— — — — — —
After spending the whole afternoon shopping, Tom finally crossed the last item off his list. While the girls took a break, he paid a visit to Ollivander—partly to thank him for his help in the past, and partly to ask about something that had been bothering him.
His wand still worked perfectly in theory. It resonated with him, responded to his will—but lately, it just couldn't keep up.
The issue had only become obvious during the recent "pure-blood purge." The wand still obeyed, but he had to hold back, careful not to push too hard or risk breaking it.
Ice magic was especially dangerous. When channeled through the Frost circuit, his magic density increased so much that a few consecutive spells could permanently ruin the wand.
When Ollivander first heard this, he was skeptical.
It wasn't that he thought Tom was lying—it was that he took it as an insult.
If Dumbledore had said something like that, he might have listened. But a third-year wizard? Claiming his craftsmanship couldn't keep up with him? Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
And then, in less than a minute, Ollivander's pride got shattered.
Tom didn't even go all out—he simply raised his wand and released a steady flow of shimmering silver mist. The air vibrated faintly with the magic pouring out, and soon Ollivander's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Stop! Stop at once!" he gasped.
Tom lowered his wand.
For a long moment, the old wandmaker stared at him, visibly shaken. "I could hear it… your wand crying out. Mr. Riddle, I was wrong. Your magic is… beyond anything I've ever encountered. So vast—so alive. It's as if you were the very child of magic itself."
Tom's eye twitched. Child of magic, really?
He'd call it sweat, effort, and maybe just a tiny bit of talent, thank you very much.
Even he didn't know exactly how strong he'd become. No battle had ever pushed him to his limits—his magic just never ran out. That was why most of the so-called "Kings of Centuries" stopped caring about magical reserves.
But Ollivander had mentioned something interesting: activity.
That, Tom knew, was the real key—the "quality" of magical output.
A wizard's magic could become more "active" depending on their willpower, emotional control, mastery of spells, and understanding of magic itself. The more active it was, the stronger the spells.
Naturally, a wand capable of handling that kind of magic had to be exceptional.
"Mr. Ollivander," Tom said, cutting to the point. "Is there any way to fix this? I can feel my wand struggling. If I let my magic flow too freely, I'll break it. Right now, I'm basically holding back all the time."
Ollivander nodded slowly. "Yes, it's as I feared. A wand chooses the wizard, but that doesn't mean it remains a perfect match forever. Some wizards change—grow faster than the wand can adapt. It's rare, but it happens."
He paused, studying Tom. "In your case, it's even more unusual. Normally, a wand grows with its owner, up to its natural limit. But you… you've outpaced it. Your progress is too fast. The wand simply can't evolve fast enough to match you."
Tom arched a brow. "So what you're saying is… I need a new wand? Can't you just upgrade this one—change the material, reinforce the core or something?"
Tom was a sentimental person. He'd used this wand for two years, and he didn't want to part with it unless he absolutely had to.
"Upgrade?" Ollivander looked scandalized. "By Merlin's beard… what an idea, Mr. Riddle!"
He leaned forward, looking almost offended. "Every wand is like my child. I pour my heart into each one. They're not mass-produced trinkets. Once made, each wand becomes its own living entity. To 'upgrade' it would be like replacing its organs—its very heart. Would it still be the same wand then?"
Tom nodded seriously. "Actually, yes. If you replace the body but keep the soul and memory, it's still the same person, isn't it?"
"If someone died," he continued casually, "and I made them a new body for their soul to inhabit, would you say they weren't themselves anymore?"
Ollivander froze, mouth open.
He couldn't even argue. Tom spoke like someone who'd actually done that before.
"…Well," he stammered at last, "perhaps that was a poor metaphor. But no, Mr. Riddle, it's impossible to 'upgrade' a wand. The only practical solution is to acquire another one. A spare."
He dragged over several long boxes. "Fourteen and a half inches, yew, dragon heartstring, wasn't it? You favor high-powered, aggressive spells. I think we can find something that suits you."
Tom couldn't help but suspect the old man just wanted to make another sale. Still, he didn't refuse—if his current wand ever snapped, it'd be too late to worry about it then.
What happened next nearly made Ollivander faint from excitement.
None of the wands he presented responded properly.
That meant Tom had changed—so drastically that even Ollivander's finely tuned intuition was being proven wrong.
It was like déjà vu from two years ago, when Tom had first come to buy a wand. Back then, Ollivander had tested him with over a hundred wands before narrowing it down to three. That day had already shaken his worldview.
The wand chooses the wizard, he'd always said—but in Tom's case, it felt more like the ocean choosing which rivers to let flow into it.
Now it was happening again.
After hours of testing, only three wands reacted at all, each made of rare, high-tier materials with higher magical limits than ordinary ones. Their compatibility scores were about even, but still lower than expected.
"Mr. Ri—Riddle," Ollivander stammered, still awed. "Which one will you take?"
Tom smiled faintly. "I'll take them all."
So, with three new wands in hand, Tom left the shop.
Without Ministry subsidies, the total came to a hefty 168 Galleons—now that sounded like the proper price for the wizarding world's top arms dealer. Otherwise, at seven or eight Galleons apiece, Ollivander wouldn't even be making back the cost of his materials.
It was also important to note that Ollivander had just broken Ministry law by not registering any of the wands.
His only condition was that Tom send the wands back for inspection if any of them broke—and that he return next summer for another test, to see how things had changed.
...
On his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, Tom was still thinking about how to really solve his wand problem.
The simplest, most straightforward method would be to just pull a new wand out of a system reward—but that depended entirely on luck. And the only missions left he could actually complete were the ones tied to the upcoming exams.
…Crap. He'd completely forgotten about those.
He smacked his forehead. The start-of-term placement tests were right after the holidays. Had he just dug his own grave?
Sigh~ Back to the topic... The second option was to gather rare materials and have Ollivander craft a new wand for him.
That was easier said than done. Finding such materials alone would be difficult—and frankly, Tom didn't fully trust Ollivander's skill for what he needed.
Sure, the old man was a master wandmaker, but he lacked the experience Tom was talking about. He wasn't a King of the Century; he'd never touched the level of power Tom was aiming for. Not exactly reassuring.
That left the third option—finding one of the world's truly legendary wands.
Like Dumbledore's Elder Wand.
Or… the snakewood Wand that had once belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself.
That wand had been stolen by Isolt Sayre long ago, and over time it transformed into the great Snakewood Tree that now stood on the grounds of Ilvermorny. Tourists admired it as a landmark, but few realized the "tree" was actually the resting form of a dormant wand radiating its power into the world.
What a waste.
A treasure like that should belong to someone worthy of it.
And Slytherin's wasn't the only one. The other three founders must have had wands of similar caliber—maybe even stronger in Gryffindor's case. After all, if Slytherin had stormed off like an angry bride back then, maybe it was because he'd lost that fight.
"Tom! Hurry up! I'm starving!"
Daphne's shout snapped him out of his thoughts. Tom sighed with a helpless smile and quickened his pace to catch up.
At the Leaky Cauldron, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were busy pushing three tables together in the corner. Percy was helping, but after moving each chair, he'd pause to polish the shiny silver badge on his chest.
Noticing Tom's gaze, Percy puffed out his chest proudly. "Head Boy badge," he said, as if the shine alone wasn't enough to announce it. "Professor Dumbledore himself approved it. I'm planning a few reforms at Hogwarts next year."
"…Good luck with that," Tom said dryly.
Reforms? From a student? This guy really didn't understand the hierarchy at all.
The twins appeared out of nowhere beside Tom.
Fred clicked his tongue. "Bet you'd love to knock him down a peg, huh? We can lure him out for you. You do the hitting, we won't even charge."
Tom raised a brow. "He's your brother."
"No, no, you misunderstand," George corrected. "That's Percy the Head Boy. Percy Weasley no longer exists. He's been replaced by this power-hungry prefect who keeps lecturing us about school rules."
Fred nodded solemnly. "He's given that speech so many times we had to spike his tea with Draught of Living Death. Finally got some peace for two days."
Ginny, carrying a tray of dishes, overheard and snorted. "Please. You really think that was your doing? He woke up after a day. I had to hit him with two extra Stunners to make him stay down another night."
The twins exchanged a look of sudden understanding. "Ah, so that's why it worked so well!"
Tom couldn't help a twitch of his lips. The Weasleys were… a very loving family, apparently. Their sibling affection came with stunning spells and poison.
"Here," Ginny said suddenly, pulling out a small wooden charm and pressing it into his hand. "Picked it up at the Egyptian wizard market. Supposed to have the same effect as Felix Felicis—but it's probably fake. Still, might bring you some luck."
Tom sniffed it. The faint scent of polished wood was actually pleasant. He looped it casually around his neck. "Smells nice. I'll use it as an air freshener."
"Hmph. Suit yourself."
She tried to sound indifferent, but the tiny upward curve of her lips betrayed her mood.
Tom noticed and smirked. "So, what about you two?" he asked the twins. "No souvenirs?"
Ginny burst out laughing before they could answer. "They tried to bring back a mummy's burial shroud. Mum caught them and nearly skinned them alive."
George sighed wistfully. "It was thousands of years old! Who knows what kind of power it held?"
Tom grimaced. "Even if it did have power, I wouldn't go near it. Maybe if it was a king's burial cloth, sure—but a random mummy's? No thanks."
By then, the tables were arranged and everyone sat down. Hermione glanced around. "Wait, why are there two extra chairs?"
Molly smiled. "Oh, Sirius and Harry will be joining us. They should be here any minute."
Sure enough, moments later the fireplace flared emerald green, and two figures stepped out of the Floo network. One was Sirius Black—grinning and as charismatic as ever. The other was a tired-looking middle-aged man, definitely not Harry Potter.
"Sorry we're late," Sirius said cheerfully, greeting everyone before turning to Tom with a nod. "Good to see you again, Tom."
Molly blinked at the newcomer, studying him for a moment before her eyes widened. "Remus? Is that really you?"
The man smiled faintly and nodded. "It's been a long time, Molly."
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