A sharp gleam flashed through Dumbledore's eyes. One name surfaced in his mind immediately: Karmit Black.
Of course he knew him.
Not only because Karmit was a new Hogwarts student this year, but because he had resurrected the Black family from ashes.
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and looked toward the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black.
"You're dead," Dumbledore said calmly. "The head of the Black family is Karmit now. Whatever he chooses to do, you no longer have any authority."
Phineas glared at him. "Damn you, Dumbledore. Damn Gryffindors!"
Dumbledore smiled faintly and ignored the portrait's furious barking.
He forced the Elder Wand back under control, shoved it into the drawer, and returned to his seat, continuing to snack on cockroach clusters.
He really did love the things far too much.
...
Inside Ollivander's shop, Karmit stared at the wand before him. He reached out and grabbed it.
Cold flooded through his palm instantly.
And for a moment, he felt it—a pair of unseen eyes opening somewhere beyond the physical world, staring at him.
Karmit gave the wand a shake, completely unfazed by the chill curling around his fingers. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver cross.
The moment the cross appeared, a warm aura wrapped around him like a protective veil. The cold, sinister presence evaporated instantly.
This was Karmit's contingency plan.
Legend said this wand had been crafted by an ancient Black ancestor who had seen the Elder Wand and attempted to create a perfect imitation.
But nothing belonging to Death could be replicated by mortals without consequence.
Death had noticed.
Unable to destroy the wand, the Black ancestor passed it to the Ollivander family for safekeeping and hid the earlier family lineage, hoping the family could survive the curse.
That was the legend.
But Karmit understood something simpler:
If Death truly existed, then so must other gods.
In the Vatican, they believed in God, the Church, the Holy See. Their power came through faith—completely unlike the British wizarding world.
So Karmit had taken a trip to the Vatican. With enough Galleons paving the way, he obtained a cross said to be personally blessed by the Pope himself.
And clearly, it was working.
Karmit hung the cross around his neck. For a second, he could almost imagine Death wearing a bewildered, frustrated expression.
He smirked. If gods truly existed, that simply meant humans could reach that level as well.
And if that was true, then someday he would reach it.
At that point, a death god that couldn't die… what kind of death god would that even be?
He lifted the wand and gave it a gentle wave.
A wave of icy magic surged across the entire shop. The shelves rattled violently, wand boxes trembling like frightened animals.
"Enough!" Ollivander shouted. "Karmit, stop! You'll ruin the other wands!"
Karmit flicked his wrist. The cold aura vanished instantly.
"You see, Mr. Ollivander?" Karmit said. "It was always meant to be mine."
Ollivander glanced at the cross around Karmit's neck, his expression complicated. He was certain—the cold aura he had just felt belonged to Death itself.
But who would have expected Karmit's method? Using one god to counter another?
Why had the Black ancestors never thought of such a solution?
Why hadn't his own ancestors?
Ollivander looked almost heartbroken as he stared at the wand. He had always wanted to study it, but had never dared. And now this child had tamed it with shocking ease.
"Mr. Black," Ollivander said softly, "you should leave. Others are waiting outside."
Seeing Ollivander's exhausted expression, Karmit smiled. "Very well. Until next time, Mr. Ollivander."
He tucked the wand away and walked toward the entrance.
Behind him, Ollivander sighed for the second time. His mood, which had been perfectly fine earlier, was now ruined.
Outside the shop, Draco stood with a sullen look on his face. The moment he saw Karmit, he almost ran over, but pride made him freeze halfway.
It was obvious our young master was still annoyed.
Karmit walked up beside him. "Draco, if you smile right now, then later—when we get your robes made—I'll have them stitch a silver dragon emblem onto your sleeve."
Draco's eyes lit up instantly. "Really?"
Karmit sighed inwardly. Children were far too easy to bribe.
"Yes, really. But if you keep sulking, it'll just take you longer to even see your robes."
Draco immediately followed behind him, every sign of irritation vanishing as if it had never existed.
Diagon Alley's clothing shops were unusual. Most operated their own monopolies.
For example, robes.
There were two robe shops:
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions—famous for student robes and custom tailoring, the place where most first-years went.
And Gladrags Wizardwear—selling premade robes and elegant formalwear for adults, more luxurious and expensive.
Both shops served different clients and never interfered with each other—two separate monopolies maintaining a quiet balance.
Until the Black Family Clothing House opened.
Karmit had taken one look at the market and immediately disrupted everything. His shop covered both custom robes and premium attire, swallowing the entire clothing segment of Diagon Alley.
He had upset quite a few people.
But he also made a fortune.
Now, the Black Clothing House was the busiest shop in the entire alley, known for variety and exceptional service.
Outside the entrance, the store manager was already waiting. The moment he spotted Karmit and Draco, he hurried forward.
"Sir! Welcome."
Karmit nodded.
These shop managers were all recruited from the Muggle world.
The Ministry had taken a small fortune from Karmit in "administration fees," but the Muggles had signed binding contracts preventing them from discussing anything about the magical world.
Thanks to these professional employees, the Black family's business had flourished like never before.
In truth, the Black family's resurgence was inseparable from their contributions.