The Most Evil! That's Right, It's Me. (Read on~~)
Silence—
dead silence.
Ollivander's chin trembled slightly as he stared at the boy, speechless.
Hagrid also looked down at Owen in shock. If, inside his hut, the boy's earlier words could still be dismissed as childish ignorance…
Now he was blatantly threatening someone.
This wasn't mischief.
This was something only a dark wizard would do.
"Be smart, Mr. Ollivander. I'm just here to buy a wand, you understand?"
Owen still wore a smile—thin, polite, and venomous, like a snake pretending to be tame.
"If you don't mind, fetch the box on the far right of the third row on the fourth shelf. I'd like to try that one."
Ollivander's face drained of color. A strange, instinctive fear flashed in his eyes.
It was unthinkable—Garrick Ollivander, who had spent his life handling dangerous wands and dangerous wizards, frightened by a first-year child.
Yet when the boy looked at him—looked through him—Ollivander felt a rush of vivid images flash in his mind:
A Killing Curse—
himself collapsing—
green light devouring everything.
Legilimency?
His pupils constricted.
True Legilimency, not the clumsy trick most adult wizards attempted.
A true master could slip past mental defenses with ease, pluck memories like flowers… even plant false ones.
And among the few known masters alive—
Dumbledore was one.
And—unfortunately for the world—Grindelwald had been another.
No… no, it can't be… But once suspicion started, conviction followed.
Liu Huaqiang once said: "When you already doubt the melon, it doesn't matter if you cut it—the result is decided."
Once suspicion blooms, guilt is established.
Ollivander swallowed hard.
This child—
Holding that man's wand.
With terrifying magical potential.
With a mind far too malicious and calm for his age.
All signs pointed to one conclusion:
He was that man's descendant.
Or worse… his successor.
His body stiffened as he forced himself to glance toward the shelf Owen indicated.
His heart fell.
That wand.
Why that wand?
Sweat broke out along his temples.
Today was truly the most unfortunate day of his long life.
Nearly seventy years ago, when he was still a young wand-maker, he had heard stories from his father about the legendary Elder Wand—unbeatable, unmatched.
Grindelwald's attack that same year, his father tortured, and the theft of the Hallows only deepened his obsession with creating something comparable.
Grief, anger, resentment—those emotions forged the wand now stored at the bottom of the shelf.
A wand he named:
Elegy
[Elder wood, phoenix feather core, fourteen inches.]
Made from the same rare wood as the true Elder Wand—
though missing the Thestral hair that made the Deathstick what it was.
It was the closest thing a mortal wand-maker had ever created to the Elder Wand…
And also the most dangerous.
"No!" Ollivander burst out, voice cracking.
"You don't understand! You'll lose your mind! It torments any wizard who tries to wield it!"
Elder wood—paired with a phoenix feather.
A phoenix feather that had once refused every wand it touched.
A feather that rejected death itself… and thus rejected anyone too weak to master it.
No witch or wizard had ever been able to use it—not even its creator.
"Unless—" Ollivander's voice dropped to a whisper, "—the most evil of dark wizards."
"Evil?" Owen raised his head.
Ah.
That familiar title.
It had been so long since anyone had called him that since the second playthrough began.
"The most evil? That's right. It's me."
Owen Sanchez.
No wizard who met him in his first life would ever have mistaken him for kind or gentle.
A man Voldemort wore as a symbol on his own back.
A man so cruel even Death Eaters whispered about him.
The last scion of the Sanchez line.
A man who would kick a dog on his way to school—just for being in his path.
He ignored Ollivander completely.
With a casual wave of his wand, Owen summoned the distant box with a perfect nonverbal spell.
The box shot off the shelf and landed neatly in his hand.
Both Hagrid and Ollivander froze in disbelief.
The Huaqiang Law applied again:
If one could still call this coincidence, then coincidence had become certainty.
Hagrid, in particular, stood dumbfounded. His magical talent was never strong, and after being expelled in his third year, he devoted himself entirely to magical creatures.
Apart from his size and physical strength, even fifth-year students could out-duel him.
Which was exactly why Owen scared him.
Because this child's power reminded him of someone he never dared name.
"Not bad," Owen murmured as he opened the box.
Inside lay a crimson wand.
Its silhouette resembled—hauntingly closely—the Elder Wand.
But the handle was carved with delicate feather-like patterns, intricate enough to distinguish it instantly.
Owen glanced at Ollivander with a sweet smile.
The three great wand-making families of Europe had histories older than many pure-blood clans.
Even they couldn't resist the temptation of recreating the Elder Wand.
He understood.
Who could ignore the pinnacle of wand-craft?
But if the Elder Wand could be replicated so easily, it wouldn't be a Deathly Hallow.
Owen gripped the wand.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three.
Nothing happened.
Warm.
Comforting.
Like holding smooth, living jade.
It accepted him.