The soft chime of the doorbell barely cut through the damp, heavy air of the shop. It was late, far past the time any respectable customer might arrive. Ollivander, hunched over a twisted length of birchwood, didn't look up. His hands, steady and practiced, moved with precision as he examined the imperfections in the grain. The workshop around him was silent but for the soft rasp of his file. It was in moments like this—alone with his thoughts, lost in the quiet contemplation of his craft—that Garrick Ollivander found the world made sense.

He didn't need customers. He didn't need accolades. His life was in the details. In the slight curve of wood, the weight of it in his palm, the delicate shimmer of a phoenix feather that waited patiently in a box across the room. That was what mattered. That was all that had ever mattered.

The chime sounded again, persistent, and this time he set the file down. His fingers ached with the familiar sting of overuse, but it was the kind of pain that reminded him of purpose. Purpose was a rare thing these days, ever since the war had shifted the magical world off its axis. It left everyone scurrying in the cracks like rats.

Rats, he thought bitterly, and looked up toward the front of the shop.

The bell tolled once more, this time followed by a weight. A shuffle of feet. Whoever was there wasn't just lingering, but trying to keep themselves standing.

Not a customer. Not at this hour.

Ollivander sighed and stood, the motion drawing out a soft pop from his spine. He grimaced, wiped his hands on a worn cloth, and started toward the door. His steps were unhurried but certain, the kind of gait that didn't belong to someone who had any expectations of what lay beyond.

He reached the counter, pulling the heavy curtain aside, and the first thing that hit him was the smell. Damp wool, coppery blood, and something else—singeing wood. It was like the air had been scorched before ever stepping inside.

And then he saw him.

Gregorovitch stood in the doorway, or rather, leaned in it. His frame, once rigid with pride and arrogance, was bent like a willow under a storm. His face was bruised, one eye swollen nearly shut, and his robes were torn in ways that suggested more than just a hard journey. He was clutching at the doorframe, fingers white with the effort, as though letting go would send him crashing to the floor.

"Gregorovitch," Ollivander murmured, more to himself than the man in front of him. The name tasted strange on his lips after all these years, carrying with it an echo of old rivalries and forgotten conversations. He had never expected to see the man again. Not like this.

"Garrick," Gregorovitch rasped, his voice cracked and dry, like a broomstick left out in the sun for too long. He managed a single step forward, then faltered. His knees buckled, and Ollivander's hands, despite themselves, shot out to catch him.

The two men stared at each other for a moment, frozen in a tableau that neither could have predicted. It was as if time had stopped—past and present colliding with the weight of unspoken words.

"Help me," Gregorovitch whispered, the words ragged. His body shook under Ollivander's grasp, and for a moment, Ollivander felt the sharp sting of pity. Not for the man himself, but for the idea of him. The great Gregorovitch, brought low by forces neither of them could yet name.

Ollivander didn't reply at first, instead guiding Gregorovitch to one of the old, creaking chairs by the counter. The shop around them felt too still, too small, as if the walls were listening. Watching. Waiting.

When Gregorovitch sat, he let out a long breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years. He didn't bother to hide the pain that crossed his face. It was plain, etched in every line, every bruise. And there were many.

"What happened to you?" Ollivander's voice was low, quieter than he intended. There were no pleasantries here, no offers of tea or polite small talk. Not with Gregorovitch, and certainly not with a man who looked as if death had shaken his hand and decided to wait a while longer.

Gregorovitch leaned back in the chair, wincing as his body protested the movement. He said nothing at first, his good eye flicking around the room, taking in the shelves of wands, the soft glow of wand-cores shimmering in glass cases. It was a different kind of silence now. Not the comfortable kind Ollivander lived in, but one tinged with something darker. Something that hung between them like a heavy cloak.

"The shop," Gregorovitch finally muttered, his accent thick, rougher now that pain had sharpened it. "It's gone."

Ollivander stiffened. His hands, still stained with varnish and sawdust, tightened into fists. He didn't press for more. He didn't need to. The truth was written in every thread of Gregorovitch's ruined robes, every scratch across his skin.

"Gone?" he repeated, though it wasn't really a question.

Gregorovitch nodded, once. "Dark wizards. They wanted something... something I could not give." His hand, trembling, reached up to touch the side of his face, where a jagged cut marred the skin just below his temple. "And now, they will come for you, Garrick. They will come for us all."

The words were spoken with the weight of inevitability, the kind that only comes from a man who has seen his own end and found nothing but darkness waiting on the other side. Ollivander felt the cold knot in his stomach tighten.

"Why?" he asked, the question hanging between them like smoke.

Gregorovitch's gaze met his, and in that moment, the mask of pride fell away, leaving only exhaustion. "Because they know," Gregorovitch whispered. "They know about the wands. About everything."

Ollivander didn't respond immediately, his mind racing through possibilities. There were too many. Too many variables, too many threats. He had seen it all before, the rise and fall of power, the way magic twisted and bent at the hands of those who wielded it with cruelty.

But this… this felt different.

Ollivander straightened, folding his arms across his chest as he studied the man before him. Gregorovitch had always been a mystery, even in the prime of his career. They had exchanged more barbs than pleasantries, more sneers than smiles. Yet here he was, broken, battered, and bringing a warning that neither of them could afford to ignore.

"You should leave," Ollivander said finally, the words deliberate, cold. "Go somewhere they can't find you."

Gregorovitch's smile was grim, hollow. "There is nowhere they cannot find me. Nowhere they will not search. I am marked, Garrick." His voice wavered, though the words were laced with something other than fear. Resignation, perhaps. Acceptance of a fate he could no longer control.

Ollivander didn't move. His eyes, sharp and calculating, studied Gregorovitch with a cold detachment that belied the unease twisting in his chest. It wasn't like him to feel this—uncertainty. There had always been a method, a way to prepare, to counteract whatever came his way. Wandlore, after all, was built on the foundation of balance—yin to yang, phoenix feather to dragon heartstring. Everything had its opposite. Its solution.

But there was no solution for this. Not in the way Gregorovitch spoke, not in the haunted look in his eyes.

"If you are marked," Ollivander said slowly, choosing his words with care, "then staying here is suicide."

Gregorovitch let out a breath that might have been a laugh, if not for the raw edge to it. "Perhaps. But I have nowhere else to go. No one else to turn to." His fingers brushed over his bruised knuckles, the hand of a craftsman who had seen too many years of hardship, too many battles fought with tools meant to create rather than destroy. "I am not here to ask for your sympathy, Garrick."

Ollivander's gaze didn't waver. "No," he said softly, "you're here to ask for my help."

For a long moment, neither spoke. The shop seemed to hold its breath, the wands on the shelves humming faintly with a kind of dormant energy. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows like impatient fingers drumming on glass. The world beyond Ollivander's sanctuary felt distant, irrelevant, but it was creeping closer. The shadows at the edges of their conversation were real, and they were moving.

"Why should I help you?" Ollivander asked, his voice quiet but hard. "After all these years? After everything that's passed between us?" The question wasn't born of anger—Ollivander didn't have the energy for anger—but of a simple, pragmatic curiosity. He needed to understand why. Why now. Why Gregorovitch, of all people, had come to his door, half-dead and hunted.

Gregorovitch leaned forward, his hand still trembling as it gripped the arm of the chair. His good eye locked onto Ollivander's, and for the first time since stepping into the shop, the bravado faded entirely. What was left was a man who had lost everything. His shop, his legacy. His pride.

"Ivanov," Gregorovitch said, his voice barely a whisper. "He's leading them. He… he wants something I cannot give him."

Ollivander's heart stilled for a moment. Ivanov. A name that had once been whispered in wandmaker circles like a curse. A name tied to the darkest of Dark Arts, a practitioner of magic that twisted both body and soul. That Gregorovitch had once been entangled with Ivanov was no secret, but that he had survived it—escaped it—was a miracle few in their world could comprehend.

Ivanov wasn't the kind of man you simply walked away from.

"Why does Ivanov want you?" Ollivander asked, though the question already began to coil in his gut with the heavy scent of foreboding. He already knew. He didn't need to hear it.

Gregorovitch's lips curled into a tight, humorless smile. "Because of what I possess," he muttered, shifting in the chair. "Or rather, what I once possessed."

The Elder Wand.

Ollivander's fingers flexed involuntarily at the thought. The most powerful wand ever crafted, whispered about in myths and legends. It had been Gregorovitch's for a time—until it wasn't. Until someone had taken it from him. The story was an old one, passed between wandmakers like a fable meant to warn the unwary of seeking too much power. But it was no myth. The Elder Wand had been real, had been in Gregorovitch's possession, and now, it seemed, the consequences of that reality had come full circle.

"He thinks you still have it," Ollivander surmised, his voice low and even.

Gregorovitch nodded, the motion slow, as if it pained him to confirm it. "He believes I hid it. That I kept it from him all these years." His voice was hoarse, raw from exhaustion and what Ollivander could only guess was weeks—months, perhaps—of running.

"And you didn't," Ollivander said, though there was no accusation in his tone. Just a simple statement of fact.

"I didn't," Gregorovitch confirmed. His shoulders sagged, the weight of his situation settling over him like a leaden cloak. "But Ivanov… he doesn't care. He'll burn every inch of the magical world to the ground until he finds what he's looking for. And when he realizes I truly don't have it—" Gregorovitch swallowed hard, his voice faltering. "He'll kill me."

There it was. The heart of the matter, laid bare.

Ollivander stood still, the knot in his chest tightening as the implications began to settle. Gregorovitch wasn't just running from an old enemy. He was running from the shadow of an ancient, unspeakable power. A power that had no mercy, no understanding of loyalty or morality.

But Gregorovitch was right about one thing. They wouldn't stop with him. Ivanov was too dangerous, too consumed by his obsession to leave anything standing in his way. Which meant that, whether he wanted it or not, Ollivander had just been drawn into a game far larger than the four walls of his quiet, unassuming shop.

His fingers tapped absently on the counter as he considered Gregorovitch's words, the weight of them pressing down like stones in his chest.

"You're asking me to risk my life," Ollivander said after a long pause, the truth of it hanging between them.

Gregorovitch met his gaze, unwavering. "I'm asking you to risk more than that."

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"You've lost your mind," Gregorovitch muttered, shaking his head. "This… this is reckless, Garrick. You're playing with forces we barely understand."

Ollivander's eyes gleamed with a quiet intensity. "Reckless?" he repeated, his voice soft but dangerous. "Perhaps. But what choice do we have, Gregorovitch? If Ivanov comes for us, if he thinks we have the Elder Wand, we need something to fight back with. Something that will make him hesitate. This wand… it's our only chance."

Gregorovitch stared at the wand, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. He wanted to believe Ollivander, to trust in his genius. But everything about this felt wrong. The power humming from the wand, the dangerous combination of materials, the sense that they were on the verge of something that could not be undone.

"And if it fails?" Gregorovitch asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What happens if this wand doesn't do what you think it will?"

Ollivander's gaze met his, unwavering. "Then we die," he said simply.

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of truth. There was no room for error, no margin for failure. This was their last stand, and both men knew it.