what's done is done. Let's focus on the present. My home is your home, and you have every right to it. Never forget, you're Harry James Potter, the heir of House Potter, and if I have any say in it, a son of House Black. Perhaps more than that, if I have my way."

"What do you mean?"

"Later," Sirius responded casually, finishing his butterbeer and rising from his seat. "It's getting late. Let's move. We still need to acquire your wand before we reach your new home."

After his heartfelt words, Harry couldn't find it in himself to decline his godfather's request, despite the lingering fear within him. His lips curved into a small smile.

"Okay."

"Oh, don't be like that," Sirius chided. "Who knows, it might be another holly wand."

"Ash and thunderbird feather. Eleven inches. Excellent for charms," Ollivander informed Harry, extending the wand toward him. Harry accepted it cautiously, feeling its grainy white texture, similar in length to his original wand. He held it gingerly, sensing a faint flicker of something passing through the wand.

"Give it a wave," Ollivander encouraged.

Blinking, Harry complied, flicking the wand toward the table.

And nothing happened. Ollivander swiftly snatched the wand away.

"Try this. Mahogany and rougarou hair. Twelve inches. Quite flexible. Give it a go—"

Harry attempted, but before he could even lift the wand, it was seized by Ollivander.

"No, no, that won't do. Even with your blood, this is unacceptable. Here, try this—Ebony, basilisk horn. Ten inches. Very unyielding."

Harry held the wand, pausing to sense something for the first time. There was an energy, dark and challenging, something formidable. He was certain it would respond when Ollivander swiftly removed it from his grasp, looking exceedingly intrigued.

"I had thought that one would work, considering your previous experiences, but... let's see." Ollivander retrieved another box and paused, studying Harry intently. Finally, he presented it to him.

"Give this one a try."

The wood inside was a deep, rich caramel color, resembling liquid fire. In terms of length, it was similar to the holly wand, tapering slightly toward the tip, giving it a dagger-like appearance.

Harry pulled it out. Unlike his holly wand, there was no immediate warmth, no tingling sensation upon touching the wand with his fingers. There was no profound excitement or the vibrant, infectious energy akin to a Quidditch match. Instead, it felt cold. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood on end, and perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the store seemed to grow darker. The lights did not dim, but everything appeared... darker. A low, trembling sensation seemed to make his eyeballs quiver slightly, and the shadows expanded from the corners and dim areas of the wand shop, bringing with them a chilling, oily coldness.

This was not excitement; it was hunger. A cold, empty, voracious hunger. It was a power vastly different from the warm, lively magic of the holly wand. This power was akin to the empty void between the stars, patiently awaiting their eventual cooling and extinguishing.

And it was potent.

"As expected," Ollivander muttered in a dark whisper, "this wand has matched you perfectly."

"What..." Sirius stammered, "...was that?"

Harry looked first at Sirius and then at the wandmaker. He sensed the power resonating within the wand, and he knew that his soul resonated with it in a dark, haunting manner that should not exist. He didn't entirely understand it, but he recognized that the power was as great, if not greater, than his previous wand.

"That," Ollivander explained, "was the wand forming a bond with its wielder. Given that interaction, I can only imagine the connection between it and its possessor."

"What... is it made of?" Harry asked.

"Yew wood, harvested from the heartwood of a five-hundred-year-old tree. Eleven and one-third inches, flexible. Yew is a rather rare wand wood, and its ideal matches are equally unusual and occasionally notorious." Ollivander's gaze briefly flicked toward Harry's scar. "Incidentally, the wizard who gave you that scar also wields a yew wand."

Harry didn't know how to react to that.

"Yew wands are renowned for bestowing their possessors with the power of life and death. They are more likely to be aligned with curses and the Dark Arts than any other wood."

Harry's eyes flickered. "Are you saying this wand is suitable for a dark wizard?"

"Define 'dark wizard,' Mr. Potter," Ollivander challenged. "If you mean a practitioner of the Dark Arts, then yes, this wand will suit a dark witch or wizard quite well. But it does not necessarily imply evil, as the wielder might just as easily become a fierce protector of others, employing the darkest of magics to vanquish the darkest of individuals."

Harry had never thought about it in that way.

"But it is most suited for the Dark Arts."

"Undoubtedly," Ollivander concurred.

"What about its core?" Sirius inquired.

"Thestral hair," Ollivander replied. "Highly tricky and unpredictable, with an unwavering nature. Surprisingly, it appears to respond naturally to your blood, Mr. Potter."

Harry had read about Thestrals in the Care of Magical Creatures textbook, although he had never seen one. They were described as large, skeletal, black horses with scaly wings and dragon-like features. Most notably, they could only be seen by individuals who had witnessed death firsthand. Hogwarts was said to have a herd of Thestrals, but Harry had never encountered them before.

Perhaps now that I've witnessed Cedric's death...

The thought faded from his mind as Ollivander continued speaking.

"I confess that I cannot be certain of the effects of a Thestral hair core in your wand, Mr. Potter. Thestrals are anomalies in the magical world—a creature visible only to those who have witnessed death. They defy the usual rules and sometimes establish their own. This wand will be no exception."

Ollivander's gaze met Harry's.

An enigma met an anomaly.

"The wand in your hand possesses the potential for great power. Please heed this final piece of advice, Mr. Potter: the wand chooses the witch or wizard, and both learn from one another. Your wand will learn many things from you... many things indeed. Be sure to understand fully what it has learned. That knowledge may save your life one day."

Harry stared, his eyes wide, at the enigmatic words uttered by the wandmaker. He had come to purchase a new wand and received... this. If this had occurred last year, he would have rejected it, labeling it as dark and repulsive in nature.

But that Harry Potter no longer existed. The Harry Potter standing in the wand shop had faced the Dark Lord, inside a graveyard surrounded by Death Eaters, struggling to survive a distorted battle.

Regardless of desires. Ignorant of miracles.

The current Harry Potter was the one who had felt the power and the desire to cast the Killing Curse. His soul resonated with Death, and Death, in turn, resonated with him. Somewhere within the shadows and darkness, Harry found his indomitable spirit.

His courage. His power.

One could not taint the shadows.

Ollivander had acknowledged that it was an exceptionally potent wand. An anomaly in the world's rules, much like Harry himself. He possessed a power capable of extinguishing the flames of a phoenix. It seemed only fitting to wield a wand that drew strength from its surroundings, diminishing the power around it.

He had felt that power—the darkness beckoning to the yew wood, the tree of death. The energy pulsating within the Thestral hair core, a creature visible through the eyes of Death. Bound by his own blood. This power came at a cost. But that was alright. For what was light without darkness? How could one truly appreciate sweetness without tasting bitterness? As if sensing his emotions, the wand emitted a soft, misty, black vapor.

"So?" Sirius prodded. "What do you make of it?"

"What do I make of it?" Harry replied, a faint smile gracing his lips. "I believe I rather fancy it."

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