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Chapter 5 𓍯𓂃𓏧
Ollivander was standing before us, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.
Anticipation coiled tightly around my chest, and I realized I was holding my breath.The room was flanked by towering shelves, each crammed with slender, narrow boxes. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood, dust, and something ancient—like the space held a thousand untold stories
I hoped fervently that this wasn't a dream. If it was, I didn't want to wake up. Standing in a wand shop, in an alley bustling with witches and wizards, felt surreal—like stepping into a page of a story I'd never dared believe was real. I've lost count of how many times I've compared this miracle—the wonder surrounding me—to the scenarios from the books I used to secretly devour, hidden away from Ms. Cole's wary eyes.
The curious stares from the passersby didn't bother me as much as I'd thought they would. I should've expected them. We stood out, clad in our unmistakably muggle attire, like misplaced characters in a magical tableau. What Riddle had muttered earlier about me being the reason for their glances left a prick of unease, but I buried it under the torrent of awe and exhilaration coursing through me.
Magic thrummed in the air, tangible and intoxicating. It reminded me of its choice—that it had picked me, of all people, to wield and shape it. To be extraordinary.
I am no longer just an orphan, no longer the invisible girl I once was. I am a young witch—one who has learned more than most would expect in so little time. I've faced my attachment issues and endured the heartbreak of being torn away from Lucy.
Not losing her, no, because she is not gone but rather forced apart in a way that felt like losing a piece of myself.
I was more than I ever thought I could be—magic, potential, and a path ahead filled with the unimaginable.
With magic, I will find her.
I refuse to let self-hatred consume me, to burn away in regret for even thinking of giving up. I will fight—for her, for her light, and for the joy she brought into my life.
My gaze followed Riddle as he stepped forward, the soft click of his polished shoes echoing faintly against the worn wooden floor. The dim light from the narrow windows caught the gleam of his black oxfords, casting subtle reflections on the scuffed planks beneath him.
I couldn't help but wonder—how did he truly feel? A boy like him, so distant and composed. Surely, he didn't care about things like friendship, joy, or awe. But did he ever wonder what it would be like to be loved, to be liked, rather than feared and despised?
Should I hate him for giving me false hope? For making me feel so naïve, so foolish?
But then again, isn't he broken too? Like the rest of us orphans?
Does he crave affection, or has he learned to push it away? What made him so cold? How did he become this boy—this boy with a glare that could kill and a posture that demanded respect, a composure that rivaled royalty?
I glance at Professor Dumbledore , whose bright blue eyes rested on Riddle too. It felt as if he was also analyzing Riddle. To understand him.
Was he doing a better job then me?
Ollivander studied Riddle for a long moment, his piercing gaze sharp yet not unkind.
It wasn't like the disapproving stares we had grown accustomed to from Miss Cole, nor the serene scrutiny of Dumbledore. Ollivander's gaze held a sharper edge, as though he could peer directly into his soul. Though frail in appearance, the wandmaker exuded an intensity that felt almost tangible, a quiet authority that demanded attention.
Beside him, Dumbledore stood silently, his expression calm, betraying nothing of his thoughts.
"You would be Mr...?" Ollivander asked, his voice soft, measured.
"Tom Riddle," Riddle replied smoothly, his voice silky, a polite smile gracing his lips as he gave a curt nod.
Ollivander offered a faint smile in return and inclined his head. "May I see your right hand, Mr. Riddle?"
Riddle extended his arm without hesitation, his movements controlled, exuding a quiet elegance that seemed beyond his years.
Dumbledore and Ollivander exchanged a glance—a flicker of unspoken understanding passing between them like the brief flash of a candle's flame.
The wandmaker turned to the towering shelves, his long fingers trailing lightly over the boxes as though searching for a whispered secret hidden among them. At last, his hand paused. He plucked a box with an almost reverent touch and opened it with a soft rustle.
Inside, nestled in velvet, lay a wand that gleamed faintly under the shop's dim lighting.
"Try this," Ollivander said, his tone thoughtful. "Yew wood, thirteen and a half inches. Quite powerful. Paired with a phoenix feather core."
Riddle accepted the wand with a deliberate, almost cautious grip. The moment it touched his skin, the air in the shop seemed to shift.
An unseen tension hummed, growing stronger as he raised the wand. With a slow, precise flick of his wrist, a burst of crimson light erupted from the tip, flooding the room in an eerie glow. Shadows leapt and danced wildly on the walls, their unearthly movements adding to the charged atmosphere.
The crimson light seemed ominous, and I could feel my magic stirring, as if it were bracing itself against his.
Ollivander's gaze sharpened, his lips parting as though to speak, but he said nothing, simply nodding. Beside him, Dumbledore's expression remained inscrutable, though his eyes glittered with a mix of curiosity and quiet foreboding.
"Ah," Ollivander finally murmured, his voice almost inaudible. "Yes… a perfect match."
"Yew... A rare and… intriguing wood. Suited for both great power and great danger. Combined with a phoenix feather core—an unusual pairing, but not unheard of. Fascinating."
Both power and destruction felt dangerous in his presence. It suited him. Was this a sign? A warning?
"Riddle's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. But there was a flicker in his eyes, an unspoken challenge. "It seems adequate," he replied smoothly, his voice polite but betraying something darker beneath.
His gaze was soft as he looked at the wand for a moment before handing the wand back with a languid grace, as if its power was already his to command.
Ollivander nodded, placing the wand back into its box. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Riddle. I trust it will serve you well."
So a wand which indicates power and danger
chosed him...
The attention shifted to me, and my pulse quickened. I stepped forward, the weight of Riddle's gaze heavy on my back, but I didn't dare meet his eyes. The room felt tighter, the shelves looming overhead as though they were closing in around me.
Ollivander turned to me, his expression softening just a fraction. "Your turn, young lady. Let's see what we have for you."
I extended my hand, my fingers trembling slightly. Ollivander studied me for a moment before turning back to his shelves. His fingers moved in a silent dance, selecting a box with care, as though he was communing with the wands themselves.
"Willow, eleven inches," he announced, opening the box to reveal a delicate, pale wand. "Unicorn hair core. A wand for those with a strong heart and a sense of loyalty."
I took the wand cautiously. A sudden warmth spread through me, comforting and reassuring. The same prickling sensation of heat came into the tips of my fingers. Somehow I could feel it trail up and down my veins,i don't surpress it. I let it flow.
Seeing riddle, i took notes what to do when it was my turn. It was no suprise to me that he knew what to do immediately.
I flicked it gently , and a soft, golden light streamed from the tip, casting a serene glow in the dim room.
Ollivander's face lit with approval. "Ah, yes. A loyal wand for a loyal heart. A fine match, indeed."
I smiled, my grip tightening slightly on the wand. "It feels… right," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"And so it should," Ollivander replied kindly. "The bond between a witch and her wand is not something to be taken lightly."
I smiled back, feeling a quiet sense of peace as I held the wand, its weight grounding me. "Thank you."
"Of course," Ollivander said, his tone warm. "It will serve you well."
I stepped back, standing beside Dumbledore once more.
Ollivander moved to stand beside the Headmaster, their heads inclined slightly toward one another as they spoke in hushed tones. Their voices blended into a low murmur, indistinct yet persistent, like the faint rustle of leaves before a storm. The atmosphere around them seemed to shift subtly, the weight of their conversation pressing against the edges of the room.
Though their words were impossible to discern, there was a quiet urgency in the cadence of their voices. It was clear that their discussion stretched far beyond the wands themselves, touching on matters shrouded in shadow and significance. Ollivander's pale eyes darted briefly toward Riddle, then back to Dumbledore, as if weighing a thought too heavy to voice aloud.
Beside them, the wands on the shelves seemed to hum faintly, a presence in the silence.
Riddle, who had been watching intently, turned his gaze toward my wand. His expression remained composed, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Willow and unicorn hair," he mused aloud, his voice light but laced with something darker. "Loyal, steady, unwavering… How quaint."
I stiffened, my fingers tightening around my wand. "And yew and phoenix feather? What does that make you? A paragon of virtue?" I shot back, my voice sharper than I intended.
Riddle's smirk deepened, his eyes never leaving mine. "Not virtue," he said softly, his tone smooth . "But strength. And perhaps," he added, stepping closer with deliberate slowness, "the willingness to do what others cannot."
A chill ran through me, a mixture of unease and defiance. "Sometimes strength isn't enough," I said, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my chest. "It's about how you choose to wield it."
Riddle chuckled softly, low and almost disarming, though there was cruelty lurking beneath it. "How very noble of you, young lady," he said, his voice mocking as his gaze swept over me with a faint air of disdain. "Though I'd wager you're not quite as… ladylike as Mr. Ollivander seems to think."
My jaw tightened, the sting of his words fueling my defiance. "Perhaps not," I said sharply. "But at least I don't mistake cruelty and arrogance for strength."
Riddle tilted his head, as though considering my words, his smirk never faltering. "Cruelty?" he echoed softly. "No, young lady. Let's call it… clarity."
Before I could respond, Ollivander's voice broke the tension, his tone suddenly more solemn. "Two remarkable wands for two remarkable individuals. The paths ahead of you will be shaped by these tools. Treat them with respect, for they are extensions of your very essence."
Dumbledore stepped forward then, his voice smooth and filled with warmth. "Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. Your expertise, as always, is unparalleled."
Ollivander inclined his head, his gaze lingering on Riddle for a beat longer than seemed necessary. "It is my honor, Headmaster. Take care, both of you."
As we exited the shop, the door jingling softly behind us, I glanced at Riddle once more. His expression was unreadable, but the faint smirk still lingered, his eyes cold and calculating as if he were already planning his next move.
.....
Flourish and Blotts
The shop was alive in its own peculiar way—shelves groaned under the weight of tomes, some with spines so worn they barely held together, others gleaming with fresh ink and gilded titles. Dust motes danced in golden beams of light that poured through the tall windows, illuminating clusters of children with eyes wide and mouths open, their excitement palpable. Quills scratched faintly from somewhere in the back, and the faint scent of old parchment and leather bindings filled the air, familiar and almost comforting.
I held the robes against me—the fabric dull and worn, its patches standing out like scars. A stark reminder of what I had. Or rather, what I didn't.
We'd already gotten our robes from Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. This was our final stop in Diagon Alley, and I'd thought it might be the best.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't excited.
But the excitement shattered when Dumbledore handed me my stack of books—second-hand copies with faded covers, curled edges, and pages stained and scribbled on by those who didn't understand the value of what they held. The thrill in my chest withered, replaced by a cold knot of frustration. I kept my face carefully blank, hiding the simmering annoyance beneath the surface.
My jaw tightened as the shopkeeper wrapped the girl's books—new first-year books—in brown paper, tying them neatly with twine. The smell of ink and parchment filled the space, and I should have been filled with excitement. Instead, I stood there, clutching second-hand robes that smelled faintly of damp and disappointment. My books lay on the counter next to hers. Dumbledore stood beside her, a smile on his face that looked too uncanny.
I watched her—a picture of joy, so blissfully unaware, so effortlessly full of the world's small wonders. Her hands cradled the books with a reverence I couldn't begin to understand.
A part of me wanted to sneer, to mock her. She was far too eager, clutching those tattered supplies with that ridiculous gleam in her eyes, as if they were treasures. How could she feel such glee over scraps? How could she be so naïve, so completely taken in by the illusion of something magical? It was almost pitiable—the swotty, bleeding-heart optimism that poured out of her like some kind of sickness.
Her goody-two-shoes act made my skin crawl.
Yes, that was precisely why I left her behind.
Her presence clung to me like a stain that refused to wash out. Even at nine, she was there—hovering, trying, a relentless buzz in my ear.
I never fit in. Everyone sensed it, like they could see the cracks in me, something just off. That suited me perfectly. But her? She was different. All sunshine and bloody stubbornness, convinced my silence was some puzzle only she could solve.
Pathetic.
She had memories of parents who adored her—warm moments snatched away in a wreck of twisted metal and flames. A miracle she survived, they whispered. Miracle. The word was foul on my tongue. She hadn't the faintest clue what survival truly was.
She'd smile, all wide-eyed hope, her voice soft, like she could coax a shred of warmth out of me.
Persistent swot.
That insufferable grin, like she thought it could thaw the ice beneath my skin. Her laughter—a touch too bright, too eager—scraped against my nerves like sandpaper on steel. And still, she pushed, determined to save a cause that was never lost because it never wanted to be found.
I let her think she was getting somewhere. I watched her cling to her delusions. But the truth was plain as day: she was a waste of time. Just another girl with broken roots, clutching for an anchor. And she thought I could be that? A friend? The irony almost made me laugh.
Her choice in people was rubbish, her judgment cracked beyond repair.
I wasn't cruel. Not completely. Not yet. I let her believe, let her orbit the edges of my world. Perhaps I thought breaking her was beneath me. Or maybe I was just waiting for the right moment.
Yet somehow, against all logic, she managed to pull my attention back to her.
At first, she was a naïve, annoying, pathetic swot. Now, she's a little flame, flickering with her first spark of defiance.
Well? Mercy is for fools, isn't it? And I've never been one.
Once the viper takes notice of its prey, there's no escaping the hunt.
Damn that fire incident and the sudden spark of defiance in her eyes. It makes me want to toy with her more, to dangle hope just within reach and then shatter it. To see how long she can resist before she bends to me like the rest.
The others at the orphanage had long since learned obedience, their wills shattering like glass beneath my gaze.
But Miss Little Flame... she was different.
She cracked, but she didn't break. And that made the game all the more tempting.
The weight of the robes in my hands grew heavier, pressing against the anger building in my chest. I could have had better—better than these rags. I should have had the finest things, but instead, this was what I was left with. This tattered thing, this constant reminder of a life I never chose.
The wand in my pocket offered a strange comfort, even as it pressed uncomfortably against my borrowed trousers. They weren't mine. Nothing ever was.
But the wand... it felt different. It wasn't just a tool. It was a promise, even if I didn't fully understand it yet. The weight of it was reassuring, grounding me in a way nothing else seemed to. Something about it made me feel like I was meant for more than this, more than the hand-me-downs, more than that godforsaken orphanage.
It was something powerful, something that belonged to me, regardless of what the world thought.
The exchange in Ollivander's shop was unlike anything I'd ever felt. The magic that surged through me had burst forth with the raw power of water crashing over a waterfall. It flowed through my veins like a living thing—untamed, fierce, and absolute. For a moment, I felt invincible.
It was as though the darkness within me had finally been unleashed, rising from the depths and gifting me its shadows. Shadows I could wield, twist, and command. There was power in that. A power that belonged to no one but me.
Even now, I could feel it—tendrils of cold magic still wrapped around me, unyielding and constant. A reminder that it was always there, my ever-present companion.
Yet, despite the strength coursing through me, the bitter disappointment remained. These second-hand robes—faded, scuffed, and worn—were a stark reminder of the life I couldn't seem to escape. I should have been able to do better. I could have done better.
I saw Little Flame dart behind a shelf and seized the opportunity. Dumbledore stood alone, a book in his hand, his eyes focused. As I approached, he looked up with that uncanny smile, the kind that seemed practiced.
"Oh, do you have any inquiries, Mr. Riddle—"
"I don't understand," I interrupted, my voice slicing through the quiet like a blade. I held up the robes, my fingers curling around the rough fabric. "Why these?" The coarse material scraped against my skin. "Surely we could afford better."
Dumbledore's brows lifted, his expression unreadable, that infuriating smile still in place. He was too calm, too composed—it made my teeth clench. His kindness felt rehearsed, like a second robe he wore effortlessly.
"Mr. Riddle," he said gently, his voice steady, not soothing the ache in my chest. "I know this must feel… unfair. You're right to ask questions."
I crossed my arms, my gaze cold. "And what's the answer?"
He paused, studying me, his blue eyes piercing. Then he stepped closer, his tone deliberate. "Hogwarts provides for students who cannot provide for themselves. Our resources are not endless. These items are not meant to diminish you. They are here to give you a start."
I laughed, sharp and bitter. I shook the robes slightly. "A start with scraps?"
His eyes didn't waver. "A start with tools. What you make of them doesn't depend on how new or shiny they are."
I pressed my lips into a thin line. Easy words for someone who had never held scraps in his hands. His well-meaning platitudes landed like lead.
He seemed too good to be true. Too kind. No one is that understanding without a reason. The longer I spent with him, the more I was convinced he had a motive. He thought he could read me, but he was wrong. I wouldn't let him in.
"And my family?" I asked, my voice forced smooth. "Surely they could afford more than this."
Something flickered in his expression—regret, maybe. Or pity. I didn't want either.
"Your family, Mr. Riddle," he said slowly, "is complicated."
I stiffened, my grip tightening. Complicated. The word was a polite insult.
"And my heritage?" I pressed through clenched teeth. "Surely there's enough in my family's vaults for a few books and robes."
Dumbledore didn't flinch, though I caught a flicker in his eyes. "Ah, yes. Your heritage." His hands clasped together, his tone infuriatingly calm.
"It's not as simple as you think," he continued. "Without a guardian to claim your inheritance, the process is... complicated. Until it's resolved, we must work with what we have."
His explanation grated. "And how exactly do you know about my lineage?"
He met my gaze steadily. "It is my responsibility to ensure every student is prepared for their education," he said smoothly. "In your case, I made inquiries."
"Inquiries?" The word tasted bitter. "Into what?"
"Your background," he said as though it were obvious. "It's unusual for a wizarding child to grow up unaware of their magic. I thought it prudent to uncover any connections."
I stared at him, my thoughts racing. What did he know? What had he uncovered?
The thought of my family—my heritage—twisted my stomach. Wizards turned their noses up at non-magical people. The wary glances cast our way in the alley proved it. What if my parents were... ordinary? Non-magical people, lost in a world they couldn't understand.
Surely my mother hadn't been a witch. Not if she died… in childbirth.
Childbirth. The word was bitter. Could that have extinguished her magic, her life? I tried to picture her—someone powerful and defiant brought low—but it didn't fit. I heard she was pale and bony when she gave birth to me. Gave birth without any support or roof over her head. Alone, just like me. Maybe that's why I didn't hate her.
I should've felt anger, shouldn't I? Anger at her for leaving me to pick up the broken pieces of her absence. Anger at her for dying without a word, without even the smallest trace of herself to hold on to. But there was no anger. Only a hollow ache—a void where love should've been.
No, hatred wasn't what I felt. I couldn't blame her for leaving. But the emptiness still stung. She'd given me nothing. No keepsake, no whisper of her voice.
Only a name. His name. The man who left her to bleed away, and me to stumble through the wreckage.
Was I even worth the struggle?
The thought made my grip on the robes tighten. Anger burned hot—at my unknown parents,at him, at the ache of craving something as ridiculous as affection.
I assumed I was past the age of being miserable and pathetic, but here I was, still caught in the same tangled mess of longing and regret.
Regretted that I longed something given by her. Something to make the darkness inside me easier to carry. A name that wasn't his might have been a start.