30th July 1989 – Stranglehold Manor.
“Colloportus,” I said with a snap of my fingers as I recalled the time one of the other orphans had stolen one of my toys. Mothers’ office door locked behind me, just as it had been before I entered. The last few hours I had spent in the library, using the painting tunnel to get there as the forest still prevented me from reaching it normally. The night’s, and I suppose now the morning’s, outing had been a success. All the first-year reading materials my parents had happily given me access to, but the more advanced stuff they considered either too dangerous or too much of a distraction from the basics.
Of course, that was unacceptable. I had read most of the first-year books back-to-back and inside-out dozens of times and memorized all the useful information. I had yet to get my wand, so all I could do was practice the spells I could perform wandless, which was not many, and endlessly read the same things over and over again for the rest, which frankly was a waste of my time.
I may have neglected some of the less interesting materials admittedly, namely ‘One thousand magical herbs and fungi.’ I had read it only twice, noted the particularly important ones which mother had already taught me then moved on to more exciting things. Namely my ancestor Ivan’s magnum opus; ‘The Best Defence; A complete guide to duelling magic and strategies.’
It had actually been his ghost that had pointed it out to me. Before I could even begin to read it, however, I had needed to learn the levitation charm just to get it down safely from its high shelf, which I had only managed to successfully pull off wandless a couple of months ago. He was thoughtful enough to warn me against trying to remove it from the tower lest I set off the many magical alarms, so I had been reading and copying the useful bits into one of my two endless notebooks. The fact it was written entirely in old Russian did not make things any easier.
The notebooks had been a present for my eleventh birthday and were easily the best presents I had ever received. They never ran out of pages and never got any thicker, some sort of dimensional magic trickery, and from what father had said they were extremely expensive and hard to come by. According to him, he’d only learned of them through a guest duellist from the far east he had gotten chatting to. But what was the point of being wealthy if one didn’t use it to purchase such tools?
One I had affectionally, and only very privately, named my grimoire. It was where I wrote in the spells I believed myself to have achieved an acceptable level of competence in, along with some useful reminders, tips and notes about said spells. Currently, it included about two-thirds of first-year charms, which I had learned to perform without a wand, though I still used incantations.
I was simultaneously, and paradoxically, proud of how much I had learned in three short years and ashamed that I hadn’t even succeeded in performing all the first-year charms in thrice the time it would normally take. Of course, my parents were quick to point out I was doing them without a wand, which grown wizards struggled with, but then they didn’t know that I had enough memories to be the same mental age as they were, not to mention the help from Paff when I eventually caught him, however reluctant, had been invaluable in manipulating the effects of the spells beyond the basic.
My other notebook was what I used for everything else; notes, observations and to-do’s, or my NOT-book as I liked to call it. In the notes section, I filled in all the useful information I found from various books, including Ivan’s. Observations were mostly my own thoughts on everything from how magic worked to the world at large to the abilities of certain individuals I recalled from Rowling’s books. The to-dos were self-explanatory and currently looked like this:
To-do’s (Short term):
* Get a wand (Still waiting on acceptance letter).
* Learn all first-year charms (Wandless and with wand when I get it).
* Locate the room of requirement and determine the feasibility of using it as a private study.
To-do’s (Long term):
* Learn to apparate (and whether gaining a license would be feasible).
* Research the side effects (if any) of becoming an Animagus (ask McGonagall) and determine the feasibility of becoming one.
* Learn the Patronus charm (before Harry’s third year).
* Determine what to do about Pettigrew, and by extension Black.
* Learn the you-know-what curse (look in library) and discover possible countermeasures (Disarming charm collision?).
* Find a way to break or circumnavigate the trace (currently unaffected? Hogwarts express?).
Both books were small enough to fit in the inner pockets of my jackets and so I had a tendency to keep them on my person at all times. Not to mention, everything was written in Russian such that your average Hogwarts student, or professor for that matter, could not peruse them at their leisure.
On another note, after the day I’d had my single and only session with Mr Mudoil my memories from my past life had stopped entirely. The last memory-dream being of a black op in the Afghan mountains that I never saw the conclusion of. It was possible it was because I had reconciled my past and present lives, but deep down I felt there was a much darker underlying reason behind it.
As I walked, lost in thought, I realised rather too late that I may have gotten carried away and lost track of time. Walking into the dining room I was met with two very unamused glares from my parents, who were in the midst of eating their breakfast. Emelia was there also, but instead staring excitedly at something I couldn’t quite see on the table.
“Sleep well?” asked my father sarcastically.
I did not, in fact, get any sleep whatsoever. It was likely written all over my face and under my eyes, so I didn’t bother to respond with anything more than a grunt as I sat down next to my sister.
“What’s that?” I asked in a tired tone as a plate of bacon and eggs, along with the usual cup of tea, appeared before me.
“That. Is your Hogwarts acceptance letter.” Came the curt and unamused voice of my mother.
The forkful of bacon froze on its way to my mouth. “Wingardium leviosa.” I said with a snap of my fingers as I recalled the time my flatmate had pissed on my assignment in a drunken haze. I could have just reached over and gotten the letter, but seeing it float on over and straight into my waiting hand was well worth it.
I wasted no time opening it. I had, after all, been expecting it months ago. Mother believed the owls had found it difficult to find Stranglehold in the forest, though father blamed her excessive spell work instead, albeit not to her face of course.
Seeing McGonagall’s signature brought a stupid grin to my face. I had known I would be going to Hogwarts for years now, but the letter really drove the fact home. A dream of my childhood oh so long ago was brought into reality.
“Have you…?” I began, looking up from the letter to my father.
“We have sent an owl in reply, yes.” My mother interrupted, knowing what I was going to ask.
“Let me see! Let me see!” came the call from my sister, and I reluctantly handed it over to her once I had read through the entire thing.
“When are we going to diagon alley?” I asked almost giddily.
I winced when I saw the downtrodden look on mothers face, but it was gone before I could blink.
“I’ll take you this afternoon.” My father said, a gleam of excitement in his eye as he no doubt remembered his own revealing trip to the famous alley. “It’s about time you got a wand and learned how to do magic the proper way!”
“I’ll show you proper magic!” I replied, my good mood getting the better of me. “Incendio.”
A tiny bolt of fire shot towards his chest from over the table. An instant after I cast it his wand was in his hand and silently cast the shield charm with a flick of his wrist. The firebolt impacted an invisible barrier and dissipated immediately, the only sign it was ever there was the small rippling I could see in the air where it had disappeared.
“Flipendo.” Came the retaliation. There was a wide grin on both my and my father's face as we traded spells. Lacking any means to shield myself, I was ducking below the table before he had finished the incantation.
I heard the spell crash into the stairs behind me. “Stop this instant!” came the horrified shout of my mother. “I will not have you two duelling in MY house. And Thaddeus! You shouldn’t be encouraging such behaviour in our son!”
With some hesitancy, I appeared back above the table to see my mother with a furious look on her face, a sight scarier than any dementor, and my father looking properly chastened. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught me looking and winked at me.
When we sat back down he leaned across to me and whispered, “we’ll make a duellist of you yet.” And grinned at me as mother scowled at us from her seat.
We did eventually finish breakfast, and then time seemed to crawl at a snail's pace. Mother dragged me to lessons that, for once, I couldn’t entirely focus on such was my childlike excitement. Not that there was much else other than perhaps magic she was qualified to teach me. I was almost perfectly fluent in Russian and so I spent the next three hours going over the transfiguration alphabet whilst mother focused on Emelia, who had rather annoyingly achieved a level of fluency in Russian to match my own and was now being taught the long and mostly boring history of magic.
It felt like the longest three hours of my life, but it did eventually come to an end when father came in to bail me out five minutes early. “Come on Victor, your wand awaits!”
Mother scowled at the intrusion into her lessons and then sighed. “Have a pleasant time, and don’t forget the rest of your supplies.”
I smiled back at her and practically ran up to my father. Together we went to the fireplace in mothers office, though it was hard to say who was more excited between the two of us.
It was not my first time using the floo network, but it would be my first time in Diagon alley and I was looking forward to finally seeing a location I would recognise. I wondered how it would compare to both the books and the films. I had seen portraits of Dumbledore and other famous wizards and witches in the news before and they had not shared the appearance of their actors, at least not entirely, which had been food for thought if nothing else.
Father invited me to go first. Stepping into the fireplace I could almost hear my heartbeats echoing in my ears as a grin spread on my face from ear to ear. Taking a handful of floo powder, I was careful not to fumble my words before I threw the powder into the old coals. “Diagon alley!”
I saw a burst of green before I felt myself being sucked through an impossibly small hole. Albeit not painful, it was certainly nauseating as my perception spun in rapid circles as it tried and failed to make sense of wherever it was I travelled through. The sensation endured for less than a few heartbeats before I felt my feet strike solid ground once more.
It took me a moment to realise I had my eyes closed and once opened I found myself in what could only be described as a dark, structurally unsound and unusually large English pub. The Leaky Cauldron, its name came to mind as I stepped from the fireplace. An instant later, in another flash of green flame, I heard my father step from the fireplace behind me and place his hand on my shoulder.
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“You smell that Victor?” he asked in a jovial tone.
All I smelt was sweat and alcohol, but I interpreted his question as rhetorical. I did, however, take a look around and see no less than Rubeus Hagrid chatting enthusiastically with some wizards I did not recognise, his mountainous figure and equally impressive beard impossible to miss.
“That’s civilization. People, Victor, glorious people. Stranglehold’s nice but it’s about time you got out into the world.” He said as he squeezed my shoulder.
Other than our annual family dinner with our cousins in Russia, Emelia and I had been particularly sheltered from the world at large now that I looked back. In my old life, I’d never been one for socialising, but even I had to admit I was glad to see some new faces.
“Right, let's get on then. We’ll do the boring stuff first and save the best till last. Where did I put that letter…” Father began rooting through his pockets just after we walked out the back and he tapped open the seemingly solid brick wall.
A tide of self-shifting bricks revealed the one and only Diagon alley in all its glory. My first impression was that it looked surprisingly like it did in the movies, with the exception that everything was somehow more ridiculous. Witches and wizards of all shapes and sizes roamed the bustling alley, turning in and out of the varying shops. I could see Gringotts towering over the other buildings in the distance, the bank as intimidating on the outside as its goblin employees within. Display windows showing wares of all kinds, from broomsticks to potions, caught my gaze and I fought the urge to rush up and gaze at them in amazement like a kid in a candy shop.
“Ah! Here it is. Let’s see what we’ve got first… school robes. That’ll be Madam Malkin’s. Come along Victor!” Clapping his hands together, he set off into the bustling crowd as I did my best to keep up and follow behind him.
The next hour I spent in a sort of amazed daze that was everything a young me had ever dreamed of. Just how quickly I had gotten a perfectly fitted set of robes reminded me once again of just how convenient magic could be.
Next on the list had been the course books, a cauldron, some crystal phials, a telescope and a set of brass scales. Due to the family fortune, we didn’t need to so much as glance at any of the second-hand stores, buying everything new instead. I saw what could only be other first years out and about with their own guardians, and I could swear I caught a glimpse of no less than Severus Snape leading around an open-mouthed muggle-born. We did not interact with any though, rather fortunately.
After leaving the Magical Menagerie store, father stopped and looked down at me. “Did you want a familiar?” he asked with a curious look on his face.
I didn’t need more than a second to think about it. “Absolutely not.” I did not anticipate having the time to look after an animal, nor did I have the inclination.
Father nodded. “I thought so. That only leaves one thing left on the list…” He grinned at me and I grinned back and we plunged once again into the crowd.
Standing before Ollivanders felt like what people would describe as a religious experience. How such a rugged and, quite frankly, dirty old shop could inspire such awe in me I didn’t even question. The key to quite literally everything I had ever wanted was within those doors.
I stepped forward to enter, then turned when I noticed I was doing so alone.
“Go on in Victor. This is something you should do alone; I’ll be waiting right outside.” He told me with an encouraging look on his face.
I nodded at him, then wasted no further time in entering. Its inside was much like its outside, old, dusty and in serious need of a good cleanup. Nevertheless, there was an undeniable personality and authenticity to it that could only come with great age and affection.
It was a surprise then that it appeared empty. I loudly cleared my throat and, a moment later, a grey old face with large silver eyes poked out into the long corridor behind the desk. “One moment my boy!” gave the gravelly reply.
I spent a moment twiddling my thumbs and idly looking around as I wondered what kind of wand I would get. I recalled that it was the wands that chose their wielders, but I still didn’t know much past the basics of what makes a wand unique, nor how they even worked. It was yet another topic to add to the list.
“Ah, one of the Thornehearts. Black hair, green eyes and that signature mean look, your family are unmistakable. I recall selling your grandfather his wand all those years ago. And I think I know just where to start with you.” He said as he appeared, looked me up and down as he pulled an odd-looking tape measure from his pocket and began measuring as he muttered to himself, before promptly disappearing back into the library of wands behind him.
Less than a minute later he reappeared with an open wand box and handed it to me. I recognised the wood as aspen, much like my father's, and it was of similar length. As I picked it up and felt the grain between my fingers I couldn’t help but smile.
“Well? Give it a wave!” the ancient wandmaker urged.
Flicking it in an omega pattern I had remembered but not practised, I attempted to cast my first spell with a wand. “Lumos!”
Out of habit, I pushed some anger behind the magic, though only a little. Which proved to be at best unnecessary and at worst far too much as I felt a tidal wave of magic surge to the wand in my hand rather than building at my fingertips. The moment I felt it flow into the wood, I knew something was terribly wrong.
Rather than a moderately bright light, a flash of blue lightning shot from the end of the wand and struck the ceiling, leaving behind a black mark on the otherwise white ceiling.
I flinched back from the thundercrack it released and winced at the damage. The sound brought back some unpleasant memories but I dealt with them without issue.
“I think not,” Ollivander said as he gently plucked the wand from my hand and returned it to its box. Furrowing his brow, he shuffled back between the shelves.
The next, a short English oak wand, ended with similarly disastrous, albeit different, effects. Instead, it shot out of my hand and across the room with a bright flash.
I levitated it back into my hand with a snap of my fingers as I spoke the incantation, and then handed it back to the old wand maker with an apologetic look which he seemed to ignore as he returned that wand to get the next.
The third wand was crafted from Hazel, about 10 inches long. Before I picked it up I took a moment to admire the beauty of the tool. Whoever had carved it, I suppose Ollivander, had truly put in the time and affection to bring out the best features of the wood. It had an intricately decorated handle that was engraved with mesmerising swirls and shapes, it curved down near the tip and ended bluntly.
“I see you like it. This one is amongst my finer creations; the hazel responds well to an even-tempered user with a strong grip on their emotions. It has a unicorn hair core, I sensed you might have an affinity for it. Well? What are you waiting for? Give it a whirl.” The wand maker explained in a fatherly tone, his silvery eyes staring me down.
I picked it up tentatively and repeated the wand-lighting charm. The magic flowed smoothly and well, and a soft orb of light appeared without trouble at its tip. And yet… And yet I felt nothing for it, one way or the other. I knew instinctively this wand would choose me if I allowed it, but it didn’t feel like my wand. Not because there was something wrong with it, but because there was something missing.
I handed it back to Ollivander with a slow shake of my head, and the man went from hopeful to somewhat baffled. He stood there for a moment, scratching his head as he looked me up and down. His silvery eyes met my own and I felt them piercing into my soul as he tried to make sense of me. I imagined that there had never been anyone quite like myself come to him for their first wand, a child but with memories far beyond my years.
“Aaaah!” he said, as though slowly coming to a realisation. “You are a complicated one Mr Thorneheart, I was certain that hazel would be an ideal fit, but I see now what it is that I missed. One moment.”
When he walked away this time, it was without uncertainty but instead a slow confidence, as though he already knew where he was going. He returned with another wand case and opened it before me.
Lying within was a cream-coloured wand utterly devoid of decoration other than a smooth polish and the whorls of the wood itself. Its slight width remained constant for a third of its considerable length, before it slowly tapered off to a fine, almost sharp-looking, point.
“Hornbeam and phoenix feather. Fourteen and a half inches. Unyielding. A wand for the passionate, or obsessive. Loyal to the end to one who proves they are worthy, and with a temperament to match such an owner.” He explained, his eyes flicking from me to the wand with a degree of trepidation.
Picking it up, I felt the smooth wood between my fingers. I had liked the beauty of the hazel wand, but I had to agree that the plain and uncomplicated hornbeam suited me far better.
“Lumos.” I cast the charm for the fourth time, and when my anger-fuelled magic touched the wand I felt as it absorbed the flow with ease, but for the briefest of moments, it hesitated, as though it was sampling my magic, determining if it was worthy. Then, far brighter than I had intended but in a perfect execution of the wand-lighting charm, an orb of bright blue light appeared at its tip.
The extra length granted it a heft that felt comfortable in my grip, the brief instant of anger I had cultivated to channel the magic had tightened my fingers but rather than bend at the sudden pressure it had remained firm and straight.
I tried to cancel the flow of magic to end the spell, but I quickly realised it was not quite so simple. The wand wanted to keep being used, and from what I could tell it had as much control over the flow of my magic as I did.
So, for the first time, I flicked my new wand and cast the wand-extinguishing charm on my own light. “Nox.” The glow dissipated immediately, but if it hadn’t been an inanimate object then I would have said my wand pouted at me, at least that was the mental image through my new connection with it.
My heart fluttered and I knew I was holding the right wand. I’d only had it a moment and yet it already felt like an old friend. Tearing my eyes from it with some difficulty, I looked back at Ollivander with a grin, and a smile managed to creep onto his old face in response.
“You didn’t make it easy Mr Thorneheart, I haven’t had such a challenge in an age. But nothing worth doing is ever easy, as I’m sure you already know.” He told me with honesty.
“Thank you, Mr Ollivander. It is perfect.” I replied.
To which he just shook his head and continued to smile. “I only make the wands; it is they that choose their master. A word to the wise, Mr Thorneheart, hornbeam wands are loyal to a fault, even if you are not loyal to yourself. Act against your nature and it will disobey you, and with a phoenix feather, it may act of its own accord to this end. It is not a wand for the weak of will or of character, but prove worthy of it and stay true to yourself and your dream, there will be little you cannot accomplish with it by your side.”
I absorbed his words with all seriousness. If there was a person more knowledgeable on wands then I did not know of them. Looking back down at my wand I recalled the fate that befell Ollivander in the books, months of imprisonment and torture at the hand of Voldemort and his followers all for some information on Harry’s wand, and later the Elder wand.
I had resolved to see only to myself and my family and yet there were so many wrongs that I could potentially right, this being only one of them. But would it be worth drawing the ire of the dark lord and putting my family at risk just to save an old man that would be otherwise saved by Harry Potter and his friends later on? I didn’t know the answer to that, but it was a question for a later time when the matter was more pressing and there was something I could actually do about it.
Looking back up, I met those insightful silver eyes and tried to mask the peculiar guilt I felt with a smile. “I will make sure to keep that in mind. You have been very helpful Mr Ollivander, have a pleasant day.”
“Likewise, Mr Thorneheart. I shall send a receipt to your family’s Gringotts account. I do imagine I shall be hearing of you in the future; it is said the bearer of a hornbeam will almost always realise their vision. I look forward to finding out yours.” He said as his parting words just before I left the shop.
My father was waiting expectantly, and all but ran up to me as the door swung shut. “Well?” he asked, wide-eyed.
I opened my palm to reveal the wand that I had yet to let go of. “Hornbeam and phoenix feather,” I told him.
He squatted down to get a better view of it, his eyes roaming its surface with appreciation as a smile came over his face showing his pearly white teeth. “Hornbeam ay? Old Ivan will be disappointed it's not aspen, but he’s been dead almost 600 years so who cares what he thinks? It's quite long, but that’s a good thing if you’re anything like me, when you get tall you’ll be grateful it doesn’t look like a twig in your palms. A little plain for my tastes, but then your mother always did say I had a flair for the dramatic. Pheonix feather, at least in my experience, makes for the most powerful wands, so long as you have the guts to use them properly that is. Of course, I happen to be a little biased in the matter, so take that with a grain of salt. All in all, a fine wand Victor, a fine wand indeed.”
I nodded along at his assessment. I hadn’t even thought about its length, so distracted as I had been with the sensation of using it, but now that I looked it did look rather silly in my eleven-year-old hands. It was longer than a foot in length and I stood at barely five foot tall. Then again, I wasn’t much bothered with how I appeared to others, so it was mostly irrelevant.
The entire time we spent walking back, and even through the floo network, my eyes never left my wand. I couldn’t wait to try all the spells I had memorized but struggled to cast windlessly. I had grown used to the difficulty of casting spells without a proper focus, but I only appreciated that fact for the first time now that I knew what it was to cast with one.
It had been like the magic was meeting me halfway, doing most of the heavy lifting so that I could concentrate on the spell’s form and function. I knew I would no longer need to use emotion to kick things into motion, but that brought about the question of what would happen if I did? The wand-brightening charm had been far stronger than anticipated in Ollivanders, and I had purposefully tried to tone it down.
Thoughts. Theories. Ideas. Tests. Experiments. So much was running through my mind, there were so many things I needed to try, that I didn’t even register the fact I had returned home and then promptly ignored everyone by locking myself in my room.
I had a month until I went to Hogwarts. One single month with all the time in the world to experiment to my heart's content, though I did not do so out of some childish desire to impress my peers. No, I wanted to hit the ground running when I arrived. The more of the basics I could do now, the sooner I could move on to the more advanced stuff.
Opening my grimoire and NOT-book, I cracked my neck and spun my wand around in my fingers. A grin split my face from ear to ear in a way I imagined would look manic to anyone watching. I finally had all the tools I needed, and nothing and nobody could stop me from doing what I knew I had always been born to do.