"Next… that one."
Tamara lifted her gaze to the crooked wooden sign hanging beside the narrow street.
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
For a wizard, a wand was never just a tool. It was an extension of the body, a conduit of magic, and—at its deepest level—a mirror of the soul.
In her previous life, a yew wand had accompanied her for more than fifty years. It had witnessed her rise, her glory, and her countless sins.
"I wonder if my old friend is still here."
Her fingers brushed unconsciously against her empty sleeve before she pushed open the shop's peeling door.
A soft chime echoed faintly.
The shop was narrow and dim, crowded by towering shelves that reached nearly to the ceiling. Thousands of slender boxes were stacked in uneven columns, making the entire space feel suffocatingly tight. Dust drifted lazily in the slanted afternoon light.
"Good afternoon."
The voice was gentle, almost whisper-like, yet it cut through the silence sharply enough to make Tamara's shoulders stiffen.
Garrick Ollivander emerged from behind the shelves as if he had materialized from the shadows themselves.
"I had expected you sooner," he said softly.
His pale eyes fixed on her with unsettling intensity, as though they could peel back skin and bone to examine the soul beneath.
"Miss Riddle," he murmured, lingering on the surname. "Riddle… once again."
A chill crept into Tamara's chest.
"You know my family?" she asked lightly, masking her tension beneath feigned curiosity.
"No," Ollivander replied calmly. "I simply remember every wand I have ever sold."
He stepped closer, gaze distant, almost nostalgic.
"Summer of 1938. A young man who bore a striking resemblance to you. Yew wood. Thirteen and a half inches. Phoenix feather."
His voice lowered.
"A powerful wand. And a terrible one."
"That young man accomplished extraordinary things… though they were dreadful things indeed."
Tamara maintained a flawless smile.
The old man talked too much. A part of her almost considered silencing him permanently.
"I've come to purchase my wand, sir," she reminded him gently.
"Of course, of course."
He produced a silver-marked measuring tape from his pocket.
"Which is your wand hand?"
"My right."
The tape measure sprang to life, slithering around her arm, shoulders, and even measuring the space between her nostrils. Tamara endured the peculiar sensation, her eyes roaming the shelves.
She was searching for it.
The yew wand.
Her old partner.
Though it had vanished the night she died, perhaps—just perhaps—it had been returned here for repair.
"That will do."
The tape measure snapped back into Ollivander's hand. He retrieved a box.
"Try this. Walnut. Dragon heartstring. Twelve and a half inches. Unyielding. Excellent for Transfiguration."
Tamara accepted the wand.
The moment it touched her skin, it vibrated violently. A shrill metallic screech filled the air. The wand leapt from her grasp and released a puff of acrid black smoke before clattering onto the floor.
"Apparently not," Ollivander observed mildly. "A little particular, are we? Let's try another. Willow. Unicorn hair. Ten inches. Well suited to a pure soul."
Tamara gripped the willow wand.
Nothing.
No warmth. No spark. No resonance.
It felt like holding a lifeless twig—cold and utterly indifferent. Worse still, she sensed faint rejection, as though the wand recoiled from something buried deep within her spirit.
Over the next fifteen minutes, she tested more than a dozen wands.
None responded.
Some rolled from her fingers before she even fully grasped them.
"Very… very particular indeed," Ollivander muttered, rummaging deeper among the shelves.
Tamara finally spoke.
"Sir… do you have something made from a stronger wood? Perhaps… yew?"
Ollivander froze.
When he turned, his expression was layered with something unreadable.
"If you insist."
He withdrew a black box from a dusty corner.
"Yew wood. Thirteen inches. Dragon heartstring. This wand has waited a long time. It seeks someone with a commanding nature."
Tamara's pulse quickened.
Yew.
Her old companion.
Her fingers trembled as she reached out.
The instant she grasped it—
[Warning! High-risk Dark Arts compatibility detected!]
[Virtue System intervention: Soul Purification Protocol initiated.]
A sharp sizzle split the air.
It wasn't the wand that rejected her.
It was the system inside her.
Pale golden electricity erupted from her palm, striking the yew wand. The wand emitted a mournful cry. A thin crack formed along its polished surface before it tore itself from her grip and rolled violently into a corner, trembling.
Ollivander gasped.
"Yew… fears you?"
Tamara stared at her smoking palm, silently cursing the virtue system and every theoretical ancestor it possessed.
It wasn't enough that it forced her to act like a saint. Now it denied her even this?
"It appears yew is not for you," Ollivander said thoughtfully, retrieving the damaged wand. "If wood symbolizing death and rebirth will not answer you, then…"
His eyes suddenly brightened.
"Perhaps that is precisely the point."
He walked to the farthest shelf and retrieved a faded purple box from the highest tier.
Inside lay a slender wand of warm brown wood, resting against velvet.
"Holly. Phoenix feather. Eleven inches."
He handed it to her with solemn care.
"Holly is protective. It repels evil and helps its master overcome anger and impulsiveness. And the phoenix feather within…"
Tamara studied it.
Then she grasped the handle.
No shriek.
No rejection.
Instead, warmth surged from her fingertips, spreading through her like sunlight after endless winter. The magic within her stirred—no, rejoiced—harmonizing perfectly with the wand.
Brilliant golden sparks burst from its tip, illuminating the cramped shop. They spiraled upward, forming the faint silhouette of a phoenix before dissolving.
A perfect match.
Even more harmonious than her yew wand had ever been.
[Ding! Congratulations to the host for obtaining a signature weapon!]
[Item Name: Wand of Salvation]
[Quality: Legendary]
[System Evaluation: Naturally counters Dark Arts. Strong positive energy guidance detected. You are one step closer to sainthood.]
Tamara felt as though she had swallowed something foul.
She recognized this wand.
It was supposed to belong to Harry Potter.
The wand of the Boy Who Lived.
And now it had chosen her.
"How curious," Ollivander whispered excitedly.
"What is curious?" Tamara asked through clenched teeth.
"That yew wand from 1938—the phoenix feather in it and the one in your wand came from the same phoenix. Only two feathers were ever given."
Fawkes.
"They are brother wands."
The words hung heavy in the air.
In her past life, she wielded the yew wand to kill.
Now she held its twin—the wand meant to oppose her, symbolizing protection and light.
"Perhaps this is fate," Ollivander murmured. "Holly chose you. Perhaps this phoenix seeks redemption."
Redemption.
Tamara's grip tightened.
This wasn't redemption.
It was theft.
She had stolen Harry Potter's wand. The so-called savior would now be forced to use a substitute.
She smiled—bright and sharp.
"Very interesting, Mr. Ollivander. I will use it well."
She flicked the wand lightly. The golden phoenix phantom dissolved.
"After all… since it chose me, it is mine."
Coins clinked loudly onto the counter. Without another word, she turned and left.
Outside, Diagon Alley buzzed faintly with distant activity.
Tamara studied the holly wand in her hand.
"Harry Potter…"
She whispered the name softly.
"Your wand is in my hand. Your entrance to Hogwarts… also in my hand."
She paused.
"…Even your life."
Then she exhaled slowly.
"Not yet. There's time for that."
The wand pulsed warmly in her grip, almost reassuring.
The virtue system remained silent.
For now.
But Tamara understood something clearly: destiny had twisted. The line between savior and dark lord had blurred.
And somewhere in the future, two brother wands would meet again.
Only this time—
She would be the one holding the light.