CHAPTER 40: A GLIMPSE INTO WANDLORE

The night held a chill that seemed misplaced for August. The Wizarding Wireless had been abuzz with reports of anomalous weather patterns, so the biting cold wasn't entirely unforeseen. If this unusual trend persisted, it wouldn't be long before the inebriates stumbling through Knockturn Alley would succumb to the freezing temperatures. Eventually, a body would be discovered, prompting a reluctant call to the Aurors, who would dutifully file a report noting an accidental death due to freezing. It was a chillingly convenient way to dispose of someone—render them unconscious with a stunner, employ a blood-freezing curse, displace bits of their attire, and leave them to be discovered the following day.

Garrick Ollivander scanned the dimly lit shop, ensuring it was empty, before deftly flicking his wand to lock the front doors and switch the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. This seemingly innocuous act triggered the ancient wards cocooning the establishment, drawing power from the ley line beneath it. Wandmakers weren't typical targets of danger, but if something were to happen to him, it would leave both factions bereft of wands, an outcome far from ideal. He couldn't forget the incident in the early seventeenth century when his father was abducted by Gormlaith Gaunt for custom wands; it had underscored the necessity of his freedom to collect materials.

Yet, tonight was different—special, even. Garrick sensed it in his weathered bones, though his indifference remained steadfast. He wasn't as magically potent as the average Hogwarts graduate, but his half-dozen wards acted as an effective deterrent, dissuading troublemakers from seeking havoc in his vicinity.

"It might not suffice tonight," he murmured to himself, turning to straighten a precarious stack of wand boxes when the door's chime tinkled, signaling an intruder crossing the protective wards, seeking him out. Another, deeper chime resonated, and the door swung open, admitting a stranger. The man appeared to be in his late forties, with a robust build and an unshaven countenance hinting at a life well-lived. Yet, there was an imperceptible distortion surrounding him—a potent glamour charm, nearly invisible to most.

But not to Garrick.

Not to one blessed with the Sight.

Garrick didn't need the Sight to recognize the figure that stood before him. The problem with his Sight was the indelible memory it carved, never allowing him to forget what he'd Seen. More significantly, the stranger softly shut the door, dispelling the glamour, revealing a slender frame, skeletal hands, and a noseless, serpentine countenance with piercing red eyes.

Garrick steadied his expression and drew in a deep breath, coaxing his nerves into submission.

"How are you?" Lord Voldemort's icy voice sliced through the air. "Mr. Ollivander?"

"Tom Riddle," Garrick replied, peering at the intruder, deliberately disregarding the twitch that danced across the Dark Lord's face. "This is a surprise. Just moments ago, I was reminiscing about my father's encounters with your ancestor, Gormlaith. I presume you're here to replace your deceased wand?"

The Dark Lord's visage contorted again. "Ever perceptive, Mr. Ollivander."

"Oh, not omniscient, just well-informed, my boy," Garrick shrugged. "The news about the destroyed wands was in the Prophet for weeks. Witnessing the demise of something you've crafted is a dreadful thing. When young Harry Potter stepped into my shop, I knew you'd follow suit."

"And why is that?"

"Thirteen and a half inches, yew and phoenix feather. Even if I could forget every moment a wand found its partner, yours and his would linger longest in my memory."

"What does Potter have to do with this?"

Garrick tilted his head. Did the Dark Lord truly not know? "The phoenix whose feather enchanted your wand also contributed another feather. Just one more."

The Dark Lord's eyes sparked. "Potter."

Garrick nodded. "The same child who vanquished you in the past."

A glint flashed in the Dark Lord's eyes. "Do you find it wise to provoke me, Mr. Ollivander?"

"Provoke? You misunderstand me," Garrick retorted. "I am a wand maker. Crafting wands is my ordained task. I take pride when they're used for something significant, regardless of its nature. I expected to be dragged from my humble shop to your fortress."

"I hold too much regard for you to do that, Mr. Ollivander," Voldemort replied. "Unfortunately, I require your services again."

"Yes, I anticipated as much," Garrick said. "Took your time, didn't you? I assume you tested your supporters' wands before coming to me. But why the delay? This isn't merely about acquiring a new wand to replace your old one, is it?"

A faint smile tugged at the Dark Lord's lips. "Still seeing through me, are you?"

"I see what I've always seen," Garrick smiled faintly. "The wielder of a yew and phoenix feather is always destined for great things."

"Destined," the Dark Lord echoed, slowly advancing toward the counter and placing his lifeless phoenix wand upon it. "I face a quandary, Mr. Ollivander, one I wish to keep concealed, preferably without revisiting the actions of my ancestor."

Garrick met the Dark Lord's gaze. "I'm listening."

The Dark Lord rested both hands on the counter. "Since my return, my magic has been... at odds. It's potent, more so than I recall, yet fragile, as if battling itself."

"Quite intriguing," Garrick remarked.

"Indeed," the Dark Lord admitted. "I've tested various wands brought by my followers. None endure for long. There's something within my magic that... destroys them."

Garrick's eyes widened, and in that instant, the Dark Lord's narrowed.

"You comprehend the reason behind this, don't you?" the Dark Lord inquired.

Garrick's shaggy eyebrows drew together. "Rumor suggests you took Mr. Potter's blood that night, possibly for an occult ritual, to grant you a new form. I confess, I'm not well-versed in those aspects of alchemy. Necromancy isn't fitting for my profession."

The Dark Lord paused, his expression hinting that he believed Garrick wasn't divulging everything. Yet, Garrick spoke the truth. Magic was entwined with a wizard's conviction. Belief in the magic was essential—not just its occurrence but its moral justification.

That's what made Tom Riddle, or any necromancer, perilous. Magic was a force of creation. Wandcrafting, an alchemical process invoking this power. In contrast, necromancy twisted life, using magic to destroy while creating a grotesque semblance of existence. Just the contemplation of such spells churned Garrick's stomach.

And Tom Riddle believed in it.

The transformation into something increasingly inhuman was evident in Tom Riddle—a lethal, commanding, and astute being. Garrick couldn't help but shake his head. How could someone marked by a phoenix feather veer down such a dark path?

"If Mr. Potter's blood courses through you," Garrick began, "then regrettably, no wand I've fashioned can endure. Sooner or later, the power within Mr. Potter's blood, now mingled with yours, will seek annihilation. Not even the immortal phoenix feather can withstand it."

"However," the Dark Lord interjected, "Harry Potter possesses a wand. Crafted by you, I've been told."

"And quite an unusual one," Garrick murmured, recollecting the peculiar wand he'd crafted for Mr. Potter.

"Then perhaps you could fashion one for me as well?"

Garrick shook his head. He'd anticipated this moment. There was no evasion from this man. His blood-red eyes, emblematic of his distorted existence, spoke volumes.

"No."

"And why is that?"

"Because it's beyond my capability," Garrick stated plainly.

He met the Dark Lord's gaze, anticipating a Legilimency intrusion. He hoped this being—questionable to be called a man—could sense what he had experienced while crafting that wand for young Mr. Potter. Instead, the Dark Lord merely asked, "Why?"

Garrick closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts. "It's a lamentable circumstance when a wand maker cannot offer a compatible wand to a customer. In such cases, one must seek the customer's blood to act as a binding agent and fashion a wand suited to them. I did the same for Mr. Potter, only..."

The Dark Lord's eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"His blood didn't act as a binder but as a counterforce to the magic destroying wand cores. And yet, the wand it produced was unlike any other. I'd venture to say such a wand would not respond to anyone but him," Garrick explained. "Not even you, Lord Voldemort."

"I have Potter's blood within me, Mr. Ollivander," the Dark Lord countered. "Surely—"

"That blood is as much yours as it is mine," Garrick corrected him. "Alchemy is a peculiar craft. If you knew what Mr. Potter's blood held, you might not have dared to touch it. But, as they say, hubris precedes the fall."

The other man's malevolent red eyes glowed. "And what if I were to request a wand fashioned through similar means? Using my blood?"

"It would suffer the same fate as any other wand, I'm afraid," Ollivander stated. "The destructive power in Mr. Potter's blood isn't rooted in his lineage. I'm sure you've heard the outcome of his trial."

"The Peverell family magic..."

"Gift of the Death Gods," Garrick clarified. "I believe no one can wield a wand containing Mr. Potter's blood. If you doubt my words, I have several—those that didn't suit Mr. Potter—right here. Perhaps you'd like to witness the truth firsthand?"

Garrick slid open a drawer, using gloved fingers to gingerly place one of those wands on the counter. "Mahogany and Rougarou hair. Twelve inches. Quite flexible."

The Dark Lord reached for the wand's handle but halted just inches away from it. His fingers hovered, undecided.

"You sense it, don't you?" Garrick asked. "The peculiar power emanating from it? The foreboding, acrid sensation that permeates it? I've kept it, anticipating a time when Mr. Potter might claim this one. Perhaps it's an old man's wish, but who can say? Maybe..." He reached for another wand, the grainy white one. "How about this? Ash and thunderbird feather. Eleven inches. Excellent for charms, I believe."

The Dark Lord shook his head. "You've made your point. Tell me, Mr. Ollivander, what would you propose? You claim you cannot craft a wand suitable for me, and yet, I cannot do without one."

"I never said you couldn't," Garrick countered. "A wizard can channel magic through nearly any instrument. However, the most successful results come from the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are intricate—a mutual journey where the wand learns from the wizard, and vice versa."

"But Potter's magic will eventually render them unusable?"

Garrick met his gaze, his expression fraught with anguish. "Yes. Eventually."

"And this applies to all wands?"

"I believe so," Garrick replied, his penetrating gaze fixed on the Dark Lord's face. "You ask profound questions, Mr. Riddle. Wandlore is a complex and enigmatic aspect of magic. Unlike the pursuits you've dedicated yourself to."

Silence lingered between them for several tense seconds.

The Dark Lord exhaled dryly, regarding Garrick with mild discontent. "You're aware that I've punished others for daring to stare at me so directly? Yet you persist in addressing me by that name. Is that wise?"

Garrick had foreseen this outcome. Tom Riddle's logic was relatively straightforward once understood. He believed the world was his dominion, thus embodying ultimate authority. The strong governed the weak and dictated the rules, and he positioned himself above them, holding absolute sway. Should an issue pique his interest, he addressed it as he saw fit, regardless of the resulting destruction. If someone crossed him, he saw himself as the rightful judge, jury, and executioner.

Garrick's task now was to ensure he didn't take on the role of executioner. Death wasn't favorable for business.

"The phoenix feather in the yew wand that served you so well chose an eleven-year-old Tom Riddle. It comprehended both the best and worst of young Mr. Riddle. It assisted him in achieving the remarkable magical feats he accomplished in his lifetime. Lord Voldemort is merely a façade, created to instill fear in the masses. Forgive me, Mr. Riddle, but from a wand maker's viewpoint, your Lord Voldemort persona holds less significance than Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award."

The Dark Lord fell silent for several moments before a brief, almost amused smile graced his lips. "How intriguing! Thank you for that observation, Mr. Ollivander. And you're correct. I took my time." He paused momentarily. "When the wands offered by my followers failed, I assumed it was an issue of power. Perhaps these wands couldn't channel the... peculiar magic resonating in my blood?"

His lips twisted. "It's interesting that you mention the boy's lineage. Legends speak of an infamous wand, or wands, passing from one owner to another through murder."

Ollivander paled. "Only one wand, I believe."

"It's known by various names—the Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, and most significantly, the Deathstick. Rumors claim it originates from the Peverell family, crafted by Antioch Peverell. A wand connected to Peverell Family Magic might resolve this issue?"

"The legend of the Deathstick is more myth than fact, I believe," Ollivander interjected. "A wand's power is intertwined with the wizard. Although a wand's core can influence the wielder's magic, even then..."

"Mr. Ollivander," the Dark Lord interrupted sharply. "I recognize when someone is withholding information from me. Do not test my patience. What can you tell me about the Deathstick?"

Garrick froze, his eyes widened, and his breath caught. The mere presence of the man made it almost unbearable. He demanded information, and depending on Garrick's response, his fate would be determined.

"There are records in wizarding history. Gaps exist as well—periods when the wand disappears, temporarily lost, only to resurface. Certain characteristics make it recognizable to those versed in wandlore. Written accounts, some obscure, others potentially authentic."

"And its transfer through murder?"

"No," Garrick replied. "I cannot confirm if it necessitates murder. Its history is marked by bloodshed, likely due to its immense power and desirability. It's perilous in the wrong hands, fascinating to those studying wand potency. Whether it belonged to Antioch Peverell, I can't say for certain, but if it does, I'm convinced it now belongs to Mr. Potter, emerging as the vessel of Peverell's legacy."

The Dark Lord mused, "A power that dismantles magic, regardless of its potency or mystique, and a wand exclusively crafted to harness it. A power I am unfamiliar with…"

He smiled. "Yes, I comprehend it now. Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. You've been incredibly helpful. However…"

Garrick felt a shiver down his spine.

"I sense your knowledge has become a potential liability, Mr. Ollivander. If Potter discovers this legacy, he's likely to seek answers from you, isn't he?"

"Harry Potter has a wand—" Garrick began.

"But not the Deathstick. Not the wand designed to harness Peverell magic. The boy is exceptional, and his Peverell heritage even more so. If he gains possession of this wand, it would disrupt my plans significantly."

He raised his right hand, and a wand-box flew into his palm. Yew and dragon heartstring, Garrick observed absently. The Dark Lord cautiously grasped the wand's handle, sensing the power coursing through it. It wouldn't be an ideal match, but it would suffice. For now.

"Mr. Riddle—Mr. Riddle, I'm sure we can reach—" Garrick attempted.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Ollivander, this... is unavoidable."

Garrick felt the wand tip touch his temples as he heard the final words of the night.

"Imperio!"

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