Chapter 4 - Crafting the Future
By: DursleyFamily
The morning came early, but neither of them had slept much. The bed had been little more than an uncomfortable refuge for two men far too accustomed to the solitary nature of their craft. Yet, despite the tension of the previous night, something had shifted between them. The air wasn't quite as heavy, and though there was still much unsaid, there was an understanding now—a quiet acknowledgment that what they shared was more than just necessity.
Gregorovitch rose first, his joints stiff from the battle with the Dark wizards and the restless sleep that had followed. He moved silently, but Ollivander was already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed, his eyes distant as they focused on the wand resting in its case across the room.
"We've got a lot of work to do," Ollivander said quietly, more to himself than to Gregorovitch. His fingers tapped lightly on his knees, his mind already racing through the details of their plan.
Gregorovitch stretched, wincing as the familiar ache of his bruised body made itself known. He glanced over at the wand, its dark surface shimmering faintly in the soft morning light. The sight of it stirred something deep within him—a mixture of awe and wariness. He had seen powerful wands before, but nothing like this. Nothing that seemed to hum with a kind of dormant energy, waiting for the right moment to unleash itself.
"And you're sure about this?" Gregorovitch asked, his voice rough from sleep. "This wand… it'll be enough?"
Ollivander stood, his movements slow but deliberate as he crossed the room to the workbench. His hand hovered over the case, not quite touching it, as though the wand inside held more power than either of them could fully grasp.
"I'm not sure of anything," Ollivander admitted, his voice low. "But it's the best chance we have."
Gregorovitch frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly. "We don't deal in chances, Garrick. We deal in certainty. In control." He gestured toward the wand, his fingers twitching with the memory of crafting wands that had been used for everything from healing to destruction. "If we're going to stand against Ivanov, we need to be sure that what we create will hold."
Ollivander met his gaze, the intensity in his eyes sharp enough to cut through the morning haze. "That's why we're working together," he said simply. "To make sure that it will."
Gregorovitch let out a breath, his skepticism lingering but softened by the quiet determination in Ollivander's voice. He stepped closer to the workbench, his gaze shifting from the wand to the array of materials scattered across the table—rare woods, magical cores, tools that had been worn smooth from years of careful use. This was their battlefield now, and every decision they made would determine their survival.
"We start with the wood," Ollivander said, his voice taking on a more practical tone. He gestured toward the pile of exotic wand woods stacked neatly in the corner. "We need something that can hold the Thunderbird feather's energy without fracturing under the strain."
Gregorovitch nodded, already moving toward the pile of woods. He sifted through them with the practiced ease of someone who had spent his entire life surrounded by the materials of their craft. His fingers brushed over dragon heartstring and phoenix feathers cores, over yew and ebony wood, but none of them felt right. None of them would be strong enough to handle the power they needed to harness.
Ollivander watched him carefully, his own mind racing through the possibilities. The Thestral hornbeam had been a stroke of luck, a rare find that had already been tempered into something extraordinary. But it wasn't enough on its own. They needed more. Something else that could bind the magic together without tearing it apart.
"What about this?" Gregorovitch's voice broke through Ollivander's thoughts, and he turned to see the other man holding up a thin piece of wood, its surface dark and polished, almost black in the dim light of the shop.
Ollivander's eyes narrowed as he examined it. "Blackthorn."
Gregorovitch nodded, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood. "Strong, durable. It has a natural resistance to dark magic. If we use it as the base and fuse it with the Thestral hornbeam, it might just hold."
Ollivander considered the suggestion for a moment, his mind running through the potential combinations. Blackthorn was notoriously difficult to work with—its magic was as temperamental as the creatures that often dwelled near it. But if anyone could control it, it was Gregorovitch. And combined with Ollivander's precision, it just might be the key they needed.
"Alright," Ollivander said finally, his voice steady. "We'll use it."
Gregorovitch set the Blackthorn down on the workbench, his expression focused as he turned to the rest of the materials. "We'll need to prepare the core next. The Thunderbird feather will need to be bound tightly, or it'll disrupt the entire process."
Ollivander nodded, already reaching for the tools he would need to extract the magical properties of the feather. The room fell into a familiar silence as they worked, the only sounds the soft clinking of tools and the occasional crackle of magic as they wove the materials together.
For a moment, it was like old times—back when they had both been apprentices, eager to prove themselves in the world of wandmaking. They had always been at their best when their hands were busy, when they were focused on the craft that had defined their lives. The rivalry, the tension—all of it faded into the background when they worked. There was only the wood, the core, the magic. And the promise of what they could create together.
But the peace didn't last.
Gregorovitch's focus was intense, perhaps too intense. His brow furrowed deeply as he worked to fuse the core to the wood. The Thunderbird feather crackled in his hands, and though he was an expert wandmaker, it was clear the volatile core was fighting him at every step. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his fingers trembling slightly as he used a fine, silver binding tool to weave the magic deeper into the wood grain.
Ollivander, watching from a few feet away, sensed it before it happened. He saw the shift in the magic, felt the sudden spike of instability in the air—too much pressure, too much strain. His eyes flicked to Gregorovitch's hands, noting the slight misalignment of the tool, the way the feather quivered in resistance.
"Gregorovitch—wait!" Ollivander's voice cut through the quiet hum of the workshop, sharp and urgent.
But it was too late.
A flash of bright light erupted from the core, and the workshop exploded with a deafening bang. The air rippled with raw magical energy, sending tools and wood flying across the room. The workbench cracked beneath the force of the blast, shards of wood and sparks of light shooting outward in every direction. The force of the explosion knocked Ollivander backward, slamming him into the wall with a thud.
For a split second, the room was nothing but chaos—a whirl of light, sound, and magic gone haywire.
When the dust settled, Ollivander coughed, struggling to push himself to his feet. His head spun, his ears still ringing from the blast. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, his chest tight with a mixture of shock and panic.
Gregorovitch was still standing by the workbench, but just barely. His hands were shaking, his face pale, as he stared down at the smoldering remains of the Thunderbird feather. The core had been obliterated, leaving only blackened ash and charred wood in its place.
"Damn it," Gregorovitch muttered, his voice hoarse as he wiped sweat from his brow. His fingers twitched as though still feeling the shock of the blast. "It… I didn't…"
"You didn't focus," Ollivander snapped, his voice harsher than he intended as he pushed himself upright. His heart was still racing, his body tense from the sudden burst of adrenaline. He could feel the pulse of residual magic lingering in the air, like the aftershock of a storm.
Gregorovitch's jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with a brief spark of irritation. "I was focusing," he muttered, his voice tight with frustration. "The core was unstable."
"Of course it was unstable," Ollivander shot back, the edge in his voice growing sharper. "That's why you needed to be more careful. We're dealing with dangerous magic here, Gregorovitch. You can't just—"
"I know what I'm doing, Garrick," Gregorovitch interrupted, his voice cold. "Don't act like I'm some novice."
Ollivander's fingers twitched, his pulse still thudding in his ears. The explosion had shaken him more than he cared to admit. He wasn't used to this—the unpredictability, the volatility of working with someone who was just as skilled as he was, but also just as reckless. It reminded him of how they had always been—pushing boundaries, taking risks, but never quite trusting each other enough to step back when things got out of hand.
"You could have killed us both," Ollivander said quietly, the anger in his voice tempered by the undercurrent of fear.
Gregorovitch's expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he exhaled. "I know," he said, the admission quiet but sincere. He glanced down at the charred remains of the core, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I underestimated it."
Ollivander ran a hand through his hair, his fingers still trembling slightly from the adrenaline. He moved closer to the workbench, his eyes scanning the damage. The explosion had destroyed the Thunderbird feather completely, and the Blackthorn wood was splintered beyond repair. The project they had worked so carefully on was now nothing more than a pile of smoldering ash and broken pieces.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy, filled with the weight of what had just happened, and the realization that they had almost pushed too far.
"We'll have to start over," Gregorovitch said finally, his voice resigned but steady. "We'll need a new core. Something… less volatile this time."
Ollivander glanced at Gregorovitch, watching him carefully. The other man's face was drawn, his features lined with exhaustion and frustration, but there was something deeper in his eyes—a flicker of vulnerability, of doubt. The explosion hadn't just been a failure of magic. It had been a reminder of how fragile everything was, how close they were to losing control.
"We can't afford another mistake," Ollivander said, his voice quieter now, more measured.
Gregorovitch met his gaze, and for the first time, there was no hint of arrogance in his expression. Just a simple nod of agreement. "I know."
Ollivander hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer to Gregorovitch, his hand brushing against the other man's arm. It was a small gesture, barely noticeable, but it was enough to remind both of them of the connection they had started to build. A connection that went beyond wandmaking.
"We'll do it together," Ollivander said softly, his voice steady. "But this time, we'll get it right."
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