CHAPTER FOUR
Persephone had hated many things in life; raisin toast, bananas, early mornings, Balthazar's incessant whining, and Apparition.
"Here we are, my dear."
Dumbledore pocketed his wand, lifting it up and into his bright yellow sleeve.
They were somewhere else. A back alley, covered in dusty wooden boxes, junk, and overflowing trash. It was nowhere of much importance, there were no glimmering lights, or signs of magical beauty. It was a dead end alley, in the middle of a city. She narrowed her eyes, peering up at the Headmaster in disbelief.
"What? Here?"
He nodded, leading her out of the alley and into a wide, bustling street. There were people everywhere, from women to children as they ran up and down the pavement. It was somewhere in England, she recognised that low drawl, that similar accent that her aunt and uncle had spoken. London, she thought, as a red double-decker bus drove by, amidst beeping cars, and a black cab or two.
"It's around here," hummed Dumbledore, opening an old black door, "Come along, Miss Potter."
Persephone gritted her teeth, following the old coot into the dank, dark, smoky room. She coughed, a hand covering her lips as she stepped into a white haze. It was crowded with people, an odd sort that wore long, ratty dresses, and shabby hats. It smelt of alcohol, that rotting scent of whiskey that wafted over from the bar. The crowd didn't blink, perhaps it was a usual sight to see an eleven-year-old in the pub. She wrinkled her nose, hiding behind the Professor's shadow as he led them over.
They were in awe of him. Tripping over their feet as they stared up at yellow, silver, and blue robes. At the long silver beard. At the little bells.
There was a murmur of Dumbledore. They adored him with a feverish rush that was not unlike a celebrity and his fans.
(Persephone didn't think he was that great.)
They didn't take much notice of her, but nor did she, of them. Her eyes were trained on a man that sat at the bar, drinking from a silver mug. He was robed in purple, a nice, neat material. He was better off than the rest. The dark turban that covered his head looked off-place, a drab material that wasn't as fine as his robes.
(The hairs on the back of her neck sprung, she was afraid.)
"Ah, Quirinus."
"A-Albus. Is this her, then?"
Dumbledore beamed, an old hand landing on her shoulder as he moved her forward. Persephone twitched, staring up at the stranger.
There was something wrong.
"G-Good Evening, M-Miss Potter."
Persephone cocked a brow.
"Morning, Sir."
"Professor Quirrell will be taking you around Diagon today, I'm afraid I have a meeting at the Ministry to attend."
"The Ministry?"
Quirrell frowned. "You haven't told her—"
Dumbledore raised his hand.
"I haven't had much time, my boy."
The man twitched, his hands clenching, Persephone would recognise an irritated, disdainful shift anywhere. She did it herself.
(Dumbledore was aggravating.)
"Of course," he smiled, swelling with sugary deception, "I'll take Miss Potter to Gringotts first."
"Gringotts?"
"Wizarding Bank. D-Does she have access to her p-parents vaults?"
"Yes. They left a Trust Vault. Here."
Dumbledore passed over a golden key, it was an old, big thing that looked almost as if it had been melted down from gold. The edges were still curved.
She blinked in disbelief.
Persephone had money? Why was she just finding this out now?!
"I shall see you at Hogwarts, my dear. Do have fun. It is good to have you back, Persephone," he patted her lightly on the back. "Your parents would be proud, I'm sure."
She sneered, her lips twitching as his palm moved over her shoulder. She hated touch. She hated it.
"G-Goodbye, Albus."
He disappeared into the crowd, leaving her with the Professor that stared down at her intensely. His shoulders shifted, almost as if he was changing before her eyes.
She blinked. No. He was exactly the same. Nothing had changed. How peculiar.
"And," he drawled, those ruby eyes peering down, she had sworn they'd been brown, "How much has our famed Professor Dumbledore told you?"
Persephone shrugged.
"Came to the orphanage to tell me I'm a witch. Tha—"
"Orphanage?"
"My aunt and uncle died when I was young. Tragic accident."
"Ah."
He continued to stare. A heaving sigh slipped from his lips.
"I assume you know nothing then?"
"Quite possibly."
"I'd advise getting some books. Come, we'd best head to Gringotts," he paused, "Do remember to be polite to the Goblins, lest they get out their war-axes."
Persephone squeaked, hurrying after his shadow as they shifted into one of the back rooms. Her eyes widening at the thought.
"I'm sorry — Goblins?!"
"Oh, yes," he said, "The Horde is quite violent when they want to be."
"T-The Horde?"
"The Goblins. They're ruled by their King, our Ministry isn't perhaps on the best off terms with them. I would advise caution. They've removed heads for lesser reasons than insults. Picky little things."
"R-Removed…"
Persephone had the oddest feeling he was enjoying this. Taunting her as if she were lesser. A naive little girl that had stumbled into a dangerous, wondrous, new world.
"They control the gold, wills, heirships, and lordships. Cunning beasts," he considered, tilting his head to the side as he parted the brick wall with a flick of his fingers. "Even I wouldn't dare to cross them."
Persephone gasped, her heart seizing in her chest as she gazed at the bewildering sight. It was — she had no words. The streets were filled with others, in flowing silken robes, to cotton attire, and the shops, they were just as marvellous. One, she noticed, even sold cauldrons!
"Welcome," he droned, in that cold, unfeeling tone. "To the Wixen side of things. I hope, Miss Potter, you'll be able to keep your head and wits about."
She shivered, her feet stilling on the cold stone floor as she gazed up at him. Those garnet eyes were chilly, disdainful, and flowing with a saturating greed. It clung to him.
"It's—"
She paused, blinking bewilderedly at the street as they moved through. The cobblestone twisted, turning down narrow alleyways as they made their way through the crowd. It was small, large, and blooming with life. There were no cars, or men dressed in their drab, boring, modern clothes. It was all silk, satin, cotton, and velvet gowns and robes. She could tell the rich from the poor, it was as if she'd stepped back in time.
"— Beautiful."
Quirrell hummed. He didn't think the same, she could tell, it was in that disdainful sneer. Etched at the corner of his mouth.
He led her towards a great, towering building. Surrounded by white pillars, and leaning on an angle that was surely impossible. Her brows furrowed, peering wide-eyed at the small creature that stood guard. He had a spear, an axe strapped to his back, and a set of daggers placed neatly along his leather belt. The armour was even more impressive, glinting a bright bronze in the evening sun. It was a Goblin. Or, she supposed, as whatever it was, it certainly wasn't human.
The creature turned to her, its sharp beady eyes scorching through her flesh and bone. Almost as if it could see her own soul.
It banged its spear on the marble floor, nodding to the pair of them as the great, silver gates creaked open. There was another set of doors, large lumbering things that stood at fifteen metres. She shifted anxiously, gazing at the glowing encrusted runes that were embedded in old stone. She recognised one of them; ᚢ, Uruz, natural force and manifestation, she had read it once in the library, curled up on the lounge, with a book on Elder Futhark.
There were hundreds of them inside, all sitting on their high-seats, looking down at the customers with a sneer. It seemed to be all they did, she noticed, a sneer pulled at thin lips revealing a mouthful of sharp, razor teeth.
(They were terrifying.)
"What are we in here for?" She whispered, unsettled by the piercing stares. "Professor?"
He quirked a brow.
"Money."
She flustered, emerald orbs glaring up at him. That cold, stone gaze turned from her, nodding politely at the goblin who sat amidst others at the Service Desk.
"Well met, Wix."
It was drawled, a forced greeting, dragged from sharp teeth and a gritted jaw.
"Well met."
Quirrell brushed a sleeve over her shoulder, drawing the attention of the small creature. Dark black eyes peered down at her, long nails tapping on the marble table.
He hummed.
"And," he drawled, "Who is this?"
Quirrell stared, that chilling hateful thing that terrified her.
(Persephone's skin prickled. Horror settling in her stomach.)
"This is Miss Potter-Black."
"Ah," he sighed. A gravelly sound that crawled up his throat. "We've been waiting for some time, Witchling."
"Y-You have?"
His eyes were almost monstrous, she thought, her nails dug into the palm of her hands, terrified out of her wits. For such a small creature, there was something strong about him.
He hated her. She could tell. It was in the tilt of his head, claws tapping on cold marble, teeth bared.
"Why haven't you responded to our letters, Miss Potter."
"I-I," she desperately glanced at Quirrel. "I've received none."
"What?" He snapped. "You dare insinuate the Noble Hoard are liars!"
The Professor did nothing. Almost as if he were delighting in her own misery. There was a callous, cruel edge to him.
"I'm not!" She squeaked, her fingers trembling. "I swear!"
"Hmm."
"I-I just found out, Sir."
He growled.
"Found out what?"
"That I'm a witch! I don't know anything about all of this."
Persephone wished she had. A nauseating greed unfurled in her stomach, reaching up to claw at her heart with a brutal want. She would find out everything, Persephone would explore every nook and cranny of this strange, peculiar world.
The goblin's claws scraped along the sides of his table. He nodded, jumping down from his seat, with an elegant spin. It was stealthy. Predatory. She could see the danger in every move of his muscle and bone.
"Very well. Do you have your key, Miss Potter?"
"I—"
"I do," admitted Quirrell, his lips quivering in bemusement. "It was given to me by Professor Dumbledore."
"I see," the creature hissed, a rattling sound echoing in his chest. "Dumbledore. Well, come along then, Witchling. Griphook!"
Another one strode out from behind the marble desks, dressed in less finer material, but still graced with a coat that was lined with satin. He had a sharper face, ears, and teeth. She shuddered at the sight of them; long, gleaming teeth, some covered in gold as they shimmered in the candlelight.
"Yes, Master Telhok?"
"Take Miss Potter to her vault, once she leaves, inform the Head that I wish to speak with him. Somebody's been interfering with Gringotts business."
"Yes," acknowledged Griphook, he bared his teeth, a grown rumbling in his throat. "Of course. Come with me, human!"
Persephone startled, shuddering under that disdainful glare. As if it was her that was a worm beneath his neatly polished boots. She wondered, gazing at the others in the Hall, if they had a disliking for humans.
She followed in her Professor's shadow. Inching behind his billowing cloak slowly, out of sight from the other piercing gazes, as they travelled further into the Hall, and into the tunnels below.
Persephone had never seen anything like it. The tunnels were carved out, burrowing down into the earth as they glistened with a dark, black sheen. Almost as dark as the obsidian stones she'd collected in the crystal shop. They shimmered under the candle-light as Griphook lifted the lantern. The Professor follows behind the creature, striding as if there was nothing wrong, as if he could see.
She couldn't. All that surrounded her was a tunnel of pitch-black, and the odd shimmering stone that was embedded in the walls.
"W-Where are we going?" She hissed, tugging at the Professor's sleeve. "Is this safe?"
She couldn't see him. Nothing but kind of his face.
"You'll be fine, Potter."
Quirrell said little else, that drawling, cold tone snapped from his tongue and teeth. She shuddered, flinching back. She didn't know whether he was worse than the old man, or not.
Persephone gritted her teeth.
(She hadn't survived years at the Dursleys, and more at an Orphanage, to stumble blindly into a cavern of sharp rocks with two complete strangers.)
"This way," grumbled Griphook, his voice as sharp, and piercing as Maria's kitchen knives. "We'll take the cart."
"The cart?"
"Well," sneered Griphook. "How else do you think we're going to get down there? Fly?"
Persephone spluttered, glaring at the insipid faceless creature.
Perhaps she should've stayed home in the comfort of her room. No, she thought, she'd never be able to live it down. To miss out on a whole new world that breathed magic in a way that was ancient. Every piece of Diagon Alley felt like a time-machine. From robes, gowns, the old shops, and the creatures that she'd only ever read off in books.
(She wouldn't have missed it for the world.)
Persephone put her hands in her pockets, peeking out behind them as they left the tunnel, and out into a wide cavern. There were a hundred lit torches, perched on the walls, watching a large drop in the earth.
She eyed it cautiously. On it was a set of silver tracks, and a small cart.
She'd seen one of those before, Sister Maria had taken them on an expedition to see an old mining town, and its old rails. Persephone hadn't trusted those carts, and she certainly didn't trust this one.
"Well," snapped Griphook, snarling his sharp teeth, "Are you getting in?"
She was already getting fed up with him and his petulant attitude. Her fists clenched, nails digging into the side of her palms. He was no better than the fools at her home.
"Yes," she grumbled, stepping past her bemused Professor. "Coming."
(She didn't like the way he looked at her. As if she were a puzzle, the kind he wished to claw at, mould, and piece back together as he saw fit.)
It was a small thing, with only two rows of seats. Each as narrow as the goblin that sat in front of them. He flicked his hand, the lamp on the cart began to glow, lighting up the dark cavern below them. Doors snapped shut with rattling whoosh.
"How long is this going to take?"
Quirrell shifted, his dark, glimmering red eyes staring. He tilted his head, peering narrowly.
(It was predatory, cold, abyss-like.)
Griphook grunted.
Persephone sucked in her breath, hands desperately grasping at the edges of the chair in front of her, a scream lingered on her tongue. They shot forward, rattling down a twisted slope. Her dark, braid wobbled, a curl or two loosening as they spun down. She wanted to reach for anything else, to hold her stomach as the world began to speed by faster.
She wanted to scream stop. But one look at the Goblin proved he wouldn't, his lips were tugging at the corner of his mouth, a wide nasty grin as he revelled in the fast speed. They jolted to the left, and then the right, sending her slamming into her Professor.
A gasp was finally pulled from her mouth and lungs, her fingers quivering. They sped past a bright, glowing underwater cave. It shimmered, the water bubbling and roiling, as if it knew they were there.
Something moved in it. A tentacle? An arm? A fin? Persephone peered at it closely, brows furrowed.
"What's that?"
"The Pit of Logi. It'll burn your flesh right off, little Witchling," he cackled. "It's where we put our thieves."
Persephone gulped, her teeth chattering as she shuddered. This world was utterly mad!
"I-Is that… legal?"
"All thieves are under our domain, not the Ministry's. We do what we like. Some burn, others are beheaded, some are sold off to families for punishment."
"S-Sold? Beheaded?!"
Griphook hummed, long claw-like nails tapping the side of the carriage, eyeing the narrow cavern as they moved down again, jolting to the left with a loud screech. The cart stopped, sending Persephone slamming into the seats in front.
"Right."
Griphook jumped out, unlocking the door with his finger, sending a rumbling noise echoing through the cave. The name Potter was carved onto the front, she barely saw it before she was met with a sight of gold. It was everywhere. A bright pile that reached the roof; mounds of gold, silver, and bronze. There were rubies there too, necklaces cased in glass boxes, and a few rings.
"Well?"
"I-It's mine? All of it?"
"Yes," nodded Quirrell, "I would advise taking some of the jewellery."
"Why?"
"It's a wixen tradition to wear rings and necklaces of your blood when you read eleven."
"Oh."
Persephone stumbled in, grabbing a heap of golden coins, a few rings, and a sapphire necklace into her pouch Griphook had handed her.
"What are these?" She asked, rolling a few coins in her hand.
"Gold ones are Galleons, there's seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle."
Persephone furrowed her brows, dumping them into the pouch, and tying it shut.
(The Goblins had given her one at the counter, spun from magical leather that gave her the exact amount she needed.)
They clambered back into the cart, heading back through the tunnels and up towards the entrance of the cavern. Persephone could see the glittering lights in the distance, the torches that greeted them on sight. It was almost easier to see, as if her eyes had become acquainted with the dark shadows that lingered. She'd grown up in the dark, hiding amidst spiders, and the empty webs of her cupboard.
Seeing the arched stone was no different.
"Thank you," muttered Persephone. "For the ride."
Griphook snarled.
"Don't thank us," he sneered. "Never thank us, Witchling."
His teeth, she wondered, were even sharper. Yellowing fangs glaring back at her in the dark of the tunnel as he led them back into the Hall.
She shivered, tucking her hands into her coat pockets, rubbing against the soft wool as she moved out of the building, blinking up at the shimmering sun. It was a far more pleasant sight.
She eyed the Professor curiously, blinking under maroon red orbs. They watched her more than she did him, he frowned.
"We'll get your uniform next," he said, "then your books."
Persephone nodded.
"Is there something more on this place?"
He didn't reply, the man was as tense as he'd been since the beginning.
"I mean, about Wixen. I-Is there rules?"
Quirrell smiled sharply. It was faint, and barely there at all. A mere twitch of his lips.
"You might have to go to Knockturn for that, I'm afraid."
"Knockturn?"
"Knockturn Alley, it's known for its… unique shops."
"Unique?"
"Dark books."
Persephone nodded, as if she knew.
(She did not.)
"Can we go there?"
Quirrell tilted his head to the side, he hummed.
"No."
He took her to an old shop, with bright red doors; Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was filled with guests, a couple browsing through silk and velvet patterns, a boy curiously stared at her from where he was being measured, and another woman was eyeing the lace fabrics that hung on the wall. It was almost like modiste, the kind that women had gathered in centuries past.
(It was absolutely fascinating.)
Madam Malkin, a small woman, robed in velvet mauve smiled down at her. It was the gentle kind; demure curved lips, gentle hands, and a soft touch. The kind mothers had given their children after leaving them at the gates of school.
"Hogwarts, dearie? I've got the lot here," she pointed at a shelf of dark, black fabrics. "There's another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."
Persephone nodded politely at the boy, jumping up on the stool next to him. Everything about him jumped out at her, from his pointed face, arched cheeks, and slicked blonde hair. He wore arrogance on his soft cotton sleeves as if he were born into it. Persephone would know where to recognise a privileged child anywhere.
Years of putting up with Dudley had been intolerable. The same aristocratic, arrogance stared back at her now.
(Dudley was alive. The scum should've burned with his blood.)
"Hello," he greeted, "Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes," she sighed, shifting uncomfortably as she was measured with a tape. "Not like there's anywhere else."
"No," he conceded. "Not in Britain. Father almost sent me off to Durmstrang."
Durmstrang. Her mind raced, she needed something, anything to get more knowledge of this strange place.
She was at a disadvantage. Persephone knew well enough that it was never a good thing.
"Didn't you want to go?"
He shrugged.
"I suppose… Hogwarts is where my family's been going for years."
"Tradition, then. My family's done the same."
She didn't know. Persephone hoped it was true.
"Do you think I'll be able to smuggle in a broom?"
She blinked, staring at him bewilderedly.
"A broom?"
"My father's next door, buying my books. I was going to drag him off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own! I think I'll bully my father into getting me one."
Persephone giggled, clasping her hand tightly to her lips. He was a spoilt brat, with a whiny edged voice that was somehow worse than Dudley's.
Heaven knows how!
Those grey eyes turned to her.
"Have you got your own broom, then?"
"Not a racing one."
"Well," he flushed. "Obviously. Do you play at all?"
She shifted, eyeing him cautiously.
"No."
"I do," he smirked, puffing smugly at his apparent accomplishments. "Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say I agree."
She nodded, and smiled sweetly.
"Oh," she breathed. "I'm sure."
Quirrell coughed into his sleeve, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Do you know what house you'll be in yet?" He asked, silver eyes boring into her own. "I do, of course."
"Ho—"
"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been," he snorted, "imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"
"I'm sure all houses have good qualities," she admitted. "It wouldn't be there if it was useless."
"I suppose… I still wouldn't be caught dead in yellow."
Persephone raised a brow, glancing at his silver-like hair and eyes, pale cheeks, and pink lips. She smiled.
"I don't know," she teased. "I think you'd look rather fetching."
The boy spluttered.
"I would not," he gritted. "Green is more my colour. You'd look terrible in it," he sneered.
"Yellow or green?"
"Green."
"I don't think so," she shrugged. "It'd suit my eyes."
"Yes," he huffed. "Well, you need much more to get into the noble House of Slytherin. You need to be of the right sort."
Silver eyes narrowed, a sneer stretching across his lips.
"You are the right sort, aren't you?"
"Wha—"
"Your parents are our kind?"
"Yes," Persephone snapped, glaring sullenly at the boy. "They were Wixen."
The silver-haired boy relaxed, his shoulders slumping as he peered up at her. There was a trickling of curiosity in him; bright, stubborn, and tenacious as he gazed at her tight fish-tail braids.
"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine! I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"
Persephone shifted uncomfortably, a flush swept across her cheeks. Fear gripped her heart at such words, would everyone think little of her?
(It was no different than before. Persephone would never be like them)
"That's you done, my dear," chirped Madam Malkin, patting her gently on the shoulder.
"Thanks."
She stuffed her hand in her pockets, watching the woman cautiously as she handed her a couple of boxes. Each was brown, plain, and rather heavy.
"A-Are y-you done?" Asked Quirrell, eyeing the blonde boy in disdain. "Good."
"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose."
Persephone nodded, carrying the boxes as she followed him, eyeing the dramatic sweep of his purple robes. Honestly, she thought with a huff, he's better off dropping the stutter. It was an act, she could see it in those garnet eyes of his.
"Come along, I'll leave you at Ollivanders, and get your books."
The stutter was gone, again, replaced along with that cold, reptilian look. Her skin prickled under his stare, it was always the same.
"Ollivanders?"
"A wand shop," he said, quirking a brow. "You could find a better one in Knockturn, but I wouldn't advise going down there. You'd catch the wrong sort of attention, Potter."
"Why?"
He sneered.
"You're a Potter. A scion of the light, they'd eat you alive."
She tilted her head, lips quivering, a giggle slipping past. The mere idea of her being light seemed ludicrous. She likened it with angels and holier-than-thou girls that spent their evenings in prayer. Persephone had never done that, far more tempted to put garden snakes and spiders in the girls' bed sheets.
"I don't think so," she shrugged. "Nobody at the Orphanage would call me… light. They think I'm the devil's spawn."
Quirrell froze, his arms stiffening as he jolted, turning to her with furrowed brows.
"It's not an orphanage," she sighed. "I mean, we're supposed to call them Children Homes now. But Sister Maria says there's not much of a difference."
"Sister Maria?"
Persephone scowled.
"She's an old hag that makes me go to church. I hate church."
She bit her tongue. She'd said too much, her nails dug into her palms as she froze. It was a chilling call, an echo that whispered; tell me your secrets. It brushed across her mind.
(It wasn't her own. It wasn't hers.)
"Muggles," he grumbled, as if they were a disdainful curse, a bug beneath the heel of his leather boots.
Persephone eyed the shops curiously from behind him. Flourish and Botts stood out, with scrolls, tomes, leather-bound books, and diaries. The walls were lined with glowing golden symbols, and a curved chandelier that hung in the middle of the large store. She narrowed her eyes, peering at it with raised brows, it almost looked bigger inside than it should be.
"Can we get my books first, sir?"
"No. You can get your wand, and I'll get your books. Then you can go home."
He spoke as if her mere presence was filthy, a disdainful stain that he wished to get rid off.
It was a shame. Persephone had really wanted to buy some books on curses. She'd seen a few in the window, simple things, but enough to scare the wits out of the children at home. They'd leave her alone then, she could spend the rest of her summer in peace. Madeline might even leave her be.
They didn't immediately go to Ollivanders, despite the Professor's wish. Persephone dragged her feet, peering in at the multitude of shop windows. There wasn't enough time to see it all. She would come back , she swiftly decided, she didn't know how, but she would.
"Potter," snapped Quirrell, his orbs glowing amidst the bustling crowd. "Hurry up."
He clenched his jaw, glaring at the obstinate brat that hurried past him, and towards the towering, glass-and-brick building.
Persephone cursed, hurrying to the side as the red-door swung open, and a family of five strode out. There was a girl, not much older than her, with dark locks of hair tied up behind her ears with little ribbons of blue. She looked perfect, from her silver spider-silk robes, to her newly polished boots.
(Persephone hated her.)
"Out of the way!" She shouted, dark curls whacking her in the face. "Look where you're going!"
Emerald orbs seethed, narrowing at the bint that hurried after her parents, a flock of little brothers following behind.
The small silver bell rung, echoing in the little waiting room as she stumbled in, tucking the box of clothes under her arm. There was nobody in sight, nothing but an empty shop filled with ailes of old leather boxes. She peeked inside, lifting up the lid as she glanced down at the long, thin wooden stick. It didn't look like much. She brushed it with her finger.
Persephone hissed, jolting back, a shocked screech slipping from her lips. It had zapped her! Little bolts of lightning had seared her thumb, a black sooty mark covered her pale flesh.
"Be careful with that one. Birchwood is terribly picky."
She yelped, spinning around, her heel rolling on the smooth wooden floor. There was a man behind her. He leaned over her, his hands tucked into the corner of his cotton thread-bare pants. He was an odd sort, with mismatching garments, wild white hair, and a kind wrinkled face that glanced back at her. Persephone thought he looked rather like a mad scientist, the kind that the boys read about in their secret comic collection tucked under their mattresses.
(The stack that Persephone had stolen months ago.)
"Miss Potter-Black. Yes, yes. You take after your grandmother, Dorea, did you know?" He hummed, leaning in closer. "Wild little thing, hmmm, we might have to get you something similar. How do you feel about Ebony?"
She blinked, glancing up into those milky white eyes. Persephone had almost thought he was blind, but, no, they saw too much.
(He looked rather good for his age, if he sold her grandmother a wand.)
"Ebony?"
"Yes, my dear, the wood!"
"I-" She hesitated, huffing as she bit her bottom lip anxiously. "I don't know?"
The most experience in wood she had was climbing them. Her most favourite tree was the great oak in their backyard. It was a splendid old thing, with branches that stretched wide and far, for days.
"I suppose I like Oak--"
"No, no, no! That won't do at all! You'll burn through it in a week."
He leaned closer, ignoring the shudder that swept through her shoulders as she shifted uncomfortably. His nose was almost close enough to brush hers.
"Yew?" He whispered, almost to himself. "Yes, that might do. A bit too similar to… his."
"His?"
"Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out in the world to do…"
He shivered, shaking his head furiously, white whisps of hair brushing the side of his cheeks.
"Voldemort, you mean?"
"Hush!" He hissed, "Never speak the name, child! Never speak the name!"
"Wha--"
"It was cursed once," he muttered, eyeing her cautiously. "And it might be again."
"Right," she uttered, nodding at the man. "Sure."
"Wand arm?"
"Wa-"
Ollivander flicked out a tape, she watched it curiously as the thing grew a mouth, and enlarged.
"Wand arm."
"Uhm, right?"
He hummed, moving his finger quickly as the tape began to wind up, and around her wrist. He nodded to himself, summoning an old quill and parchment as he began to scribble down the odd note or two.
"Yes, yes. I see. Yew or Ebony? Walnut Wood might work."
She blinked at him bewilderedly.
"Is it really that important?"
Ollivander paused, his milky white orbs staring at her fiercely.
"Is it -- good heavens, girl! Of course it is! Without the right wood you'd be useless! Now hold out your arms, yes, that's it."
The tape began to move again, slithering up her arm, and towards her shoulder and armpit.
"Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Miss. Black. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. Of course, you will never get such good results with another wixen's wand."
Persephone gaped, her heart thundering as her mind raced a million miles per minute. Phoenixes? Dragons? She'd never even considered their existence, let alone their uses!
"Right," he grumbled, pulling out an old wooden box. "Miss Black, try this one. Ebony and thestral hair. Twelve inches. Just give it a wave."
She glanced at it scepticaly, taking the wand into her hand and moved. Her fingers barely got to tighten before the candles blew, melted wax splattering across the sides of his nicely furnished table.
"No, no. Absolutely not. Here. Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite wh-"
(It didn't like her either.)
"No, no, no. Yew and dragon heartstring."
It didn't do much either, but it was better. Her cheeks flushed as a warm song gripped at the sides of her heart and mind. She glanced down at the dark wood curiously.
How odd.
"Better," he muttered. "Yew it is then."
"Here we go," Ollivander said, reaching for another old box. "I've had this one up here for some time. Bit dusty."
He blew at the edges, wiping the dust of with a brush of his hand, passing her the small box.
"Tricky customer, eh? No matter. Yew and thestral heartstring."
Persephone huffed, opening it up, and pulling out the old wood.
Fear clogged in her throat, sweat gathering on her palms as she touched it. Lifting the wand from the velvet wrapping. It was beautiful. The wand filled her with warmth, a bright song that echoed in her soul, she could feel it. A weeping kind of joy that wished to take hold.
Beautiful rays of silver spilled forth from it, a light that glowed in the dark room, lighting the candles as they hummed.
"Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good."
"What," she gasped. "What was that?"
Ollivander hummed, raising a bushy brow.
"That's your magic, little witch."
"I've never felt it like that!"
"Magic is a peculiar thing, little one. It is in everything, but mostly our soul. We need a powerful focal centre to use it. You've done accidental things before, hmm? Floating books? Growing plants?"
Persephone nodded.
"That comes from here," he lectured, pointing softly at her heart. "It is erratic, and unstable, but with a wand you're using more power, and safely too."
She frowned.
"But I've done magic before, I mean, it's not that hard."
He gazed at her sternly.
"I would be very careful whom you tell, Miss Black. Wandless magic is not a common gift, and for those that is is, the Ministry keeps an unnecessary eye on."
"Oh."
It stuck with her, that aching next to know, for the rest of the day. She was too afraid to ask the Professor, even when he sat with her for lunch. It tickled her senses, that dreaded horror that she'd be watched, or worse, controlled, for gifts that weren't even her fault to begin with.
(Persephone didn't know what the Ministry was, let alone wandlore, or the incessant whining of Quidditch from a silver-haired boy.)
Quirrell handed her a couple of paper-wrapped parcels. There fourteen of them, with three of them wrapped tightly in a dark shimmering material. She eyed those ones curiously.
"Don't open them now," he demanded, "Wait till you get home. They're not for the public eye."
Persephone's brows raised, a small smile tugging at her lips. A gleeful excitement swelled in her chest, that aching curiosity made her fingers tingle.
She wanted to open it now.
"Why?" She asked, taking a bite out of her curried egg sandwich. "What is it?"
Quirrell didn't say. He refused to budge, glaring at her from across the table. That dark energy surged beneath his skin, prickling at the hairs on her pale flesh.
(He was terrifying.)
"Don't tell anyone you've got them," he drawled. "Not unless you wish to be arrested, Miss Potter."
Persephone froze, eyeing the cafe with a tremble. Praying to anything, above and beyond, that nobody had heard him.
"I don't suppose you'll tell me what's in them?"
"No."
"Alright," she sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I get it."
His hand grasped tightly at her elbow, crimson eyes glaring into her own. A seething malice lived there, a putrid thing that was more monster than man.
"You won't tell anyone I got you them, Potter. Is that clear?"
Persephone swallowed, an audible click echoing across their booth.
"I said, is that clear?"
She nodded frantically. Her pale fingers trembled as she clutched tightly at the edges of her sandwich. Her appetite was suddenly gone.
Persephone didn't speak for the rest of the evening, not even when the Professor helped her purchase an owl. She kept her head low, watching him, with the terrified eyes of a child that had stumbled across something she hadn't.
She knew then, there was something terribly wrong with her Professor.
He knew she knew.
Yet, he didn't seem to care.