Albus could carve new magic with his genius. Victor had oceans of power to burn. But even oceans needed a channel — and he would not walk into Hogwarts unarmed. Not when the greatest wand in history lay in reach.
He chose his moment carefully.
"Mum," Victor said one evening as Naomie cleared away the dishes, "I've been thinking. Ollivander is fine, but I heard Mykew Gregorovitch makes stronger wands. He's been experimenting with new techniques. Don't you think it's worth at least trying?"
Naomie hesitated. Ollivander was tradition, every British wizard went to him. But Victor's earnest look — and the way he phrased it as mere curiosity — disarmed her suspicion. In the end, she relented. "Very well. We'll travel to the Continent before term begins. But if he doesn't suit you, we go to Ollivander after. Agreed?"
Victor smiled. "Agreed."
The shop was crowded, shelves groaning with boxes of pale ash and dark mahogany, the scent of wood shavings sharp in the air. Gregorovitch himself stood behind the counter, his lined face sharp and impatient.
"Alone, yes?" he said briskly when Naomie lingered near the door. "Always private, always the customer and the wand."
Victor stepped forward. His heart hammered, but his face remained calm.
Probe first.
His mind reached outward, brushing Gregorovitch's surface thoughts. He found a wall — rough, patchy, but solid enough to block casual intrusion. Not a master, but not defenseless. Victor pressed gently, tasting the edges. The man had shields, yes, but not depth.
Victor whispered an illusion into the cracks: the faint flicker of a boy holding out his hand, eager, harmless, curious. Gregorovitch saw what Victor wanted him to see.
Behind the counter, hidden in a drawer reinforced with protective wards, something pulsed. Victor felt it like a current tugging at his own magic. Old, immense, alive. The Elder Wand.
Victor moved as if testing another wand from the counter, but with his mind he reached deeper. He wrapped Gregorovitch in quiet, subtle compulsion, dulling his awareness, until the man blinked slowly as though lulled into dream.
The drawer opened without a sound. Wood older than empires rested in Victor's hand. It was heavy and light all at once, thrumming with recognition. For a moment he almost shivered — as though the wand itself were appraising him.
Power swelled. For an instant, arrogance tempted him. He could crush obstacles, burn through opposition, rule unchallenged. The Deathstick had broken men greater than him, and it whispered to him now.
But Victor forced the thought down.
Even this wand is only a tool. It will not define me. I will be stronger with it, yes, but stronger still without needing it. I will thrive because I build, because I grow, not because I cling to arrogance. Power without restraint is weakness. I will not fall to it.
His grip steadied. He tucked the wand into his sleeve, his face impassive.
Then he dove into Gregorovitch's mind with precision, peeling away memory. He traced the thought of the Elder Wand, the pride, the secret weight of possessing it. He unraveled it, thread by thread, until only emptiness remained. Gregorovitch blinked, confused, his Occlumency faltering, but none the wiser.
Victor stepped back from the counter. "Nothing feels right," he said aloud, as though disappointed. "I suppose Ollivander will have to do after all."
Gregorovitch only nodded, as if the entire encounter had been ordinary.
Victor left the shop with his mother, silent but steady. Inside, the Elder Wand pulsed faintly at his side.
He glanced at Albus's house as they returned to Godric's Hollow. One day, Albus would burn with visions of remaking the world. And Victor would be ready — not as a follower, not as a rival, but as someone who would always be more than the tools he wielded.
Because even with the wand of destiny in his hand, Victor vowed: he would never be consumed by arrogance. He would always be better.
Victor stood alone in his room, curtains drawn, the Elder Wand heavy in his hand. It pulsed with recognition, with demand. Most wands sat quietly in their owner's grip. This one whispered.
He closed his eyes. Blink.
The world folded — not across a few feet, not across a street, but across countries. When he opened his eyes again, the air was sharp and thin, heavy with the scent of snow. Mountains rose like jagged teeth against the horizon, their peaks crowned with ice.
The French Alps. A place from his other life, etched so vividly in memory that he could paint it with his will.
Victor stood in the snow, the Elder Wand in his grasp, and let magic surge.
A flick of thought, and the snow lifted in a spiral. Another, and a shard of ice split from a cliff, frozen mid-fall before it shattered into mist. The wand sang with his intent, channeling power so smoothly it felt limitless.
Illusions crept at the edges of his mind. He saw himself unchallenged, armies falling at a gesture, cities bending to his will. The wand wrapped its promise around him like velvet — you are unstoppable, you are destined, you are more than mortal.
But Cassian's voice whispered from memory: Illusion is the easiest snare. It flatters. It blinds. Break it, or be broken.
Victor closed his eyes and pushed. His Occlumency walls slammed into place, shattering the golden haze of temptation. The visions cracked and fell away, leaving only the wand, heavy and silent.
It was powerful, yes. But it was not everything.
Victor steadied his breathing, snowflakes melting on his cheeks. "You will not own me," he said aloud to the Elder Wand. "I'll master you — and still I'll train until I have no need of you at all."
The Alps vanished. Without even closing his eyes, he stood once more in his room in Godric's Hollow, the night quiet around him.
Victor tucked the Elder Wand away, heart steady. He would carry it, wield it, but never trust it fully. His strength was his own.
And when the train to Hogwarts departed, he would step aboard not just with power, not just with ambition, but with the resolve to always grow sharper — even if destiny itself lay in his hand.
To Be Continued…