"Arrogant. Volatile. Incredibly rare."
Vaughn sat on the steps outside Ollivanders, basking in the warm September sunlight, thoughtfully turning his brand-new wand over in his hand. The old wandmaker's voice still echoed in his ears, like a riddle that refused to settle.
"Dragon heartstring rarely rejects any magic, Mr. Vaughn Weasley. Unlike unicorn hair, which resists the darker arts, or phoenix feather, which tends to favour the noble, dragon heartstring allows you to shape any spell to perfection. Strong. Brilliant. Precise."
There had been a pause then. A warning wrapped in velvet.
"But of all wand cores, it is also the most temperamental. Especially when paired with elder wood. Elder wands are... peculiar. From the moment they're crafted, they crave power. Not just strength, but supremacy."
He had smiled thinly before adding, almost to himself, "There's an old saying in the magical world: The Elder Wand brings misfortune. Personally, I think that's nonsense. Still... if one day you cease to be unique, or powerful... if you are defeated..."
He looked Vaughn dead in the eyes, his voice barely a whisper.
"The wand may abandon you."
"You've heard the tale of the Elder Wand, haven't you? From The Tales of Beedle the Bard? Yes, it's wrapped in children's story, but the truth lies between the lines. The Elder Wand has never truly belonged to anyone. Ever."
Vaughn ran his fingers down the length of the wand again. The smooth, slightly bone-like texture of elder wood was strangely comfortable. He could feel it—a faint tremble, as if the wand was humming with energy, eager to bond, to channel his magic.
"So..." he murmured, voice low. "Are you going to betray me one day?"
The wand, of course, did not respond.
"Meow."
Fruity, the enormous fluffy cat sprawled lazily across Vaughn's lap, lifted her head at his voice, mewing gently before licking his chin, like she sensed his doubts and was doing her best to comfort him.
Vaughn chuckled, scratching behind her ears as she purred contentedly.
Honestly, he wasn't truly worried.
Ollivander's cryptic warning was mostly for dramatic effect. Vaughn was sure of it. The whole "your destiny must remain extraordinary or the wand will forsake you" idea? That would only be a problem if there was another reincarnator wandering about. Which, frankly, was unlikely.
And as for no longer being strong?
He'd just grow stronger.
Being defeated?
Not happening.
Old man Ollivander had been clever, hiding warnings inside fairytales, but Vaughn knew better. The Elder Wand was real. It had once helped Grindelwald shake the world, then sat quietly for decades in Dumbledore's hand, never once betraying its master.
Grindelwald's defeat and Dumbledore's death hadn't been because the wand turned on them. It was their choices that sealed their fates.
A wand is a tool. That's all.
Still, he looked down at it again and smirked. "You want power? Fine. I'll use you to challenge anyone who thinks they deserve the Elder Wand more."
With that, Vaughn tucked the wand into the sheath at his waist.
Behind him, the shop door opened at last, and the sound of yet another wand test drifted away into the warm air. Ron came marching out, beaming from ear to ear, waving his wand triumphantly above his head like he'd just won the Triwizard Tournament.
"Fourteen inches! Willow! Unicorn hair! It's brilliant!" he announced grandly. "You should've seen it, Vaughn. I levitated like... a thousand boxes!"
The way he puffed up with pride, anyone passing by would never guess that just fifteen minutes earlier he'd been sniffling and trying to hide behind his mum.
Finally having something new of his own, not Bill's, not Charlie's, not Percy's - had clearly done wonders for his confidence.
That was when Vaughn smiled sweetly and asked, "Did you buy a wand holster?"
Ron froze mid-strut.
"It's a delicate item, you know," Vaughn added casually. "Needs polishing oil, too. A decent holster set's at least a few dozen Sickles."
Ron's proud stance wilted. His shoulders drooped.
Vaughn leaned in a little. "Hmm. Don't people exchange gifts on Halloween? Seems like some folks might not need one..."
Ron's nose twitched. His eyes went shiny. He stood stiffly, trying to muster a brave reply, probably wanted to yell something clever, but... Halloween gifts?
Curses. He'd walked right into it.
Eventually, their mother emerged from the shop, having finally exhausted her daily supply of conversation with Mr. Ollivander. With her arrival, their trip to Diagon Alley came to a close.
Well, it was a successful trip for most of them. For Ron, not so much.
They returned to the Burrow via Floo powder. By afternoon, their purchased items began arriving by owl, including Fruity, who couldn't travel by fireplace.
Along with his own school supplies, Vaughn had ordered a mountain of sweets for Ginny. She threw her arms around him in a delighted hug before gleefully unpacking her loot and inviting Fruity to share.
From the moment she'd met Fruity, Ginny had been completely smitten. The enormous cat, after sniffing Vaughn's scent on her and rubbing up against her ankles, had been officially declared her best friend. Ginny practically sprinted around the house with the cat in tow, proudly introducing her to every corner like a royal tour of the Weasley estate.
Ron, on the other hand, looked like he was about to cry again. He spent the rest of the day holed up in his room and wouldn't let Scabbers out for even a moment.
It didn't help that the very next morning, Fruity caught Scabbers trying to escape.
For some mysterious reason, the old rat had managed to open Ron's bedroom window. His tail was tangled with biscuit crumbs, and he looked ready to flee the house entirely.
Unfortunately for him, Fruity happened to be on the upstairs windowsill. She dove with the grace of a shadow. Scabbers didn't stand a chance. He was reduced to a trembling, nearly bald pile of fur in seconds.
Ron, up for a midnight trip to the bathroom, found Scabbers in pieces. He screamed so loud he nearly woke the ghoul in the attic. He demanded that Fruity be exiled from the house, but Ginny, who had grown terrifyingly protective, kicked him in the shins and stormed off with Fruit Tea in her arms.
Ron hammered nails into his windows the next day and begged Mr. Weasley for a proper cage. After that, Scabbers was kept in a dark corner of Ron's room like some kind of sacred treasure.
Every time Vaughn passed by the fourth floor with Fruity, he'd catch Ron peeking out from behind his door, watching them like they were about to rob Gringotts.
Truthfully, he looked a bit paranoid.
The only time Ron seemed remotely cheerful again was during the few days every two months when Vaughn locked himself away in the attic to brew potions. Fruity always went with him, and Ron, knowing the coast was clear, enjoyed some rare peace with his rodent friend.
As for Vaughn, his days before school passed in steady rhythm. Every two weeks, he brewed potions, and in between, he practised spells from the school books.
He'd been learning since he was eight, using his brothers' old books and battered wands. The results were uneven. Without a proper teacher, it was hard to make significant progress, no matter how hard he worked.
Arthur and Molly were busy. Between their jobs and running the household, they barely had a moment to spare. Percy? Far too absorbed in his own studies to bother with a younger brother.
Fred and George... well, let's just say they had a creative relationship with spell accuracy.
Vaughn clearly remembered reading in his past life how those two, despite being two years older than Harry Potter, still needed him to teach them how to cast Expelliarmus.
Honestly, it was laughable.
And then, before he knew it, the day arrived.
September the first.