Chapter 9: The Wand
"Next up, that..."
Tamara paused in the cobbled street, lifting her gaze to the faded, peeling gold letters hanging over a nearby shop.
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
For any witch or wizard, a wand was never merely a tool. It was an extension of flesh and bone, a mirror reflecting the deepest contours of the soul. In her past life, that thirteen-and-a-half-inch yew wand had remained by her side for half a century. It had been her most loyal partner, a silent witness to every peak of her dark glory and every fathomless sin she had committed.
'I wonder if my old friend is still here,' she mused silently.
Tamara brushed her fingers against her empty sleeve, steeling her nerves before pushing open the dilapidated wooden door. A bell chimed faintly in the depths of the shop.
The interior was tiny, suffocatingly quiet, and entirely empty save for a single spindly chair in the corner. Thousands of narrow, rectangular boxes were stacked haphazardly, towering almost to the ceiling. The sheer volume of ancient magic and dust in the air made the cramped space feel heavy, almost oppressive.
"Good afternoon."
A soft, reedy voice sliced through the silence, pulling Tamara sharply from her memories.
Garrick Ollivander drifted out from the shadowy labyrinth of shelves, his movements as silent and fluid as a ghost.
"I thought you would have come sooner." Ollivander stopped behind the counter, fixing his pale, moon-like eyes on her. It was a gaze that made Tamara's skin crawl—an unblinking stare that felt as though it were peeling back her flesh to examine the rotting soul beneath.
"Miss Riddle." Ollivander whispered the surname. His tone carried a strange, elusive tremor, a mixture of awe and dread. "Riddle... once again."
Ice flooded Tamara's veins. Her breath hitched for a fraction of a second.
"Do you know my family, sir?" she asked, her voice dropping into a soft, perfectly pitched tone of innocent curiosity.
"No. I simply remember every wand I have ever sold."
Ollivander stepped closer, his pale eyes glazing over with a distant, haunting memory. "The summer of 1938. A young man who looked very much like you stood in this exact spot. Yew, thirteen and a half inches, phoenix feather."
He leaned over the counter, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "That was a... very powerful, and very terrible wand. That young man did great things with it. Terrible, yes, but great."
The corners of Tamara's mouth lifted, forming a sweet, flawless arc. This decrepit old fool talks entirely too much, she thought, her inner voice dripping with venom. How easy it would be to reach across this counter and snap his fragile neck.
"I've come to buy my wand, sir," she reminded him, her tone gentle and polite, betraying none of her murderous intent.
"Of course, of course." Ollivander blinked, shaking off the ghost of the past. He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings from his coat pocket. "Come now, which is your wand hand?"
"My right."
The tape measure sprang to life. It darted forward, automatically measuring the length of Tamara's arm, the width of her shoulders, and even hovering intrusively to measure the distance between her nostrils.
Tamara stood perfectly still, enduring the enchanted tape measure slithering over her skin like a cold snake. She ignored it entirely, her dark eyes sweeping through the mountainous stacks of boxes.
She was looking for it. The yew wand.
Her old wand had vanished into the rubble the night her physical body was destroyed, but magic was a strange thing. What if it had been recovered? What if it had been sent back to its maker for repairs?
"That will do." Ollivander snapped his fingers. The tape measure collapsed into a neat coil on the floor. He turned and pulled a dusty box from a middle shelf.
"Try this one. Dragon heartstring, walnut, twelve and a half inches, unyielding. Exceptionally good for Transfiguration."
Tamara reached out and took the polished wood.
The absolute second her skin made contact, the wand vibrated violently. It let out a high-pitched shriek, burning her palm like a rod of red-hot iron. Tamara hissed, her fingers spasming as the wand leapt from her grasp, puffing out a thick cloud of acrid black smoke before clattering onto the floorboards.
"Apparently not." Ollivander didn't even flinch. He simply scooped it up. "A bit picky, are we? Try this one: Unicorn hair, willow, ten inches. Suitable for... a pure soul."
Tamara gripped the pale wood.
Nothing.
The wand lay heavy and inert against her skin, feeling no different than a dead twig snapped from a mundane tree. Worse, a faint, sickening wave of revulsion crept up her arm. The unicorn hair was actively rejecting her, utterly repulsed by the invisible stench of blood soaked into the very fabric of her soul.
Over the next quarter of an hour, the shop descended into chaos. Tamara tried over a dozen wands.
Not a single one was right.
Some sparked dangerously, others froze her fingers, and a few actually rolled off the counter and onto the floor before she could even touch them, as if trying to flee her presence.
"Very... very picky," Ollivander murmured to himself, his eyes gleaming with manic fascination as he rummaged deeper into the towering shelves.
"In that case..."
Watching the old wandmaker's hunched back, Tamara finally let her patience slip. "Sir, do you have something... made of a more powerful wood? Like—yew?"
Ollivander froze.
He slowly turned around, looking at Tamara with an expression so complex it bordered on fearful.
"Very well. If you insist."
He shuffled to a dark, dust-choked corner of the shop and pulled out a sleek black box. He blew the dust from the lid and opened it.
"Yew, thirteen inches, dragon heartstring. This wand has been sitting here for a very long time. It is waiting for someone with an absolute sense of dominance."
Tamara's heart slammed against her ribs.
Yew. Her old partner. Her true element.
She reached out, her fingertips trembling ever so slightly as she brushed the smooth, dark wood.
However, the very instant her fingers closed around the handle—
[Warning! High-risk Dark Magic compatibility source detected!]
[Virtue System Intervention: Soul Purification Protocol initiated.]
Sizzle—!
It wasn't the wand rejecting the witch. It was the Virtue System violently rejecting the wand!
A blinding arc of pale gold electricity erupted from Tamara's palm. The shockwave slammed into the yew wood with brutal force.
The wand let out a mournful, agonizing cry. A fine, jagged crack splintered down its polished shaft. Then, moving like a startled, venomous snake, it wrenched itself violently from her grip, hit the floor, and rolled into the darkest corner of the shop, physically shivering against the baseboards.
Ollivander took a sharp step back, his pale eyes wide with absolute shock. He stared at the trembling wood, then up at the girl.
"The yew... it fears you?"
Tamara stood frozen, staring at her faintly smoking palm. Beneath her calm exterior, she was viciously cursing eighteen generations of the Virtue System's ancestors.
Damn it! Damn this infernal machine! It wasn't enough that this system forced her to play the role of a sickeningly sweet saint, but now it was actively stripping her of the right to wield her preferred wood!
"It seems yew is not for you either," Ollivander whispered, cautiously retrieving the traumatized wand and locking it away. "Since yew, which symbolizes death and rebirth, will not do... then..."
The old man's eyes suddenly ignited. A spark of wild, incredible realization flashed across his face.
"This is very strange... but perhaps, it is precisely because of that."
He moved with sudden, frantic energy, practically running to the very back of the shop. Reaching up to the highest, most neglected shelf, he pulled down a faded purple box.
He brought it to the counter and opened it with almost reverent care. A slender, supple wand of a warm, rich brown color lay quietly upon the velvet lining.
"Holly wood, phoenix feather, eleven inches."
Ollivander handed the wand to Tamara, his voice dropping into a solemn, heavy cadence.
"Holly is a wood of protection. It not only wards off evil, but it actively helps its master overcome anger and impulsiveness. And the phoenix feather within..."
Tamara stared at the wand. Slowly, she reached out and closed her fingers around the handle.
This time, there was no rejection. There was no shriek of pain, no violent electric shock.
A sudden, overwhelming surge of warmth rushed from her fingertips, flooding through her veins like a gentle rain after a years-long drought. The dormant magic deep within her core cheered, locking into perfect harmony with the core of the wand.
A stream of brilliant, blinding golden sparks erupted from the tip. The light washed over the dim, dusty shop, illuminating every corner. The sparks danced and swirled in the air, weaving together to form the faint, majestic silhouette of a soaring phoenix.
It was a perfect match.
In fact, it felt even more perfect than the yew wand from her previous life.
[Ding! Congratulations to the host for obtaining a signature weapon!]
[Item Name: Wand of Salvation]
[Quality: Legendary]
[System Evaluation: This wand naturally counters the Dark Arts and possesses an extremely strong positive energy guidance. With it, you are one step closer to becoming a saint!]
Tamara stared at the glowing wood in her hand. A wave of deep nausea washed over her, as though she had just been forced to swallow a live flobberworm.
She knew this wand.
This was supposed to be Harry Potter's wand.
This was the destined, signature weapon of the Boy Who Lived.
And now, this wand—the very instrument that originally belonged to the wizarding world's precious 'savior'—had actually chosen her, the Dark Lord?
"Curious... how very curious..." Ollivander leaned over the counter, watching Tamara bathed in the golden light, nodding his head in feverish excitement.
"What's curious?" Tamara asked through tightly gritted teeth, fighting a monumental battle to keep her angelic expression from crumbling into a sneer.
"Remember what I said? That yew wand that belonged to your... to that young man with the same surname." Ollivander's voice dropped to a whisper. "The phoenix feather in this wand, and the one in that yew wand, came from the exact same bird. Fawkes only ever gave two feathers. One made that yew wand, and the other... is the one currently resting in your hand."
He looked her dead in the eye. "They are brother wands."
The air in the shop froze.
Tamara felt the sheer, malicious irony of the universe crashing down on her shoulders.
In her past life, she was the monster who wielded the yew wand to slaughter thousands. In this life, she was holding that wand's brother—this sickeningly pure holly wood wand that was originally meant to oppose her, a literal symbol of 'love and justice.'
"Perhaps this is the grand arrangement of fate."
Ollivander sighed softly, his eyes shining with unshed emotion. "Holly wood chose you. That means this phoenix feather hopes to see a kind of redemption. Perhaps... perhaps this wand can finally end the pain left behind by its brother."
Tamara gripped the handle. The wood was warm, almost hot against her skin, but the blood pumping through her heart was ice cold.
No.
This wasn't redemption.
This was plunder.
She had just stolen Harry Potter's wand. That wretched, four-eyed little brat was now destined to dig through the bargain bin for some second-rate substitute.
"This is very interesting, Mr. Ollivander."
Tamara slowly lifted her head. A smile bloomed across her face—a smile so bright, so breathtakingly sweet, that it bordered on slightly distorted.
"I will be sure to use it well. After all..."
She flicked her wrist lightly. The golden phantom of the phoenix shattered, dissolving into the dusty air.
"...since it chose me, then it is mine. Whether for redemption, or for something else."
Tamara slapped a handful of gold Galleons onto the wooden counter, grabbed the wand box, and turned on her heel. She needed to leave immediately. She couldn't stomach standing in front of this perceptive old man for a single second longer.
Stepping out into the bustling street of Diagon Alley, Tamara stopped and looked down at the beautiful, supple holly wood wand resting in her palm.
"Harry Potter..."
She whispered the name, the syllables rolling off her tongue like a curse.
"Your wand is in my hands. Your chance to enter school is in my hands. Even your miserable little life..."
Her fingers tightened around the wood. Then, she let out a soft breath and shook her head, her dark eyes gleaming with cold amusement.
"...Never mind. That will have to wait."
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