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Act I - The Trials of Summer
Interlude 1- The Wandmaker
The night was very cold for August. The Wizarding Wireless had mentioned an anomalous change in weather patterns, so it wasn't unexpected. If this continued, then in a few weeks it'd get cold enough that the drunks of Knockturn Alley would start freezing to death. Someone would see a body, and eventually call the Aurors, who'd show up and fill out a complaint that the body had been found and presumed accidentally frozen to death. A very convenient way to kill off someone. Knock them out with a stunner, use a blood-freezing curse, remove bits of their clothing and leave them for the night to devour.
It was how the Death Eaters disposed of bodies the last time there were weather changes like these. Around two decades ago.
Garrick Ollivander glanced around the shop, making sure that no one was in it, and flickering out his wand to lock up the front doors and flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED. The seemingly insignificant act served as a trigger that activated the ancient wards surrounding the shop, drawing power from the ley line directly beneath. Granted, wand makers did not attract danger like other people. If he died, both sides would be devoid of wands, and that was a bad idea. There had been that time in the early seventeenth century, when his father had been kidnapped by Gormlaith Gaunt to make custom wands, only to realise that he'd need to be free to travel and collect materials for it.
But tonight was special. Tonight wasโฆ different. Garrick could feel it in his old bones. As always, he didn't care. He wasn't even as strong as the average Hogwarts pass-out, but his half a dozen wards did a lot to encourage people looking for trouble to look elsewhere.
"I'm afraid it won't be enough this night," He muttered to himself, turning around to rearrange a teetering stack of wand boxes, when the door chimes tinkled, signalling that someone had just crossed the ward line, looking for him. A deeper chime followed, and the door opened as a stranger stepped in. He looked like a man in his late forties, broad-shouldered, unshaven, and heavyset, with weathered muscle under a layer of comfortable living. There was a subtle distortion around him, suggesting a powerful glamour charm that'd go unseen by most people.
But not him.
Not one with the Sight.
But Garrick didn't need to. A problem with the Sight was that the memory would become permanent in his head, never allowing him to forget whatever it was he had Seen. But more importantly, the stranger softly closed the door and dropped his glamour, revealing a thin stature, bony hands, and a noseless, snake-like face with glowing red eyes.
Garrick composed his expression and breathed in deeply to calm himself, soothing his nerves.
"How are you?" asked the icy voice of Lord Voldemort, "Mr. Ollivander?"
"Tom Riddle," he said, peering at the intruder, completely ignoring the way the Dark Lord's face twitched at the thought. "This is a surprise. Why, just some moments ago, I was revisiting old memories of my father's experience with your ancestor, Gormlaith. I presume you're here to replace your dead wand?"
The Dark Lord's face twitched again. "Omniscient, as always, Mr. Ollivander."
"Oh no, no, no, just well-informed, my boy," he shrugged. "Everyone knows about the dead wands. It was in the Prophet for weeks. A terrible thing, to witness the destruction and end of something you have created. When young Harry Potter walked into my shop, I knew you would too."
"And why is that?"
"Thirteen and a half inches, yew and phoenix feather. Even if I forgot every single moment one of my wands found its partner, yours and 's, would be the last to fade from my memory."
"What has Potter got to do with this?"
Ollivander crooked his neck. Did he really not know? "The phoenix whose feather wove magic into your wand, gave one other feather. Just one another."
The Dark Lord's eyes flashed. "Potter."
Garrick nodded. "The same child that vanquished you in the past."
The Dark Lord's eyes glinted. "Do you think it is wise to antagonise me, Mr. Ollivander?"
Garrick squinted at him. "Antagonize? You misunderstand me. I am a wand maker. My ordained task is to craft wands. I take pride whenever they are used for something great, no matter how splendid or terrible. I expected to be dragged out of my little shop and taken to your fortress."
"I have too much regard for you to do that, Mr. Ollivander," said the Dark Lord. "Unfortunately, I need your services again."
"Oh yes, I thought you might," Garrick said. "You took your sweet time. I imagine you were trying out the wands of your supporters first, before approaching me. Which begs the question, why did you wait for so long? Surely, this isn't a simple issue of getting a new wand to replace your old one?"
The Dark Lord's lips into a hint of a smile. "Still seeing through me, are you?"
"I see what I've always seen," Garrick smiled. "The wielder of a yew and phoenix feather is always destined for great things."
"Destined," said the Dark Lord, slowly stepping in front of the counter, depositing his dead phoenix wand on it. "I have a quandary, Mr. Ollivander, one I'd like you to keep a secret, preferably without having toโฆ repeat the actions of my ancestor."
Garrick looked at him. "I'm all ears."
The Dark Lord casually placed both hands on the counter. "Ever since the night of my return, my magic has beenโฆ conflicted. It is powerful, more powerful than I remember, and yet weaker than ever. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it's fighting itself."
Garrick arched an eyebrow. "Interesting."
"You are correct, of course," admitted the Dark Lord. "I have tried different wands brought in by my followers. None of them have lasted for long. Something about my magicโฆ kills them."
Garrick widened his eyes, and at that exact moment, the Dark Lord narrowed his own.
"You know why this is, don't you?"
Garrick's shaggy eyebrows drew closer. "Word is that you took Mr. Potter's blood that night. Perhaps in an occult ritual to grant you a new form? I admit, I'm not very informed about those particular aspects of alchemy. Necromancy is unsuitable for those in my line of work."
The Dark Lord paused at that. His expression told Garrick that he thought he wasn't telling him everything. But Garrick was not lying. Magic was closely interwoven with a wizard's faith. You needed to believe in the magic for it to work โ not just that it will happen, but that it should happen.
And that was what made Tom Riddle, or any necromancer, so dangerous. Magic was essentially a force of creation. Wandcrafting was an alchemical process that invoked this power. Necromancy on the other hand, made a mockery of life, even as the caster used it to destroy. Besides being murderous and extremely icky, there was something utterly profane about using magic to create a rotting semblance of a human life. Garrick's stomach turned a little, just thinking about what it might be to work a spell like that.
And Tom Riddle believed in it.
Which really seemed to twist him further and further into an inhuman. A deadly, powerful, calm and intelligent inhuman. Garrick shook his head. Really, how could someone chosen by a phoenix feather go down this path?
"I will tell you this, that if Mr. Potter's blood flows through you, then I'm afraid, there exists no wand I've crafted that can serve for any period. Sooner or later, the power flowing through Mr. Potter's blood, your blood, now, will seek its destruction. Not even the immortal phoenix's feather can survive it."
"And yet," said the Dark Lord, "Harry Potter owns a wand. Crafted from you, I've heard."
"And a veryโฆ odd one too," Garrick murmured, reminiscing about that thing he had crafted for Mr. Potter.
"Then perhaps you can craft one for me as well?"
Garrick shook his head. He had known this moment would come. There was no hiding from this man. His blood-red eyes, evidence of his twisted existence, said as much.
"No."
"And why not?"
"Because it is not within my power,"he said simply.
He met the Dark Lord's eyes, expecting a Legilimency attack. He could only hope that the man โ if he could be called a man โ could sense what he had felt when crafting that thing for young Mr. Potter. Instead, he just asked.
"Why?"
Garrick closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. "It is an unfortunate thing when a wand maker cannot offer a compatible wand to a customer. When this happens, one has to beg for the customer's blood to serve as a binder, and craft a wand that fits him. I did the same for Mr. Potter, onlyโฆ"
The Dark Lord's eyebrows narrowed slightly.
"His blood did not serve as a binder for his wand, but as a counter to his magic that destroys wand cores. And despite it, the wand it produced was unlike any other. I dare say such a wand would not work for anyone other than him." Garrick paused. "Not even you, Lord Voldemort."
"Iโฆ have Potter's blood flowing through my veins, Mr. Ollivander," said the Dark Lord. "Certainlyโ"
"That blood is as much your own as is mine," Garrick corrected him. "Alchemy is a curious art. I dare say if you knew what Mr. Potter's blood contained, you'd, perhaps, not have dared to touch his blood. But hubris comes before the fall, as they say."
The other man's red eyes glowed malevolently. "And what if I should ask you to forge a wand through similar means? Using my blood?"
"It would suffer the same fate as any other wand, I'm afraid," said Ollivander. "The destructive power of Mr. Potter's blood does not come from his ancestry. I'm certain you've heard the outcome of his trial."
"The Peverell family magicโฆ"
"Providence of the Death Gods," Garrick said, "I dare say no one can use a wand carrying Mr. Potter's blood. If you do not believe my words, I have several of them at hand, the ones that did not prove suitable for Mr. Potter. Perhaps you'd like to experience the truth firsthand?"
Garrick slid a drawer and pulled out one of those wands, using his glove-covered fingers, and put it gingerly on the counter. "Mahogany and Rougarou hair. Twelve inches. Quite whippy."
The Dark Lord reached out to grab the wand's handle but stopped mere inches away from it. His fingers wavered there, undecided.
"You can sense it, can't you?" asked Garrick. "The strange power exuding from it? The forbidding, pungent sensation flooding through it? I have it kept for a time when Mr. Potter might come for this one. Perhaps it's but an old man's dream, but who can say? Perhapsโฆ" he reached for another, the white grainy one. "How about this? Ash and thunderbird feather. Eleven inches. Very good for charms, I reckon."
The Dark Lord shook his head. "You have made your point. Tell me Mr. Ollivander, what would you have me do? You say you cannot craft a wand I can use, and yet, I cannot do without one."
"I never said you couldn't. A wizard can channel his magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, and the wizard from the wand."
"But Potter'sโฆ magic will eventually cause them to die?"
Garrick looked at him, his expression flooded with pain. "Yes. Eventually."
"And this holds true for all wands?"
"I think so," Garrick replied, his protuberant eyes upon the Dark Lord's face. "You ask deep questions, Mr. Riddle. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic. One very different from the ones you've devoted your energies to."
For several anxious seconds, neither of them spoke.
The Dark Lord sighed aridly before looking down at him with mild discontent. "You realise that I kill others for the audacity of staring at me so directly like that? And yet you constantly refer to me by that name. Is that really wise?"
Garrick had a feeling that things would turn out like this. Tom Riddle was a rather simple man to understand once you figured out his logic. He truly believed that the world was his, hence, he embodied the greatest authority there. The strong stood over the weak and made the rules, and he stood above them, and held final say in everything. Should there be a subject that he bothered to take an interest in, he'd address it as he saw fit with no issue, regardless of the destruction that may happen in his wake. If someone attempted something he did not like, he was, in his own mind, obligated to serve as an appropriate judge, jury and executioner.
Whether he allowed them to live was merely a part of his self-imposed duty as the judge and jury.
It was Garrick's job at this point to make sure that he didn't take up the third role. Dying was bad for business.
"The phoenix feather in the yew wand that served you so well chose an eleven-year-old Tom Riddle. It knew the best and worst that young Mr. Riddle had in him. It aided him in performing the spectacular feats of magic he accomplished in his lifetime. Lord Voldemort is but a facade, crafted for the sheep to fear. Forgive me, Mr. Riddle, but from a wand maker's perspective, your mantle of Lord Voldemort bears less significance than the Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award."
The Dark Lord remained quiet for several moments before smiling briefly, as if amused by a small joke. "How interesting! Thank you for that piece of observation, Mr. Ollivander. And you are right. I took my time." He paused for a moment. "When the wands offered by my followers failed me, I thought it was a matter of power. Perhaps these wands simply could not channel thisโฆ strange magic that echoes in my blood?"
The Dark Lord's lips twisted. "It is interesting that you mention the boy's ancestry. There are legends, stories about a rather infamous wand, or wands, passing down from one wielder to another, by murder."
Ollivander turned pale. "Only one wand, I think."
"It is called by several names. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, and most importantly, the Deathstick. There are rumours about it originating from the Peverell family, from Antioch Peverell, to be a wand crafted to channel the Peverell Family Magic would solve this problem?"
"The legend of the Deathstick is an old wives' tale, I think. The wand is only as powerful as the wizard. Granted, the core of the wand can influence the magic its wielder can perform, but even soโฆ"
"Mr. Ollivander," the Dark Lord stressed. "I know when people are trying to hide information from me. Do not test the limits of my patience. What can you tell me about the Deathstick?"
Garrick froze on his feet, his eyes widened and his breathing stopped. The sheer aura of the man was making it almost unbearable for him. He demanded an explanation, and depending on what Garrick told him, his future would be judged. It was as simple as that.
"There are recordsโฆ in wizarding history. There are gaps too, long ones, when the wand vanishes from view, temporarily lost, but it always resurfaces. It has certain identifiable characteristics that those who are learned in wand lore recognize. Written accounts, some of them obscure, and others, somewhat authentic."
"And it's passing hands by murder?"
"No," said Garrick. "Whether it needs to pass by murder, I do not know. Its history is bloody, but that may be simply due to it being an immensely powerful and desirable object. Dangerous in theโฆ." he met the Dark Lord's eyes, "...wrong hands, and an object of incredible fascination to all who study the power of wands. Whether it belonged to Antioch Peverell, I cannot be certain, but if it is, I'm certain it belongs to Mr. Potter, now that he has surfaced as the Peverell Vessel."
"A power that destroys magic, no matter how powerful or esoteric," murmured the Dark Lord, "and a wand crafted exclusively to channel it. A power I know notโฆ"
He smiled. "Yes. Yes, I understand it now. Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. You have been of incredible help to me. Howeverโฆ"
Garrick felt a shudder down his spine.
"I feel your knowledge has become your own enemy, Mr. Ollivander. Should Potter know of this heritage of his, he is certain to ask you about it. Would he not?"
"Harry Potter has a wandโ" Garrick tried.
"But not the Deathstick. Not the wand designed to channel the Peverell magic. The boy is remarkable, his Peverell legacy even more so. Should he gain the allegiance of this wand, it would be most disruptive to my plans."
He raised his right hand, and a random wand-box flew into his palm. Yew and dragon heartstring, Garrick idly noticed. The Dark Lord gingerly held the wand's handle, feeling the power coursing through it. It wouldn't be a good match, but it'd work. For now.
"Mr. Riddle โ Mr. Riddle, I'm certain we can come to an arrangeโ"
"It's unfortunate, Mr. Ollivander, but thisโฆ is inevitable."
Garrick felt the wand tip touch his temples as he heard the last words he'd be hearing that night.
"Imperio!"
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