Andrew and Professor McGonagall stepped into the cool, silent air of Ollivander's shop. The air was thick with the scent of ancient wood and secrets. The shop was a library of potential power, and Andrew, the aspiring jeweler, felt an immediate kinship with every shelf.
Garrick Ollivander emerged from the shadows, his eyes wide and milky, locking instantly onto Andrew's face. The wandmaker paused, a flicker of a dark, long-buried memory crossing his features.
"I wondered when I would see you," Ollivander whispered, his voice dry as parchment. "I remember the one I sold to a young man with your exact likeness many years ago... a wand of Yew and Phoenix feather." He shook his head, clearing the memory. "But you... you are different. There is a light about you that feels like the first morning of creation."
Ollivander placed a finger to his lips, thinking. "A smith's hands, I sense. A builder, not a breaker." He drifted off and returned with an armful of boxes.
He handed Andrew the first wand: Cherry wood and Unicorn hair. Andrew took it. A nearby vase of dead flowers simply died harder. Andrew handed it back with a polite, "No, thank you, sir."
Next was a wand of Oak and Dragon Heartstring. Andrew gave it a wave. A thousand tiny sparks shot out and set a stack of scrolls on fire, which McGonagall quickly extinguished with a sharp charm.
"Hmm. Not the fire of the dragon, then," Ollivander mused, taking the wand back. "Perhaps something more subtle? Aspen and Phoenix Feather?"
Andrew held the wand. It felt cold and lifeless in his hands, like dead iron. "It feels like a tool for defense, not creation," Andrew said, handing it back with that charismatic, sweet tone that made every refusal sound like a compliment. "I want something that understands the structure beneath the surface."
Ollivander paused, a new light in his pale eyes. He drifted to a quiet corner of the shop and returned with a unique, dark box.
"My cousin crafted this," Ollivander said, his voice hushed. "He was an experimental sort, interested in the unseen forces of the world. This is a wand of Blackthorn—a hard, stubborn wood, known for producing fierce fighters and powerful magic when harvested correctly."
He opened the box. Inside, the wand was dark, almost black, perfectly smooth, and faintly humming.
"And the core," the wandmaker whispered, "is a single Thestral tail hair."
Andrew's eyes lit up with scholarly excitement. "The horses that only those who have seen death can see. The core of perspective."
"Exactly," Ollivander nodded. "It is a core that links the user to the veil between life and death, granting vision beyond the mundane. It is powerful, often misunderstood, and extremely difficult to master. Most fear it. But for a smith... who deals in the raw elements of creation... it offers the ability to shape reality from the invisible world."
Andrew reached out with a craftsman's respect and gripped the blackthorn wand. The moment his fingers closed around the smooth wood, the air in the shop seemed to ignite. It wasn't an explosion of sparks, but a wave of pure, silver-white light that washed through the entire store, making all the other boxes vibrate in harmonic resonance.
It was the light of a pristine forge fire, controlled, powerful, and blazing with creative potential.
"Oh, bravo!" Ollivander cried, clapping his hands together. "A wand of power, loyalty, and fierce vision. We can expect great things from you, Andrew. Great things."
Andrew looked at his new wand. It felt like an extension of his own arm, a tool that would allow him to finally bridge his love of crafting with the magic he had just discovered. He smiled that perfect, charismatic smile that melted hearts.
"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander," he said, turning to Professor McGonagall. "I think this is the tool I need to build a world where the shadows never win."
Andrew paused at the door of the shop, the blackthorn wand tucked safely into his coat. The silver-white light had faded, but the air still hummed. He turned back, his handsome face tilted in a look of genuine, polite curiosity—the kind of look that made it impossible for anyone to refuse him an answer.
"Mr. Ollivander?" Andrew asked, his voice sweet and melodic. "You mentioned someone before. A young man who had my exact likeness, but with 'eyes full of winter.' You seemed... troubled by the memory. Who was he?"
The atmosphere in the cramped shop shifted instantly. Professor McGonagall, who had been moving toward the door, froze, her hand tightening on her umbrella. Ollivander, usually so flighty and ethereal, became deathly still. He looked at Andrew—really looked at him—tracing the line of his jaw and the curl of his dark hair.
"His name," Ollivander whispered, the word sounding like a dry leaf skittering across stone, "was Tom Riddle."
Andrew's brow furrowed slightly. He didn't flinch; he didn't know the weight of that name yet. To him, it was just a string of syllables that sounded vaguely like his own hidden surname. "Tom Riddle," he repeated, testing the weight of it. "Was he a great wizard, then? You spoke of his wand as if it were a legend."
"He was... gifted," Ollivander said carefully, his pale eyes searching Andrew's bright, warm ones for any hint of shadow. "He was a boy of immense talent and even greater ambition. But he used his gifts to tear things apart, Andrew. He did not build. He broke. He sought a kind of power that leaves nothing but ash in its wake."
Andrew nodded slowly, his expression turning thoughtful and solemn, like a scholar pondering a tragedy. "A breaker of things. That is a waste of a good forge-fire. In the books I read, those who only know how to destroy eventually find themselves in a world with nothing left to rule."
He offered Ollivander a small, reassuring smile—a flash of pure, charismatic light that seemed to drive the gloom back into the corners of the shop.
"Don't worry, sir," Andrew said softly. "I might have his face, but I have my own hands. And my hands are for making. If this Tom Riddle left behind a world of ash, then I suppose I'll just have to spend my time at Hogwarts learning how to forge something better from the ruins."
McGonagall let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for a decade. She stepped forward, ushering Andrew out into the bright bustle of Diagon Alley.
"Come, Andrew," she said, her voice uncharacteristically thick with emotion. "We still have your books to buy. And perhaps... a treat from Florean Fortescue's. You've had quite a morning."
As they walked away, Andrew glanced back one last time at the peeling gold letters above the shop. Tom Riddle. The name sat in the back of his mind like a piece of raw ore, waiting to be smelted. He didn't know yet that the man was his father, but he felt a strange, quiet resolve. If there was a shadow that shared his face, he would simply have to shine twice as bright to cast it out.