“Ah, Mr Riddle. Tom Riddle, I remember… Thirteen and a half inches. A dark yew. Ah, yes. I remember well…” The slow voice seemed to echo throughout the old shop, piles upon piles of neatly and roughly stacked wands, exactly in their places, exactly where they were meant to be. In a way, it was beautiful… a small, rather pathetic way. This man knew wands. He spent all day, every day, making, selling, inspecting, polishing wands. A wand maker the man was, a wand maker he had always been, and a wand maker he would always be. And a wand maker his son was too, one couldn’t forget that. Thankfully, Ollivander Jr. was out tracking a unicorn or some such on this particular day, a task his elderly father, conveniently for the Salesman, was no longer physically inclined to do.
“As do I, Mr Ollivander.” The old man chuckled.
“I’m sure. I seem to remember you spent half the day in my shop, just wanting to learn… such a bright, curious child, Mr Riddle. And such a powerful wand.”
“It has served me well,” the Salesman replied. He remembered the day too, very clearly. While the old wand seller’s son had been in and out of the shop, serving other customers and dealing with the matter of the till, Ollivander Sr. himself had spent the entire time with the young outsider, happily discussing magic at length, and wands, and many other things one did not learn when growing up outside the magical world.
“Of course, of course,” said the man in his own slow, serene way, old black eyes calmly watching, watching the comings and goings of life. At times, it was difficult to tell whether he was happy and comfortable in his life, or whether he had realised it was going no where, and had been the same throughout… whether Ollivander Sr. lived a content life or a monotonous one of melancholic exclusion. “I suppose it has not been put to much use in your line of work, however… Though there are rumours, you know, of other magics.” The Salesman looked at the old man for a moment, then smiled slightly.
“This wand may be one of the most well-used of all your creations.”
“Quite possibly,” answered Ollivander fondly. Wise old fool.
“You say you may have something to sell us?”
“Ah, yes. Of course. I have it back here somewhere.” He turned, presumably to retrieve the item. No doubt the fellow knew exactly where it was amongst the ordered rubble of his shop.
“Very good.”
It took only a few moments for Ollivander to return, bearing not a wand, but what appeared to be a humble letter-opener. He placed it on the desk.
The item was old “ that much was clear. It was rusted on the handle, though the slim blade was of perfectly clean silver.
“May I?”
The old man nodded.
It was cool, but not cold, and the power within could be felt simply by touching the small item of stationary. He turned it over in his fingers, inspecting… On one side of the handle was a roughly made, bronze bird “ perhaps a hawk, an eagle or a tawney-frog mouth “ while on the other was what appeared to be a crest of some sort, split in four with the letter ‘S’ in the centre… he recognised it from somewhere, though only in a book. Where had he seen it…?
“The crest is one of the original designs for the Hogwarts Crest,” explained Ollivander. Ah, of course. And the bird most likely the Ravenclaw eagle. The Salesman could feel the soft smile on his face, the compressed euphoria in his heart.
“Yes, I recognise it.”
“I believe it was in Trout Savont’s new book, Hogwarts: a History.”
“Ah, of course.” He had not read this particular publication, however… but he was beginning to remember. Before ‘Hogwarts’, the Founders had planned on another name.
“This was created by three of the Hogwarts Founders: Slytherin, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.” It was, in a word, priceless, though that was not what the Salesman was interested in.
“What about Ravenclaw?”
“I believe it was a gift, made for her.”
“Ah… and does it hold power?” He could already sense that the answer was yes.
“Oh, yes. Great power, especially for something so small.” He spoke fondly of the item, and his old voice most likely had the power to put young children to sleep. “It cannot be contained in any enclosed area “ it can tear apart any bag or structure attempting to contain it; he who wields it cannot be trapped in any sort of physical, or even magical bonds. It remembers every letter it ever opens. The object, in fact, also seems to have a memory “ with a Pensieve you can use it to see any and every place it has been… Not to mention, the letter-opener has particularly useful powers of letter-opening. Very sharp.” He chuckled again.
The Salesman turned it over in his fingers. It was so small, and appeared so very frail. But if, indeed, what the old wand maker said was true, its value knew no ends.
“How have you come to acquire this artefact?”
“By accident, actually. It has quite a busy history, as you might imagine… I have spent quite some time exploring its memories.”
“It records memories just as a human mind does?” asked the Salesman with much interest in his fixed stare.
“Oh, yes. It is quite miraculous.”
“I should very much like to see this power, Mr Ollivander. If you do not mind,” the Salesman requested, handing back the letter-opener. The old man was probably glad to have someone to share his findings with in any case. Wretched old fellow, as he was.
“Of course. I think you will find it quite intriguing. Would you like to come through? I have a Pensieve around the back…” He rose, and, surprisingly swiftly, made his way into the rows of shelves behind the counter. The Salesman followed close behind.
“For a man who spends so much of his time practicing the noble art of wand creation, Ollivander, you manage to get your hands on objects most rare.”
They soon arrived at a small table at the end of a row, on which sat a calm, stone basin. It was old, though time had stolen none of its charm and its runes were still smooth and sure. The quiet was nearly absolute, and it seemed their voices need be no more than whispers to be heard and understood precisely. Ollivander carefully dropped the artefact into the Pensieve.
“You see? You do not even need a wand…” he murmured.
Thousands of images seemed to be within the contents of the Pensieve, lifetimes’ upon lifetimes’ worth of memories poured into the basin.
“Come,” said the old man, “the history is fascinating. You do not need to dive in. Just touch it, with your hands.” They both reached forward to the basin, and the moment the Salesman reached the white light, it began to ooze out, surrounding his hands, then his arms, then his chest, before swallowing up even his head in light, and blindly he felt himself being pulled into the memory, rather than diving in. The item was far more powerful than a memory. It did not take long before the white light faded, to reveal another scene of a different place, in a different time.
It was night time “ this was very clear. On a small boat, three figures were huddled around a circular platform. Each was dressed in black. Two were pointing their wands at the object on the thin wooden platform “ a silver blade, and the other held a half-hewn handle and a small carving knife. Three comrades. The Salesman could hear his heart pump, though his face did barely change, save for an unusual flash of the eyes, gone unnoticed.
“There they are,” said Ollivander steadily. The Salesman had nearly forgotten his presence.
“This is something few have had the honour to see,” he murmured. The old man nodded.
The three spoke to each other in hushed voices, barely audible as whispers on the breeze.
“They speak no louder for a long while,” said Ollivander. “And when they do, it is in a language I cannot comprehend.”
“Old English?”
“No… I have knowledge of quite a few languages. It seems they had made one all for themselves. This is over one thousand years ago. In three days, they will give the letter-opener to Rowena Ravenclaw.” The Salesman was learned in languages of old, and would have very much liked to hear what was said. It seemed unlikely the friends should really invent a whole language, and… but now was most certainly not the time.
“Where is this place?” asked the Salesman, glancing into the darkness.
“I believe it is somewhere near where Ireland is today. At the moment, you and I are hovering above the water of a dark lake. The Founders seem to have spent a long time here, researching the magic of a village nearby. I believe this is several years before the site of Hogwarts was even decided upon. At the moment, from what I have managed to understand, they believe it will be called ‘Swinefreckles’. Unusual translation.”
“I see.”
“Yes, quite.”
“How did the object leave their hands?” Ollivander chuckled.
“Ah, yes, an interesting occurrence. Would you like to see?”
“It would give me great pleasure,” answered the Salesman. Their surroundings began to change. The dark lake was no longer black, smooth water but ice, a thin layer of snow covering it. In every direction, in fact, only ice was visible, except for the four figures upon it. Three seemed to be sitting on a large carpet. Another, a pale brown haired man, by the looks of it, was quickly grabbing handfuls of items off the ground and throwing them into what appeared to be a sack, whilst the others seemed to be hurrying him on. When everything was in, he sprinted onto the carpet, and it took off almost immediately. The bag dangled over the back.
“You don’t get queasy at great heights?” asked Ollivander. The Salesman shook his head, and was about to answer more extensively when both he and the other man were suddenly off the ground and flying at an extremely fast pace next to the carpet.
“This is much more than simply a memory. Are you controlling where we fly?” The old man nodded slightly, and gestured towards the sack trailing after the carpet. A miraculous thing was happening.
As barely a blur, the letter-opener was cutting the bag and everything that had been inside to pieces, darting about until all that was left were short strings of sack and a cloud of dust falling to the icy ground.
“It’s quite something, is it not?”
“It certainly is,” the Salesman said, as they fell along with the dust. The knife lay on the frozen ground, and the carpet was not returning. He knelt down to examine the rubble, now rendered useless. The letter-opener gleamed as if polished. “There were items of great magic in this bag…” he murmured quietly, “how is it they could be so readily destroyed by only a knife? The enchantments protecting them?”
“It is not just a blade,” said Ollivander with a smile. “If we had come a few days earlier, we would have seen the vast varieties of heavily strong spells cast upon even the sack to keep it from harm. I believe Merlin himself would not have been able to damage it easily.” The Salesman did not react, though the power in the letter-opener was stunning to say the least.
“How is it that you retrieved it from here?” he asked after a moment. Ice was still all that was visible in every direction.
“I have never seen this place outside of a memory.”
“Oh?” asked the Salesman.
“Did you see how the Founders left in a hurry?” inquired Ollivander.
“Yes,” answered the Salesman, though he had not, despite himself, thought much of this at the time.
“They were running,” the old man told him, his eyes sparkling.
There was still but ice, in every direction.
“I don’t“”
A loud rumble shook the ground, ice rubbing on ice as it cracked. It appeared to be some massive volcano forming from beneath, raising a lump hundreds of feet across. But still, nothing was visible but the frozen ground.
“Is it some sort of curse?” he asked, under his breath. Ollivander just smiled, watching the lump.
Thick layers of long-frozen water fell from the mountain like thin glass as it rose, smooth from beneath. It was still only ice, however, round, rising ice. Suddenly, a longer piece erupted also from the ground, at least four hundred or five hundred feet long, the thick end no less than one hundred feet in a rough diameter. It flicked into the air, tonnes of ice thrown around carelessly, almost like…
“A tail…” muttered the Salesman.
“Have you ever seen an Ice Dragon, my friend?” asked Ollivander, his face alight with excitement. “I would assume not, as this was the last of its kind, over one thousand years ago. See, here come the legs…” And, indeed, huge, ice thigh joints were emerging before the tail. The Salesman watched, still.
“I thought they were only myth.”
It was an ancient beast, a dragon larger than anything that could be controlled, stronger than anything any wizard in their day had any fought. Probably the most fearsome dragon since the days of Merlin or before.
“No more myth than you or I,” answered Ollivander, satisfaction at the Salesman’s amazement evident in his voice.
Its head broke through the final layers of ground last, throwing enormous slabs of ice all over the landscape. Instinctively, the Salesman stumbled back, stunned by the sheer enormity and power of the Thing. It must have been six hundred feet tall, and at least a thousand feet from the fearsome head to the proportionately stubby tail. It had a form similar to other dragons, though its wings were much larger “ large enough to blow apart towns simply by flying low over them, and its tail was much shorter. The head was long, and was frilled about the neck to resemble an adder snake. But when it roared, it was like nothing the Salesman had ever heard before “ a high pitched scream he was sure could shatter glass, or even the ice around them.
“We are very far away from any towns or villages,” Ollivander told him. “I don’t believe there was anyone alive in even this country, for it was made only of ice. The Ice Dragon caused storms and winds fierce enough to move a man in nearby countries, just from here. It would take a powerful sorcerer to control the dragon.”
“The Founders “ they managed to, yes?” The old man shook his head.
“I don’t believe the Founders ever got the chance to try.”
“How is that?” asked the Salesman, sharply. “Then who “ How could this beast possibly come to harm?” Again, Ollivander chose to keep his silence.
“Just watch.”
The monstrosity took only two steps on the ice, looking around it, before apparently sensing a flaw in the landscape.
“I believe it is blind,” said the old man, “the magic within an object would probably feel the same as several powerful humans to such a beast as this. But I am not sure it is possible to tell…” With a snarl that blew several ice lumps across the snow, the dragon snapped up a huge section of ground “ the ground on which the Salesman and Mr Ollivander stood. The teeth that drifted, ghost-like, straight through the two men were needle sharp at the ends, and clear like made of perfect glass. They tore through the ice like it was no more than the lightest of sponges.
“This dragon could destroy countries,” said the Salesman, “whole civilisations. Can it breed?” Ollivander shook his head.
“Unfortunately, I cannot say. I only know what I have seen here. Had it time, I’m sure the dragon would have bred somehow. Species do not exist if they cannot reproduce, and the Ice Dragon“”
“Then how did this one come to being? Was it created, or“” Ollivander interrupted the Salesman in turn, apparently taking his questions as childish excitement and curiosity.
“It is possible it had been embedded in the real ice since the days of Merlin. The Dragon could not be man made… it is particularly magical beyond comprehension, I hope you understand. Even if it were to lie obediently still for an infinite amount of time, you would not be able to mark it with the sharpest of blades or any but the strongest of incantations, this much I can conclude with much certainty. It is ancient, and very powerful.”
“Then why is it not still alive today?” asked the Salesman. “Why has it not destroyed mankind altogether?”
“Ah,” said Ollivander, “let us fly again. I have something extraordinary to show you.”
The two of them lifted off the ice, and flew towards the monster, which itself was already in the air. Although they were flying very fast, the Salesman could still hear Ollivander speaking.
“I believe several villages were crushed when the dragon flew over them.”
“I do not doubt it,” answered the Salesman.
They caught up with the flying beast in a short amount of time, and did not stop, but continued through the enchanted ice of its body and into what seemed to be a stomach.
And there, within the ancient, primal force that was the Ice Dragon, Ravenclaw’s letter-opener was a blur. In the pit of the dragon’s stomach was, already, a small, growing pile of ice shards. They were quickly reattaching themselves to the stomach, but the letter-opener just cut faster until the magic of the Ice Dragon could no longer keep up. Although it did not happen quickly, it was carving the beast out from the inside. The Salesman looked at the walls as they slowly, but surely, fell away. It was impossible to catch a glimpse at the letter-opener itself.
“It took about an hour for the Dragon to be destroyed,” said Ollivander fondly. “By this time, it obliterated most everything in its path. Animals became mad at the sound of its voice, the beating of its wings enough to crush the sturdiest of stone structures beneath, and when it fell, the ice turned to water and either crushed or drowned much of the land below. Thankfully, I believe the monster felt pain, and thus it did not fly as far or destroy as much as it might have.”
“There was never another Ice Dragon, I take it?” asked the Salesman.
“Never,” answered his companion, missing the trace of disappointment in the younger fellow’s tone. “This was the last of its kind. The ice of which it was constructed was rumoured to have any number of special properties. None of this was proven, but it sparked far more research into Dragons and the magical properties they possess.”
“I see.” The Salesman cleared his throat. “And where did the letter-opener find itself after this?”
The inside of the Dragon faded, while the scene about the two men began to change.
“As you might imagine, searches were done after the destruction of the Dragon. I don’t believe the Founders ever considered the possibility of the letter-opener being responsible, and thus never returned. However, it was seized by an organisation I believe to have been an early version of an ancient Ministry of Magic. Obviously, even the Muggle world experienced many changes and much turmoil over time, but somehow the blade remained in the changing hands of the ‘authority’ for more than seven hundred years, swapping between countries on occasion, but kept as a legendary artefact.”
“What happened after seven hundred years?” asked the Salesman, eyeing the blank, yet undecided landscape.
“It was in the 1400’s. Turkey had an empire “ the Ottomans “ and was expanding, taking over land in other countries. All of these movements were made by Muggles. In fact, at this time, the international wizarding community was fairly peaceful. However, located there on the outer edges of Turkey was one particular castle, a current branch of the Turkish Ministry called the ‘Office of Historical Legend’, as far as I can tell. None of the items were really believed to be all that powerful. There was a deadly invasion by Walachia around this area “ now, I believe, it is a part of Romania.”
“The castle was invaded?”
“No,” said Ollivander, “they had a primitive form of Anti-Muggle Charm, so the castle was safe as yet. However, in the attack a band of what seem to have been bloodthirsty, barbaric werewolves ended up in the country, fighting alongside the other Muggle invaders…”
Such was the true nature of any werewolf, though all those in society had been terrorised into silence by Ministries. The Salesman had met many a werewolf, and, most commonly, they were more cowardly than bloodthirsty and barbaric.
“…This particular brand of spell, apparently, didn’t work on magical creatures that were originally Muggles, as some of this troop undoubtedly were, and the lot of them seemed to work out they were safe in the building, killed the few people looking after the place and remained in the castle until everything had settled down. We can see them now…”
The formless landscape did not change, remaining a colourless, shapeless space. All that appeared to be happening was that something “ a person, it seemed “ was appearing before the two men. The Salesman watched as the shimmering ghost of a person became more substantiated, and eventually appeared to be another human. He did not move, but stood, a memory of a person past. The man was tall and broad-chested, probably monstrously so in his time, with matted, neglected black hair. His clothes were old and tatty, but warm and tough, and his eyes were dark and tinted yellow. For all his impressive, bestial features, he could not be older than his early twenties… He resembled what the Salesman had always expected a true werewolf to look like.
“There,” said the old man. “This fellow was convicted as having been the werewolf to infect the rest of the group, as well as the leader. Muggleborn, I assume, and never learned in magic. He ran his pack on the idea that wolves had both the right and the responsibility to kill and that human blood should be theirs to spill at their leisure… From what I’ve been able to gather, his name was along the lines of ‘Singey Fenrir’. When they took over the small castle, no one noticed, as no one used it save for the few people who worked there, and there was rarely any need to communicate with them. The werewolves were not discovered until one full moon the entire pack attacked a village of about half Muggles and half magical people. Some of the pack escaped, and this Fenrir fellow was executed.”
“The pack ended?” asked the Salesman.
“Entirely.”
“And he had the letter-opener“?”
“No,” said Ollivander. “Apparently, the pack did not deem it important either, and by chance one of the wolves who escaped happened to take it with him.” The Singey Fenrir fellow’s massive figure faded and disappeared to be replaced by a small, scrawny man with dirty brown hair, almost as ratty as his. “Kert somebody. I don’t know whether he had a last name, or even if ‘Kert’ really was his name, as he was never formally convicted. I just want you to notice the hat he is wearing.” It was nothing special, a small, soft looking black hat.
“Is it important?” asked the Salesman.
“Not yet,” answered the old man, clearly enjoying his own air of mystery. “In wolf form, he left the village before the Ministry arrived, thus surviving only by chance. It was short lived, however, as he did not get further than one day’s travel. The very next full moon night, he ran into a pair of travelling wizards and was killed. They found his belongings, one of which was the letter-opener, and took anything they deemed to have any magical value. Then, I think, one of letter-opener’s most amazing magical uses came to light…”
He narrated the history of the artefact like it was one long story. The Salesman most certainly did not complain. He looked to Ollivander, questions flying about in his head. The most amazing…?
Kert disappeared quickly, and around them a new place was coming to light. It was somewhere in a forest “ the Salesman could not see any buildings or structures in any direction, save for a small, hand-made hut, undoubtedly only for sleeping in. Two wizards, both with hair starting to grey, stood near a fire, on either end of a large table. Whatever magic they were using was very complex, for on the table sat three cauldrons, two heated and one not, and an assortment of ingredients and spices, many of which the Shopkeeper had never seen.
“What are they doing?” he asked Ollivander quietly, striding towards the wizards.
“A very fascinating spell,” answered the old man, vaguely. “I believe many of the ingredients you can see on the table are for mimicking the effects of a Pensieve. You see what they have carved into that bowl?” On the table also was a small bowl, runes scratched neatly into the inside and outside edges.
“Yes, I see.”
“Nothing monumental occurred, I think, in this period of history in the magical world, but I believe these fellows are some of the leading wizards of their time. More than two years has passed since they first came across the letter-opener, and they have been working here for almost two days now. This is “ ah, here it comes…”
One wizard had his wand tip in the rune-covered bowl, and placed the letter-opener in it. The other spooned in amounts of the three different potions. The Salesman could see the substance change colours, and slowly turn into what looked slightly like the mist of a Pensieve, but noticeably thicker. The first wizard raised the bowl above a section of the ground the Salesman had not noticed before that was clear of grass, twigs, or any other imperfection save for a symbol written in the dirt.
“And now…” whispered Ollivander, partly to himself. The wizard who had poured the potions threw down some kind of sand-like substance, and the other immediately poured the contents of the bowl out onto the ground. All, save for the letter-opener seemed to sink in, before… “And there!” exclaimed Ollivander quietly. “There, I have never seen a phenomenon like it!” On the ground lay a soft looking black cap.
The Salesman’s face was blank. He barely trusted himself to speak. Rarely had he seen an object like this… not even vaguely like this at all. Never with this power“!
“Kert’s hat,” he said.
“Yes,” answered Ollivander. “It has not been taken from the past, or from anyone’s memories or the memories of the letter-opener. It has been replicated from the memory. Quite, quite extraordinary, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, very much so,” said the Salesman, his eyes on the letter-opener from the memory, which was still lying upon the ground. He crouched beside it, inspecting, but unable to touch. “Did they ever recreate anything else?” he murmured.
“No,” said Ollivander, as the scene began to fade away. The letter-opener disappeared from the Salesman’s sight, and he remained there, crouched for a moment before standing up. “They tried and failed several times to destroy the letter-opener, believing it to have dark potential, and eventually brought it to England. One died, and in his late years the other, now alone in the world, seemed to forget some of what happened in the past, as the elderly are occasionally warrant to do.” The melancholic edge to his voice fell upon deaf, uninterested ears. “He worked in Flourish and Blotts for a long time, nearly until he finally passed away, and the letter-opener simply remained there, being used, as its name suggests, to open letters. It had paper wrapped around its base to cover the old Hogwarts crest. Several months ago, the store purchased a lot of new stationary and offered any of the old utensils to me. I, personally, didn’t have a letter-opener and…” he paused, uncertainly. “Mr Riddle, are you quite alright?”
The Salesman looked at the old man. Wise, wise, foolish old hypocrite!
“Oh, yes. Please excuse me.”
“Shall we be leaving now?” asked Ollivander, oblivious.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I think I have seen enough,” answered the Salesman, the smile on his face false, not to hide sadness, but happiness and triumph.
“Very good,” said Ollivander, and, as he did so, the remarkable feeling of being lifted and carried by light came upon the Salesman once more, as both he and the wand seller were deposited once more into the old shop by the solid light of the Pensieve. It was very small compared to the realm of nothingness and memory from which the two men had come.
The Salesman withdrew several steps, regaining his composure down to the calm smile and straight back.
“I think Misters Borgin and Burke would be most interested in purchasing this item, Mr Ollivander,” he said politely. Inside, he laughed. “I will speak with them tonight about the letter-opener, and come back with an offer I’m sure you will find fair within the next few days.”
“Oh? Oh, yes, of course,” said the old man, as though he had forgotten the purpose of his visitor’s presence, “excellent then… yes, excellent.” He withdrew the letter-opener from the Pensieve slowly, as the Salesman looked on, heart aflame. He offered his hand, which Ollivander shook weakly.
“It has been a pleasure, Mr Ollivander. I will see you in a few days.”
“Very well,” said the old man, now beginning to regain his own composure. “I will look forward to your next visit, shall I?”
The Salesman did not answer, but just smiled, with a small, polite bow.
“It was a fortunate day that you happened upon this artefact,” he told Ollivander, and, before the wretch could say anything more, added, “I will show myself out, I think.”
o0oOo0o
“Looks like Ollivander’s gone too.”
“The wand maker?”
“That’s the one. Shop’s empty. No sign of a struggle. No one knows if he left voluntarily or was kidnapped… but if the other side have got him, it’s not good for us…”
Misters Borgin and Burke were most displeased to discover that the old wand-seller, Ollivander Sr., had not had anything good to sell them. They concluded that he must have been going slightly senile in telling them he had an artefact truly fascinating. This was not unlikely as, two days later, the elderly Mr Ollivander had unfortunately died of natural causes, to be replaced by his son at the wand shop.
“Tom Riddle seemed to grow less human with the passing years… the transformation he had undergone seemed only explicable if his soul had been mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call ‘usual’ evil…”
Of course, Tom Riddle, a sweet, kind young man, attended dear Mr Ollivander Sr.’s funeral to pay his respects and to provide what little help he could to Ollivander Jr., who was obviously devastated, and needed the support. For several days after his father’s death, the younger, but still highly experienced wand maker was described to have been scatterbrained and forgetful, and clearly missed his father. Upon questioning, he told Mr Burke he truly had no idea what it was his father had been planning to sell.
The locket… the cup… the snake… something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s…
Only nineteen months following this unfortunate incident, Tom Riddle abandoned his job at Borgin and Burke’s, and disappeared for quite a few years…
He returned, not as Tom Riddle, but bearing a new name, the name he would be remembered by for generations to come.
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE
“…he is my past, present and future…”
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT
The locket… the cup… the snake… something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s…
o0oOo0o
It was time.
Almost in one action, He threw down the bowl of sandy substance upon the clear earth, hiding the ancient symbol He had so painstakingly carved; then upturned the bowl in his other hand. Save for the letter-opener “ nay, His letter-opener, all disappeared, sinking into the ground.
And the Dark Lord’s heart burned with victory.
“Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, one of the most savage werewolves alive today… And Voldemort has promised him prey in return for his services.”
The locket… the cup… the snake… something of Gryffindor or Ravenclaw’s…
The End