Flux

July 31, 1993, 2:30 AM, Isle of Man

Lord Voldemort

He strode across the rugged cliffs and misty hills, his black robes billowing in the chill wind, his pale, serpentine face illuminated by the faint glow of his wand. The landscape was desolate; jagged rocks jutted like broken teeth, mist swirled in ghostly tendrils, and the distant crash of waves roared like a restless beast. An oppressive air hung heavy, charged with old magic that thrummed beneath the earth, something he could fully sense.

Behind him trailed a handful of lesser followers, their cloaks flapping, their steps hesitant. He felt their confusion and fear, a cloying aura that grated on his heightened senses. They were a pitiful lot, he thought, unworthy of his presence, but necessary for the task ahead. His best soldiers were occupied with missions suited to their skills, leaving this motley crew as mere fodder for his purpose.

Not for the first time, Voldemort’s mind, sharper than it had been in decades, marveled at its own clarity. His glorious resurrection, achieved through the Philosopher’s Stone’s alchemical power, had restored faculties he hadn’t realized he’d lost.

The Horcruxes, those necessary sacrifices to ensure his immortality, had splintered his mind, dulling his genius with a fog he’d mistaken for strength. Now, with the Stone’s gift, he saw the cost— his past recklessness, his impulsivity— and vowed to wield his restored intellect with precision. The war against the wizarding world, complicated by Grindelwald’s ambitions and the ever changing political landscape, demanded nothing less.

This midnight trek was a step toward supremacy, a strike against his supposed ally, and he relished the clarity guiding his path. The followers’ whispers broke his thoughts, their voices low but grating. One, a wiry man with a nasal tone, muttered to another.

“Blasted rocks— bet we’re lost. What’s the Dark Lord even looking for?” The comment, asinine and insolent, sparked a flare of annoyance in Voldemort’s chest. He repressed the urge to kill him. These followers were tools, disposable but useful, and he needed them intact for the ritual. They would scream, soon enough.

He’d made sure to pick the bottom of the barrel— unimportant fools who would not be missed, and who were not particularly good at magic. If their absence was noted, it would almost certainly be followed by a derisive comment.

The cliff path steepened, the mist thickening, cloaking the hills in a shroud that muffled sound and sight. Voldemort’s wandlight cut through, a cold beacon, his steps sure despite the uneven ground. He sensed the ley line beneath, its ancient current a hum in his bones.

The Wailing Shard, his destination, was close, its magic older than Hogwarts, a relic of a time when wizards wielded the Earth’s pulse. His followers, ignorant of such forces, stumbled behind, their breaths ragged. He would have smiled had he a lesser wizard’s patience. Instead, he relished the wait.

His musings were interrupted by a voice, hesitant but now respectful, from the wiry man who’d spoken earlier.

“My Lord.” He said, his tone trembling. “Where… where are we? This place feels wrong.”

The question hung in the misty air, the others freezing, their eyes darting to Voldemort. He paused, letting silence stretch, his red eyes fixed on the man, watching his sallow face wilt, sweat beading despite the cold.

When the tension was thick enough to choke, Voldemort smiled, a chilling curve of his lips, and raised his wand, its light sweeping toward the hill they climbed.

“See the spires?” He said, his voice low, sibilant, carrying a weight that silenced the wind. Dark, jagged shapes loomed through the mist, ancient stone structures piercing the sky, their forms twisted as if carved by inhuman hands. “This is an old place, filled with magic older than Hogwarts itself. It is a place of power.”

He offered no more, his words cryptic, savoring the follower’s blank stare. The man nodded, confused, but Voldemort expected no understanding. The Wailing Shard’s power was beyond most wizards, a challenge even for him, and these fools were mere kindling for his fire.

The others shuffled, their murmurs stilled, their fear spiking as the spires’ eerie presence sank in. Voldemort turned, his robes sweeping the rocky path, and continued the ascent, his mind returning to the ritual. The ley line beneath the Shard was a key, its flow critical to Grindelwald’s Abyss ritual, a plan Voldemort intended to disrupt. By altering the line’s current, he’d thwart his ally’s ambitions while empowering himself, a dual strike born of his restored genius. The followers’ role was simple: their lives would fuel the magic, their sacrifice a small price for his ascent.

He felt no pity, only cold purpose, his heart a void where ambition reigned.

The cliff path leveled, the mist parting slightly, revealing the hill’s crest and the spires’ stark silhouettes. The ley line’s hum grew stronger, a vibration that set his nerves alight. Voldemort’s smile lingered, his red eyes glinting in the wandlight, his followers trailing like shadows. The group pressed on, the spires growing clearer as the mist parted, revealing a promontory jutting over the crashing sea below.

He stepped onto the promontory’s edge, the wind whipping his robes, the ground beneath his feet alive with magic. This was it— the Wailing Shard, a nexus of power tied to the Earth’s veins. It was the key.

His mind raced with calculations: one to disrupt the flow, one to re-engage it on a different route. A third to align it with the distant line from mainland…

His thoughts were interrupted by the words of one of his followers, whispering.

“This place is cursed.” The comment finally sparked a smile on Voldemort’s face, but he squashed it, his focus razor-sharp. One was starting to realize what was going on, but it would be too late. They only needed to be alive for just a little longer.

Just a little longer.

Voldemort’s wandlight traced the ground, revealing faint etchings— ancient runes, worn but potent, marking the Shard’s heart. The ley line’s pulse was stronger here, a current he could almost taste, its power a siren call. The ritual would be complex, a seven-point star fueled by blood and potions, its magic tearing life from his followers to reshape the ley line. The thought of their sacrifice, their screams, stirred a cold satisfaction in his void of a heart.

He turned, his red eyes glinting, and fixed his followers with a stare that froze them in place.

“Prepare the ritual site.” He commanded, his voice cold, authoritative, cutting through the mist like a blade. The followers flinched, their hands trembling as they fumbled for supplies— vials of blood, flasks of potions, charmed tools. They knew their tasks, drilled into them with threats, but their fear made them clumsy, their movements jerky. Voldemort’s smile widened, his disdain for their weakness matched by his anticipation.

The wiry man hesitated, his voice a whisper.

“My Lord, this place… it’s unnatural. What are we doing here?” The question was timid, trailing, and Voldemort’s irritation flared, though his face remained a mask of cold purpose. He didn’t answer, letting the man’s fear deepen, his silence a whip. The follower shrank back, joining the others as they began marking the ground, their wands trembling.

Voldemort stepped toward the promontory’s center, his robes sweeping the rune-etched earth, his wand steady. The spires loomed above, their shadows a cage, the ley line’s hum a song of power.

His mind churned, envisioning the ritual’s climax: the star alight, the blood and potions igniting, the followers’ essence ripped away to fuel his will. Grindelwald would falter, his dream of the Abyss delayed, while he, himself, grew stronger, his magic a tide to drown his foes.

With trembling hands, his followers marked a seven-point start in the rocky soil, their wands sparking with nervous energy.

The star’s design was deliberate, each point a nexus of power aligned with the ley line’s current. The followers worked in silence, their breaths ragged, their faces pale under the wandlight. At each point, they placed a vial of blood— unicorn, basilisk, acromantula, thestral, phoenix, nundu, and thunderbird— its metallic tang sharp in the misty air. Beside each vial sat a potion, seven unique brews shimmering in crystal flasks: one glowed like molten silver, another pulsed with inky blackness, each crafted to resonate with the blood and amplify the ritual’s magic. The followers’ hands shook as they poured the blood in thin, deliberate lines, connecting the points to form the star, its edges glowing faintly as the ley line responded, a hum that set Voldemort’s nerves alight.

He watched, his thin lips curving into a faint smile, his mind dissecting the ritual’s mechanics. The seven-point star was an ancient construct, something he’d learned early on in his travels. His plan was to seize this current and redirect its flow, throwing his ally’s ambitions into chaos while siphoning power for himself.

The blood— Strong Blood— drawn from creatures of potent magic, was the catalyst; the potions, brewed with rare ingredients, were the stabilizers; and the followers, chanting as instructed, were the fuel. Their lives would be the price, their essence torn to feed the circle, a sacrifice Voldemort deemed negligible.

“Begin.”

The followers did as they were bid as they chanted, their voices uneven, a low drone in an ancient tongue they barely understood. The words, taught through fear and repetition, resonated with the star’s lines, the blood glowing brighter, the potions bubbling as if alive. The wiry man, who’d dared question their purpose earlier, fumbled a vial, his chant faltering. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, his annoyance a fleeting spark, but he restrained himself.

“Continue.” Voldemort hissed, his voice a blade, and the man scrambled to comply, his chant resuming, his face slick with sweat.

The star took shape, its lines pulsing with a sickly green light, the potions’ vapors rising like specters. The magic’s hum grew louder, a vibration that rattled the spires, the air beginning to crackle with latent power.

Voldemort stepped to the star’s center, his robes sweeping the rune-etched earth, his wand steady. The followers’ chants grew stronger, their voices syncing, the magic building like a storm. The star’s glow intensified, the potions frothing, their colors blending into a kaleidoscope of light. The combined chanting reached a crescendo, and Voldemort gazed upon their gaunt faces, their wands trembling as they poured magic into the circle. Voldemort’s smile widened,

It was ready.

The sea’s roar was a distant drum, as the inky black sky pressed down, heavy with portent. He raised his wand, its tip flaring with a silver glow, and began his own chant, a complex incantation in a tongue older than Merlin, its cadence weaving into the ley line’s hum. The words were sharp, resonant, each syllable a thread binding the circle’s elements into a single force.

The star’s points flared, light bursting from the creature offerings. The air crackled, the spires trembling as the ley line surged, a river of magic bending to his will. Voldemort’s voice grew stronger, the chant a command, his mind a scalpel directing the energy with lethal precision.

The followers’ chants faltered, their voices breaking as they sensed the shift. The wiry man, his sallow face slick with sweat, glanced up, his eyes wide with shock.

“My Lord, that’s not—” He began, but the others froze, their confusion turning to dread. Voldemort’s chant was not the one he’d taught them, its rhythm alien, its power darker. They had expected to amplify the circle, not fuel it with their lives, but realization came too late. The star’s glow intensified, a sickly green tide that gripped them, tendrils of magic coiling around their forms, piercing their beings with a hunger that chilled even Voldemort’s void of a heart.

He felt their fear spike, a delicious wave that fed his power, and his smile widened, cold and predatory.

The ritual was designed to strip their essence— life, magic, soul— and feed it into the ley line, a sacrifice to alter its flow. The followers’ bodies trembled, their chants dissolving into gasps, their wands slipping from nerveless fingers.

The wiry man’s voice rose, a desperate plea. “No, please!”

But Voldemort’s chant drowned it, his voice a relentless tide. The circle’s magic tore into them, a ravenous force that unraveled their beings, their forms flickering like dying flames, their screams swallowed by the ley line’s roar.

Voldemort’s exhilaration surged, his body tingling as he directed the energy, his mind clear and sharp. The star’s points burned brighter, the potions boiling over, their vapors blending into a kaleidoscope of light— silver, black, crimson— that swirled around him. The blood lines pulsed, each creature’s essence amplifying the magic, the unicorn’s purity a spark, the nundu’s ferocity a storm. He siphoned minute amounts of the overflow, a greedy taste of power that flooded his veins, his magic sharpening, his body strengthening, his mind a blade honed to perfection.

For the most infinitesimal moments, he felt as if he was connected to the world itself, witnessing its past, present and future all at once. Impossible amounts of information brushed against his mind, but Voldemort held his shields together, unwilling to merge.

You will not pull me into your flow! He thought as he exerted his will. Bow to me! 

The ley line responded, its current shifting like a river diverted, its ancient flow bending under his will. He channeled the followers’ essence into it, their lives a fuel that altered its course. The followers’ souls now began to scream, a symphony of agony, but it did not last for long.

Voldemort’s chant reached a crescendo, his voice a command that shook the spires, the ley line’s pulse syncing with his will. The followers’ essence poured into the earth, their bodies crumbling, their screams a fading echo. He felt their magic, weak but plentiful, merge with the ley line, its flow twisting, a new current that would ripple across the world.

His own power swelled, the overflow a nectar he drank sparingly, lest he lose himself to it.

The star’s light pulsed for a final time, then dimmed, the potions stilling, the blood lines cooling. The followers’ screams were long gone, their bodies dust, their sacrifice complete. Voldemort stood alone, his wand glowing, his body alive with newfound power, his mind a fortress of clarity.

He savored the moment, stepping away from the circle to stare into the distance. A flick of his wand, and bisected an entire section of trees in two. He smiled. Certainly, he was capable of such a feat before, but it came so much more easily now.

His body also felt stronger, his muscles taut, his magic a wildfire barely contained. His mind was a blade, slicing through possibilities, envisioning the wizarding world kneeling before him. The Philosopher’s Stone had been a spark, but this ritual was a forge, tempering him into a force unmatched.

The followers’ ash scattered in the wind, their sacrifice a footnote in his triumph. He felt no pity, only satisfaction, his void of a heart filled with ambition. The ley line’s new flow was his creation, a testament to his will, and he savored the silence, broken only by the echo of screams in his mind.

Satisfied, he walked from the promontory, his silhouette stark against the cliffs, the mist parting like a curtain. His robes swept the earth, his power a palpable weight. The spires faded into the gloom, the ley line’s hum a quiet song of triumph.

The war raged beyond— Grindelwald’s schemes, Dumbledore’s resistance, the wizarding nations’ desperation— but Voldemort would be its master.

His smile was resolute, his red eyes burning. The war was his, the future his, and nothing— not Grindelwald, not Dumbledore, not the Ministry, and most certainly not Potter or Clarke— would stand in his way. He was Lord Voldemort, and his reign was only beginning.

oooo

July 31, 1993, 11:30 AM, Diagon Alley

Adam Clarke

Diagon Alley buzzed around me, its cobblestone street slick with morning dew, the air thick with owl hoots, vendor shouts, and the chatter of students prepping for Hogwarts. I wove through the crowd with Harry, Ron, Hermione, and a few others, my bag heavier with each stop, my third-year excitement tinged with the war’s shadow.

The street was alive, shop windows gleaming with broomsticks and cauldrons, the scent of fresh ink and simmering potions hanging heavy. We’d hit the Apothecary first, its shelves crammed with jars of shrivelfigs, bat spleens, and unicorn hair. I grabbed what was on the list but my eyes lingered on a vial of phoenix tears, rare and glowing, wondering just how much something like this would cost.

Hermione was in her element, lecturing Ron about proper storage, while Harry was looking over a discounted cauldron— he’d annihilated his own, a few days back. I smiled, their banter a warm anchor, but my mind drifted to the war.

I shook it off quickly and urged everyone to head to our next destination: Flourish and Blotts. Its stacks were teetering with new editions for Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions. I snagged Unfogging the Future for Divination, its cover promising secrets I doubted it held, and lingered over a dusty tome on old tales. Hermione caught me, raising an eyebrow.

“Researching again, Adam?” She smiled, but I just shrugged, my curiosity an itch I couldn’t scratch. The shop was packed, students elbowing for space, and I felt a restless urge to explore, to find something beyond the list, something that spoke to me.

No luck there, sadly.

We stepped back into the Alley, the sun climbing, the crowd thickening. Harry suggested a break at Florean Fortescue’s for ice cream, and the others agreed, their laughter easing the war’s weight. But I hesitated, my gaze drifting down the street, past the Leaky Cauldron’s crooked sign, toward shops less traveled.

“I’ll catch up.” I said, my voice casual, though my heart quickened. “Want to check something out.”

Harry frowned, but Hermione nodded, trusting my instincts. I flashed a grin, promising to be quick, and broke away, my steps light, my wand a comforting weight in my pocket.

The Alley’s chaos continued as I wandered, passing Quality Quidditch Supplies, its new Firebolt gleaming, and Slug & Jiggers, its windows fogged with potion steam. My mind churned, replaying past events— facing Aragog, rallying acromantulas to save Hogsmeade, surviving the Blackthorn boy’s attack, battling Quirrell and my corrupted side in the Abyss.

The void within me had grown stronger, seemingly guiding my visions and even my very magic, at times. It was not a feeling I relished, losing control like that.

I turned a corner, the crowd thinning, and stopped dead outside Ollivander’s wand shop. Its narrow facade loomed, windows dusty, signs faded, the air around it oddly still, like it held its breath. Two years ago, I’d stepped inside, a nervous first-year, and met Ollivander, his pale eyes seeing more than I’d understood.

My hand found my wand, ebony and nine inches, its dragon heartstring core warm against my palm. I drew it, staring at its sleek surface, its weight a reminder of all I’d done— spells to save Absol, curses to fend off attackers, magic that felt bigger than me. It was powerful, loyal, but now it felt a little wary of me, and my growing power.

The void strikes again. I thought, and for a moment, I considered a past event. I remembered my first year, passing Dumbledore in a corridor, the Elder Wand’s presence hitting me like a tidal wave, its void energy calling to mine.

My milky white eye, a mark from my encounter with death, tingled at the memory, seeing what others couldn’t. The war had taught me wands weren’t just tools; they were keys, and the Elder Wand was akin to a master key.

Still, I rather liked my own wand, and would rather not be rid of it. Ollivander might know something, might see what my wand had become after two years of battles and visions. The shop’s door beckoned, its quiet unnerving but familiar, and I felt a pull, urging me forward.

I stepped into Ollivander’s wand shop, the door’s faint chime swallowed by an eerie stillness that clung to the air like dust. The dim interior hadn’t changed since my first visit two years ago— narrow shelves towered with wand boxes, their faded labels whispering of magic, the air thick with a hum that prickled my skin. My ebony wand felt warm in my hand.

Diagon Alley’s bustle faded beyond the dusty windows. Ollivander emerged, his pale, moonlit eyes locking onto me before I could speak.

“Adam Clarke.” He said, his voice soft but piercing. “Ebony, dragon heartstring, nine inches. A fine wand, unyielding yet adaptable.”

His greeting, reciting my wand’s details with uncanny precision, sent a shiver down my spine, same as it had when I was eleven. He stepped closer, his silver hair catching the light, his gaze sharp. “Are you in need of a new wand?”

I shook my head, holding up my wand, its sleek surface gleaming, well-cared-for despite the scars of Hogsmeade, Aragog, and the Blackthorn boy’s attack.

“This one’s served me well, but… I don’t know.” My voice was steady, but my heart raced, the void stirring, urging me to probe deeper. I wanted to know what had changed— my wand felt different, heavier, its magic sharper since I’d tapped the ley lines and faced death. “I don’t know.”

Ollivander’s eyes flicked to the wand, then to me, and he extended a gnarled hand. “May I?”

I hesitated, my grip tightening, then handed it over, trusting those pale eyes that saw more than most. He took it gently, his fingers tracing the ebony, his expression shifting— curiosity, then something like awe.

“Remarkable.” He murmured, turning the wand under the lantern, its light revealing faint etchings I hadn’t noticed, like veins of starlight in the wood. “This wand has… grown with you, Mr. Clarke. Two years, and it bears marks of power I did not craft.”

His eyes widened, a rare crack in his composure, and my pulse quickened. What had changed? The void? My brush with death?

He handed it back, his gaze lingering on my face, and I tensed as he tilted his head, studying my milky white eye.

“That eye.” He said, his voice almost a whisper. “It reminds me of a Thestral’s. Seeing what others cannot.”

The comparison hit like a hex, my breath catching. Thestrals, tied to death, were kin to Absol, my familiar, and the void’s energy felt close to their essence. What was he hinting at? I braced for judgment, my hand closing around my wand, but to my surprise, Ollivander’s expression softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He stepped back, gesturing to the shelves. “Your wand is still yours, Mr. Clarke. But it is… more now. Breaking through its barriers in a way I’ve only read about once.”

I was off-balance, his words stirring questions I hadn’t planned. “More? I don’t understand…”

As if in response, the Elder Wand’s memory surged— its void energy in Dumbledore’s hand, a beacon I’d felt in first year. I gripped my wand, its warmth grounding me, and took a risk.

“Sir.” I said, my voice low. “Are you making an oblique reference to the Deathstick?”

The word hung heavy, the shop’s hum seeming to pause. I expected denial, a dodge, but Ollivander’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Mr. Clarke.” He said, his tone almost playful. “You have indeed learned much in two years at Hogwarts. A rising star, indeed.”

He leaned against a shelf, his gaze piercing. “The Deathstick, as you call it, is no mere wand, and your curiosity does you credit. But such matters are not lightly discussed.” His words were a door, half-open, inviting but guarded, and I felt a thrill.

I wanted to press, to ask about the Elder Wand’s core, its tie to the void, but his compliment threw me, a rare praise from a man who knew wands like I knew my own heart.

“Thank you, sir.” I said, my voice softer. “But I need to know more. Wandlore at Hogwarts— it’s…”

Ollivander’s smile faded, his gaze sharpening. He opened his mouth, perhaps to answer, but paused, his eyes flicking to my wand, then back to me. “And what wandlore have you learned, young man?”

“Sir.” I said, my voice steady despite the shop’s eerie stillness. “Not much at all, considering. The books I’ve found only touch the mere basics of crafting wands— species of wood, creature core, length— but nothing deeper beyond the symbolism. I’ve read the Tale of the Three Brothers.”

I paused, gauging his reaction. “The Deathstick… The species is obviously elder wood. The core on the other hand… It’s the hair of a Thestral. Am I close?”

The question was bold, the shop’s hum seeming to pause, and I braced for a dodge, expecting Ollivander to deflect like most adults did when I probed too far.

Ollivander’s smile came back, not mocking but intrigued, his silver hair catching the lantern’s glow.

“Not that simple, Mr. Clarke.” He said, his voice soft but weighted. “If the Deathstick were merely elder and Thestral hair, every wandmaker worth their salt would have crafted one by now. Power like that… it’s not so easily forged.”

His words were a door, half-open, and I felt a thrill, the void stirring, urging me to push. He wasn’t dismissing me; he was testing me, seeing how far my curiosity stretched.

I stepped closer, my wand’s warmth grounding me.

“Then what is it?” I asked, my tone earnest, my milky eye catching a flicker in the air, like the shop’s magic responding. “Another sort of power, beyond what we already use? There was a time when I felt something… Something more.”

I avoided using the word ‘void’, not wanting to reveal that much.

Ollivander’s gaze sharpened, his pale eyes flicking to my wand, then my eye, as if seeing the void’s mark.

“Have you, now? I suppose that is how your wand feels different— an important even likely tied to your manyfold battles. Oh, I’ve read of your exploits over the years.” He said. “Your wand has accomplished great things indeed…”

He took a few steps to the left and gestured at an empty spot on one of his shelves. “In fact, this is the exact spot it was before I sold it to you.”

I nodded, offering him a sheepish expression. “I don’t remember, anymore.”

“I would be surprised, if you had.” He straightened, his tone growing distant and reflective. “Thestral hair… I’ve crafted wands with it, Mr. Clarke. Rare, erratic things. Some wizards drew no spark, others caused explosions— unpredictable, dangerous. I spent years studying them, seeking their secret, but never cracked it. Thestral hair answers to something… beyond most. ‘Something more’, as you so put it.”

“So the Deathstick’s core… it’s not just Thestral hair?” I ventured, my voice low, testing the waters. “It’s something more, something that makes it… unique? Multiple cores?”

Ollivander’s eyes glinted. “Perceptive, Mr. Clarke, but it is the wrong conclusion. It’s true that the Deathstick— Elder Wand, if you will— is no mere wand. Its making is a mystery, its power one of our founding legends.” He paused, his gaze piercing, as if weighing how much to reveal. “Many have attempted to use multiple cores, in multiple ways, but their endeavors always fail. Therefore the ‘missing ingredient’, as it were, is not of this world.”

I swallowed, immediately understanding. “The essence of death.”

Ollivander pinned me with his stare, and I shifted nervously. “It is possible. Wands choose their wielders, as you know, but some… some are bound to forces greater than wizards. Your wand, for instance, has grown with you, marked by what you’ve faced in ways I’ll likely never understand.”

I felt a chill at his admission. “But you’re the most knowledgeable authority on—”

“Indeed I am.” Ollivander said, and his smile was as wide as a child— unnerving in its intensity. “‘The beginning of wisdom is: I do not know’.”

“Socrates.” I said.

“Indeed.” Ollivander said. “I do not know what the missing ingredient is. I know what it is not.”

“Then…” I wanted to press, but the shop’s door creaked open, a bell’s faint chime breaking the spell. A young girl stepped in, no older than eleven, her eyes wide with nerves, clutching a small purse.

Ollivander’s attention shifted, his smile softening.

“A new wand, I presume?” He said, moving toward her, but he glanced back at me, his voice firm. “Mr. Clarke, write to me if that wand… behaves strangely. It’s more than it was, and so are you.”

His words were a warning, a promise, and I nodded. I turned to leave, my wand heavy in my hand. The girl’s nervous chatter faded as I stepped toward the door, the shop’s gloom clinging like a second skin.

I pushed the door open, the Alley’s bustle flooding back— students laughing, owls soaring, the scent of cauldron fumes. I stepped out of Ollivander’s wand shop, the door creaking shut behind me. I began to wander again, passing Flourish and Blotts and Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Ignoring all the noise, I replayed Ollivander’s words: the Deathstick wasn’t just elder wood and Thestral hair, or every wandmaker would have one. His failed Thestral wands lacked something— my void, I suspected, the energy that made my eye tingle, my visions burn. In first year, the Elder Wand’s presence had been a beacon, its void energy calling to mine, and now my wand bore marks of that same power.

Was it growing into something like the Deathstick? The thought thrilled and unnerved me in equal parts.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t see the man until I bumped into him.

“Sorry!” I blurted, reflex kicking in, my hand brushing my wand.

He turned, a tall figure in dark robes, his face sharp and composed, gray eyes assessing me.

“No harm done.” He said, his voice smooth, extending a hand. “Alaric Blackthorn.”

My stomach dropped, my body tensing. Blackthorn senior— father of the boy who’d tried to kill me, whose mother had slandered me, whose family had sent goons to murder Absol. The letter of reconciliation, tucked away in my bag, flashed in my mind, its words polite but hollow.

I forced a neutral expression, shaking his hand, my grip firm but wary.

“Adam Clarke.” I said, my voice steady, though my mind raced. The Alley’s crowd flowed around us, oblivious, but I felt exposed, eyes scanning for threats. Blackthorn’s smile was calculated, his posture relaxed, but I didn’t trust it. His family’s vendetta had left scars, and this encounter felt like a move in a game I hadn’t chosen to play.

He tilted his head, his gray eyes probing.

“I know who you are, Mr. Clarke. No need for acrimony between us, surely? That matter with my son… it’s resolved.” His tone was conciliatory, but it grated, the memory of his son’s curse, his mother’s lies, Absol’s pain flaring. Resolved? Hardly. Yet his calm demeanor, the Alley’s public setting, kept me cautious.

I nodded, my jaw tight.

“I’d rather not dwell on it.” I said, my words clipped, testing him. Was this truly the man who’d sent the goons, or was he playing a deeper game?

Blackthorn’s smile didn’t waver, his hand resting on his wand, casual but deliberate.

“Good. Hostility benefits no one— least of all, you and I.” He paused, his gaze lingering, as if weighing my reaction. I felt the void stir, my wand’s warmth a reminder of my power, my milky eye catching the soul thread around him; dark, subtle.

What did he want? He at least didn’t seem to be emanating any hostility, but I could also tell there was no warmth, either.

I shifted my bag, the crowd’s noise grounding me. Best to play things diplomatically, for now.

“If it’s resolved, then we’re fine.” I said, my voice neutral, hiding my suspicion. I didn’t trust him, but causing a scene in Diagon Alley, with eyes everywhere, was unwise. My role in the past battles and my entire rise as a wizard made me a target; Blackthorn’s sudden agreeableness felt like a trap.

Still, I was curious.

He nodded, satisfied, and stepped back, his robes rustling.

“I’m glad we understand each other, Mr. Clarke.” His words were polite, but I could tell it was false. I kept my face blank, my wand ready.

“Understanding is good, yeah.” I said, hoping to make things awkward. It did, at least for me.

Blackthorn kept that stupid tight smile in place, his dark robes pristine as he reached into them, producing a sealed letter with a flourish.

“I’d planned to send this later.” He said, his voice smooth, handing it to me. “An invitation to a Ministry function at my home. A chance to put bad blood behind us.”

The parchment was heavy, embossed with a crest, and I took it, my fingers brushing the wax seal, my mind racing. A Ministry function? The Blackthorns were wealthy, influential, but this felt like a lure, a way to draw me into their orbit.

I kept my face neutral, slipping the letter into my robes, the void’s pulse steadying me.

“Thank you.” I said, my voice even, though suspicion coiled in my gut. “I’ll consider it. It’ll depend on what my guardian decides.”

“Of course, of course. Take all the time you need.” Mr. Blackthorn said. “I will be sending Mr. Black an invitation as well, not to worry. The event will host many of the British Wizarding people.”

“All right.” I said with a nod. “I’ll be sure to discuss it with him thoroughly.”

Blackthorn nodded, his smile widening, satisfied.

“Good. I look forward to seeing you there, Mr. Clarke.” He stepped back, his wand hand relaxed but deliberate, his gray eyes lingering as if memorizing my reaction. “Farewell for now.”

He turned, merging into the crowd, his silhouette vanishing among the robes and trunks. I stood still, the letter a weight against my chest. The Alley’s crowd thickened, students clustering near the Magical Menagerie, their voices bright.

I spotted Harry and the others outside Fortescue’s, ice cream cones in hand, Hermione lecturing Ron about scheduling. Their laughter was a beacon, a contrast to my heavy thoughts, and I quickened my pace, the letter burning in my robes. I’d show it to them first chance, their trust a shield against the war’s weight. Harry caught my eye, waving, his grin fading as he saw my expression.

“You okay, Adam?” He called, and I forced a smile, nodding, not ready to spill yet.

I joined them, the ice cream shop’s sugary scent a brief respite.

“Got sidetracked.” I said, my voice light, dodging Hermione’s curious glance. “How about a cake for Harry?”

Harry’s smile made it all worth it.