A Promise Kept - Chapter 70 - The Wandmaker

The Wandmaker

He could feel the impatience of Rodolphus growing.

Although he could not see him, Augustus could sense it, could almost he the man’s jaw getting tighter with each passing moment. They could not have been here for more than thirty minutes since learning that Ollivander had closed his shop, which was not unusual from time to time.

At this time of year, he was at his busiest, so, when he wasn’t serving the new influx of Hogwarts students, he would take the occasional break to tend to his other duties.

Still, it was odd that he was closed so early in the day, but Augustus thought little of it. There was no way he’d become aware of the Dark Lord’s desire to speak with him, not when that desire had been instilled within the man only a matter of moments before they’d arrived.

The Deathly Hallows/

He remembered one of his former colleagues speaking of them with such reverence and a belief that was so strong that he’d dedicated considerable time into locating them.

Most others had thought him mad, but when he’d seen the accounts of many over the centuries who’d the elder wand, each of them describing the power of it in the same way, he could not dismiss the possibility that they truly existed.

His colleague had not been a foolish man, nor one for flights of fancy.

He’d been a field agent, seeking out treasures and investigating discovered magical anomalies, and had been exceptionally skilled at his job; a wizard dedicated to his expertise.

Nonetheless, it was troubling to think that such artefacts existed, especially if the tale of the three brothers did turn out to have even a modicum of truth behind it.

There were things in the world and beyond that should be left well alone, and a being charged with harvesting souls was not something Augustus Rookwood would wish to provoke.

He shook his head at his own trail of thought.

Most would deem him mad for even considering such a possibility, and yet, having worked in the Department of Mysteries for as long as he had, he’d seen things that those same people would never believe.

“Look, it’s open!” Rodolphus whispered, pulling him from his reverie.

So it was.

Whilst Augustus had been pondering the odd and improbable, Ollivander had reopened his shop, and Scabior had noticed it to.

He waved at them as he emerged from the apothecary and waited for the to catch up.

“I’ll go around the back,” he declared, casting a disillusionment charm on himself before ducking into the nearby alleyway.

“You watch the front,” Augustus instructed Rodolphus, who scowled at him unhappily.

Since the death of his brother, the man had been quite unhinged, and this was a task that required a level of delicacy. Garrick Ollivander was a much-loved and respected figure in the community, and any infringement upon him would not be viewed favourably.

Augustus certainly had no gripe with the man. He’d received his own wand from him when he’d been a boy, as had just about every other witch and wizard in Britain, including the Dark Lord, which gave him hope he would not be harmed.

Ensuring that Rodolphus followed his instructions, he entered the shop to find the old wandmaker taking notes in his ledger.

“One moment,” he murmured, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of him when he looked up.

“Ah, Augustus Rookwood,” he greeted him. “Eleven inches, willow, with a dragon heartstring. An exceptional wand for an exceptional young man. I must say, I was as disturbed as I was disappointed to hear that you had been sent to Azkaban.”

With a flick of his wand, Augustus closed the blinds.

“The Dark Lord wishes to speak with you regarding something of a personal nature.”

Ollivander frowned.

“Is he having trouble with his wand?”

“No, he wishes to ask you about another wand he has learned of.”

“Another wand?” Ollivander replied thoughtfully. “Well, unless it is one of my own, there is little I can tell him.”

Augustus released a deep breath.

“If it is all the same, he will still wish to speak with you, and I would rather you cooperated. There is no need for unpleasantness, Ollivander.”

“Ah, so that is why you have two more of your colleagues with you,” he sighed. “Very well, if you will allow me just a moment to secure my premises. It is my life’s work, after all, and I am an old man. I can assure you, I have no desire to be killed here. I will meet with him.”

Augustus nodded and watched closely as the wandmaker went about the task of closing the shop once more, ensuring he did not do anything that would give him cause to hurt the revered man.

“Oh, and just one last thing,” Ollivander declared.

Augustus did not know what had happened, but one moment, he’d had his wand trained on Ollivander, and the next, he was looking up at the ceiling with his vision swimming, bereft of his wand, and the sound of violence ringing in his ears.

Silence followed, and yet, he could not move.

The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was a shadowy figure standing above him, and all he could discern was a pair of green eyes.

When he woke, which only felt to be a moment later, he was sitting upright and bound to a chair. The smell of blood filled his nostrils, and as he managed to regain just a little clarity, he looked directly ahead of him to see the broken form of Scabior, who was slumped forward in his own chair.

Augustus suspected he was dead.

Blood was dripping freely from a wound n his head, and a considerable pool had formed on the wooden floor between his feet.

Turning, he saw Rodolphus to his left

“Where are we?” he managed to croak. “What happened?”

He received no response and realised that though Rodolphus was still alive, he was all but catatonic. He could her the man’s laboured breathing, and it did not escape him that his gaze was fearful.

“Oh, you’re here at my pleasure,” a cold voice answered.

The sound of another chair dragging across the floor, shifted his attention to their captor, and Augustus immediately felt a sense of unease fill him.

Before waking up here, he’d thought perhaps that Ollivander had somehow informed the Aurors, that they’d arrived and apprehended them, but no. It was a much worse outcome, and as Potter took a seat, crossing when leg over the other, he realised the gravity of the situation.

He’d seen what had been done to Pettigrew at Potter’s hands, and even Barty.

“Augustus Rookwood,” he sighed. “Now, maybe you will be a little more cooperative. What does Tom want with Ollivander. I urge you not to be difficult, or you’ll end up like those two,” he added, nodding towards the still unmoving Scabior and Rodolphus. “Oh, they’re not dead, not yet, at least.”

With a flick of his wand, a fiery whip snapped across Scabior’s back, and the man shrieked in agony as it tore through his robes and flesh.

“See, he’s still alive, but he can’t tell me what I want to know. Lestrange is just as useless.”

Another snap of his whip, and Rodolphus unleashed a guttural roar, but his was hindered, stifled by the fact that he now longer had a tongue.

“I grew tired of his threats,” Potter explained with a shrug. “Now, Rookwood, Croaker told me you are a brilliant man, so, shall we see just how bright you are? What does he want with Ollivander.”

Rodolphus was still whimpering, and it sounded as though Scabior was crying, sniffing back tears, as Potter’s gaze bore into Augustus’s.

Croaker.

If Potter had been speaking with Croaker, which wasn’t beyond belief given what had occurred in the Department of Mysteries, it meant he’d certainly done his homework.

Even so, that didn’t mean Augustus would give him what he wanted, through as a knife was shoved into his foot, he knew he would give it up one way or the other.

If he wanted any chance of surviving this.

Potter.

He must’ve been with Ollivander when they’d arrived at the shop. Why that was, h didn’t know, but to Augustus, it didn’t matter. He was here now; at the mercy of a man he knew wouldn’t hesitate to kill him when he’d gotten all he’d wanted.

“Give me your word you will not kill me, and I will tell you everything you want to know.”

Potter eyed him curiously before nodding.

“Fine, you have my word. You will leave Britain and never return. If you do, I will hunt you down, and what you’ve seen here will seem like a minor inconvenience.”

“Deal,” Augustus returned immediately, his sense of self-preservation taking precedence.

The Dark Lord will kill him if he was to find him, but Augustus had faith in his ability to hide. Potter would kill him now, and he was choosing to live.

Rodolphus protested. Without his tongue, however, his words could not be discerned, and Augustus ignored him, releasing a deep breath.

“He was wondering how it was you managed to summon his mother and father. I mentioned to him the tale of the three brothers, and the stone. It is something I heard of whilst working as an Unspeakable, and the only explanation I could come up with. He wanted us to take Ollivander to him to ask about the wand.”

Potter nodded thoughtfully, chuckling to himself.

“I suppose it is my own fault for using it in such a way,” he mused aloud. “Not that he will ever get his hands on it, or the wand for that matter. It has been destroyed. No man should wield such power.”

Augustus believed him. He believed that Potter perhaps possessed all three of the Hallows, and even if he hadn’t destroyed the wand, it wasn’t as though he could prove otherwise.

“Now, what else do you have to tell me, Rookwood?” he asked.

Augustus did not miss the unsubtle threat in his tone, and though Rodolphus continued to protest, Augustus knew there was no turning back now.

If he did not speak, Potter would kill him, and if he did, the Dark Lord would do so, but if he believed Augustus was dead, he would not even look for him, even if he were to somehow defeat the young man in front of him, which appeared to be becoming quite the impossible task, from what he had witnessed for himself.

(Break)

She stared at herself in the mirror, allowing herself to enjoy what she saw. Sabine had always been told she was beautiful, and as she took in the reflection, she truly felt it.

The wedding dress was perfect, was everything she could ever want in such a garment, and she swallowed deeply as she shook her head.

“You look amazing,” her mother gushed, adjusting some of the fittings. “It is perfect.”

“I know,” she said dismissively. “I want something much less flattering,” she instructed the shop assistant. “The ugliest thing you have, and not in white. I will not be a liar on my wedding day.”

Her mother shot her a look of disapproval, which Sabine ignored.

She wasn’t going to go out of her way to impress her intended, or his father who’d insisted on moving the date forward. For Sabine, bad news had become typical, and she’d not batted an eyelid at being informed of the change.

She’d accepted it with only a nod before going about her day.

Now that the date was steadily creeping closer, she only felt numb, but still defiant enough that she would ensure there was no joy to be had from the occasion.

“Well, we do not carry anything ugly, Miss Van Droombeeld.”

That too would be changing.

She would no longer be a Van Droombeeld, but a Winthrop.

The thought alone made her shudder, though no more so than the man she was to marry. Fortunately, he seemed even less enthusiastic as Sabine, something that brought her no end of amusement when the two of them were forced to spend time together.

Winthrop did not even speak to her, nor did he allow himself to stare any longer than was considered decent.

Perhaps he was trying to find a way to avoid them being married.

No, the man was too stupid to even think of that. Having lived with him now for a number of weeks, he’d not shown any sign that he’d surprise Sabine with even a shred of wisdom.

What he did with himself, she neither knew nor cared. So long as he kept away from her, Sabine was as happy as she could be.

“Well, I’m sure you can make something suitable, maybe in a shade of green. I like green.”

The assistant looked towards her mother once more before nodding.

“Of course, Miss Van Droombeeld. I have your measurements, and will keep you updated of my progress,” she replied uncertainly.

Sabine merely nodded before taking her leave of the shop, followed by her unimpressed, and unhappy mother.

“You could at least try.”

“You could’ve tried to not see me share the same fate as you,” Sabine returned. “Not once have you spoken out against any of this and nor has father. He claims to be the most powerful man in America, but he is more than content with seeing his only daughter miserable.”

“He has done everything he can! These contracts are watertight, Sabine.”

“Then why the fuck do they still exist?”

“I don’t know,” her mother answered sadly. “It is a tradition that has gotten out of hand. Only mutual agreement can put an end to this, and Winthrop won’t comply. To him, you’re a prize for his idiot son.”

Sabine nodded.

“Well, then he is getting far more than he bargained for with me,” she replied, activating her portkey to return to her family home, where she would not be for much longer if all unfolded as those around her expected.

(Break)

“Minister of Magic,” Wendell snorted. “Honestly, I never thought I would see the day you became a slave to the people.”

“Needs and musts,” Harry sighed tiredly.

That was what he had been telling himself since before returning to Britain. Needs and musts. He needed to ensure he survived beyond Riddle, which meant he must do whatever became necessary to ensure it.

Killing Rodolphus Lestrange and Scabior had merely been one of those necessities, and he’d needed to know what it was Rookwood knew.

The man had been quite the wealth of information, intelligent and self-serving enough to realise that he’d found himself in quite impossible position.

Having allowed Harry to peruse his mind, he’d even offered a vow that he would not return to Britain, not contact the Dark Lord, nor ever attempt any retribution against Harry personally, or via any other agent.

Harry was certain there was a loophole or two in the promise, but he could not bring himself to care.

He’d gotten what he’d needed from Rookwood, which had all but confirmed the suspicions he harboured about the snake Voldemort kept as a companion.

Nagini, much to his frustration, had not been immolated alive at Malfoy Manor, which meant that Harry would ned to hunt the creature down, when the time was right.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Harry asked. “Shouldn’t you be tending to your crops and threatening people who wander onto your property?”

Wendell chuckled as he shook his head.

“No, I’ve come to ask you to be my best man for the wedding.”

“You and Isabelle?”

“Who else?” Wendell replied with a grin. “I asked her father, and he agreed. I proposed last night.”

Harry offered his friend a sincere smile.

“Congratulations, Wendell,” he said fondly. “I am pleased for you both. I would be honoured to be your best man.”

“Good, because I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Ah, you’ve almost finished the bottle. Did you get a taste for it?” he asked, nodding towards the bottle of moonshine he’d gifted Hary for his birthday.

“I wouldn’t go that bloody far,” Harry grumbled. “Tonks talked me into it, and I still don’t remember much of what happened after.”

Wendell laughed amusedly before sobering and reaching into his pocket.

“Speaking of weddings, this was released in the paper the other day.”

He handed Harry an article announcing Sabine’s impending wedding with an apologetic smile, and Harry swallowed deeply.

And there it was, that dull feeling in his chest he had been pushing away these past weeks, that damned ache he could not rid himself whenever she crossed his mind, which was more often than he cared to admit.

“Harry…”

“What do you want me to do?” he grumbled. “She’s getting married, and that’s that. The contract cannot be broken without her losing her magic, and nothing short of her husband dying will change that, and no, I cannot just kill him. The magic of the contract protects both parties from murder.”

Wendell nodded his understanding and stood.

“Well, if there is a way, you shouldn’t ignore it for the sake of being noble. You should get to be happy too when this is all over. Your face tells me all I need to know about how much it is hurting you, and we all saw how much you mean to her.”

He offered a final smile of encouragement before leaving, and Harry deflated.

Wendell was right, but it didn’t change a thing, not really.

Harry had more than enough to keep him occupied in dealing with Riddle, and undoubtedly adding two powerful enemies from America to his already exhaustive list was the last thing he needed.

Augustine Van Droombeeld might not be a Dark Lord, but he was prominent enough to cause considerable problems, as was the Winthrop family.

Even so, it wasn’t as though he’d been able to simply forget about Sabine, and if he as honest with himself, he didn’t wish to.

Still, outside of finding a way to circumvent the contract without issue, there was little else he could do, even if he wanted to just about as much as he wanted to mount Riddle’s still-beating-heart on a spike for all to see.

(Break)

Closed.

The blasted shop was closed and had ben for the past three days, and yet, there was no sign of any struggle to be found, but the Dark Lord knew better.

Rookwood would have reached out to inform him of any delays, and Ollivander would not vanish without cause. No, something had gone awry, the Dark Lord just didn’t know what.

Of course, Potter interfering was at the very top of the list, but how had he known of his interest in the wandmaker?

He was certain there was no spy in his midst, no leak of information possible, so there was no discernible way Potter could’ve known.

He growled in frustration at the apparent loss of three more of his most loyal followers. Of course, Scabior had not served him during his first uprising, but the man had proven to be a most excellent tracker.

The Dark Lord cursed under his breath before taking his leave of Diagon Alley, furious, frustrated, and though he was loath to admit it, unsettled by just how effective Potter’s efforts were proving to be.

Still, he was no closer to learning the fate of his three followers, nor what had become of Ollivander, whom he’d been most keen to speak with. Now, he needed to think of another who might be able to offer him the same expertise, and only one man came to mind.

(Break)

He signed off the final documents with a flourish, feeling a mixture of relief and sadness that his time as the Headmaster of Hogwarts was now at an end.

His gaze roamed over his predecessors, and Sirius was certain that Albus gave him a wink, but as he looked upon the man, he remained as unmoving as he’d been these past few years.

“He’s the Minister now, you know,” he sighed. “The bloody Minister.”

Even now, it was difficult to believe that the boy he’d had a hand in raising was in the most powerful position in the country, and from what Sirius had seen thus far, Harry was doing quite the job, though there were those that would disagree. The supports of the Dark Lord had not been seen in the chambers of the Wizengamot since, and it seemed that Riddle had conceded defeat on the political field.

For now, at least.

“Are you ready?” Emmeline asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

She and Lily had arrived a few moments prior and had waited for him to finish up.

With a nod, he placed the quill on the desk for when Minerva would take over from him the following morning, still somewhat saddened, but no less excited for his next little adventure in life.

“Ready,” he declared, throwing a handful of floo powder into the fire. “The flat, Diagon Alley.”

He stepped through and appeared in the living room he had spent the better part of three years hiding in during Voldemort’s first rise to power to find Harry signing off a stack of parchment.

“How’s it going, Minister?” he asked amusedly.

“Up yours,” Harry grumbled.

“Now, that is not language I would expect from a man of your station.”

“Nor I as your mother,” Lily added.

Sirius snickered.

“Look at that, he’s the Minister of Magic and still getting told off by his Mum.”

“Your mum is dead and she still tells you how much of a disappointment you are,” Harry pointed out.

Both Lily and Emmeline laughed, and Sirius scowled at his godson.

“Well, we are here, what did you want to show us?”

Harry placed his stack of parchment into a trunk and sealed it with a tap of his wand before gesturing for the trio to follow him. Approaching the wall furthest from the fireplace, he began running his fingers over the brickwork in an intricate pattern with his eyes closed, opening them as a large oak door appeared.

“I didn’t know there was a secret room here. Alphard never told me!”

“There wasn’t until I created it,” Harry replied with a grin, pushing the door open.

Sirius’s eyes widened as he entered, a fond smile tugging at his lips at the sight of the nursery Harry had created.

It was a large room with a fireplace to keep it warm, and a variety ethereal creatures put on quite the display across the largest wall, cantering through trees, flying across a starry sky, and even swimming beneath a swirling current.

It was an impressive enchantment to say the least, and there was even a cot, changing table, and anything else a baby would need.

“This is amazing,” Emmeline declared.

Harry shrugged.

“I kind of figured that if I’m going to be the baby’s godfather, they will need somewhere to sleep when I’m looking after them. You’ll want a break from time to time. I’ll make one in the house when it is finished too.”

Emmeline placed a kiss on his cheek, and Sirius continued to watch the creatures, smiling sadly as a stag, werewolf, and shaggy dog ran through the trees, pausing to look back at him.

“You’ve done an amazing job on this, Harry,” he offered sincerely. “Thank you.”

“Well, I know you’ll be around, but if I can do half a good as job with yours as you did with me, I won’t be doing so badly.”

It wasn’t often that Harry was so outwardly affectionate, and it warmed Sirius’s heart to hear such praise. Not that he’d ever did anything for the boy for any other reason than he wanted to, but it was nice to feel appreciated.

“Alright, that’s enough of all the emotional stuff. I just wanted you to see it so you know there’s a place for them whenever you need, if Mum ever lets me have a chance of looking after the baby.”

“I will think about it,” Lily returned with a grin.

It wouldn’t be so long now.

In a matter of weeks, the babe would be here, and though Sirius worried about what else might come from the war, and everything else in life, he was less worried knowing that Harry was here, and that no matter what happened to him, his son or daughter could not be any more well cared for.

(Break)

She took a sip of her coffee before finishing off her daily report.

Were it not for Harry explaining that he needed people he could trust to watch over the muggle Prime Minister, she would’ve perhaps thought that she was being punished.

Not that her assignment didn’t come without benefits.

Eight-hour days.

She’d never had such a predictable schedule since becoming an Auror, nor had she felt so rested. Usually, it was every other week that a new rota would be posted on the board in the office, informing them of their new work hours for the next fortnight, and more often than not, it was a switch to working nights from days, or days from nights.

For now, at least, Nymphadora was starting at six am and finishing at two pm, when she would be relieved by one of the other two Aurors given the same assignment.

It would seem like a simple, normal enough workday for most, but for an Auror, it was bliss, even if the assignment itself was rather dull.

Still, it made a change from the usual patrolling, being called to unpleasant, drunken brawls, and especially Quidditch matches, where such things were even more common.

It was something of a much-needed break, where she was able to plan ahead for things she wished to do, get enough sleep without being rudely interrupted by an emergency call, and even eat regular meals.

Her body was certainly grateful for it, and she could only wish her mind was on a similar footing.

What had happened between her and Harry had not again, and since he’d asked her to undertake her current position, Tonks hadn’t seen them.

She wasn’t sure why.

Since he’d returned to Britain, she’d seen him regularly, more so when he’d moved into the flat.

It had almost become a part of her chaotic schedule to visit him after work, to seek him out.

Perhaps she’d been harbouring a crush on him that she hadn’t acknowledged. Since he’d been at Ilvermorny, She’d not seen him much. Between training to become an Auror, and Harry being at school, they’d not been an opportunity, but that had all changed.

He’d immediately made an impression on the people of Britain, and evidently on her.

Had she been harbouring something for him for some time?

It was a question she did not wish to answer, but knew she couldn’t avoid it.

The truth was, she had, as odd as it was to admit it to herself, though Nymphadora knew there was no denying it. She was attracted to Harry, the man he’d become, and yet, that seemed to be it.

A part of her was disappointed in her realisation, but she cared far too much for their friendship, which had been budding since both of them were children, too young to know better.

Nymphadora would never wish to risk that, not when she’d never truly had no other friend during her youth.

She smiled sadly but somehow felt better for accepting her feelings on the matter. She adored Harry, was undoubtedly attracted to him, and had even acted on it.

She did not regret what they’d done by any stretch, and it was something she would always remember fondly, but to allow herself to let it become more than it already had was risky, so much so that she couldn’t bring herself too.

Besides, she was certain he was still hung up on the Van Droombeeld girl.

She released a deep breath before activating her portkey to return home, her mood bittersweet, even maudlin, but it wouldn’t last.

First and foremost, she and Harry were friends, and so long as things were left as they were, there was no chance that they would become anything less than that.

(Break)

“Dead?” Bellatrix whispered.

“I believe so. I sent him on a task several days ago now, with Rookwood and Scabior. None have been seen since.”

Bellatrix nodded, her lips parting into a wide smile before she began to laugh, gently at first, and then a fully-fledged cackle. She even wiped a tear from her eye.

“That is the best news I’ve heard since learning you were back, my lord.”

He would never pretend to understand the workings of her mind.

Bellatrix had always been odd, more than a little disturbed, and looked at the world in her own unique way.

Most women would be devastated to learn of the death of their spouse, but not Bellatrix Lestrange. No, she was nothing short of elated.

“You still haven’t told me what we are doing here,” she pointed out.

“Ah, well, we are here to visit a most celebrated wandmaker in Gregorovitch.”

Bellatrix frowned thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“Because he may have knowledge that could prove to be most useful. He is not to be harmed, Bellatrix, not unless he proves to be uncooperative. I would rather this was a diplomatic undertaking that attracted no unwanted attention.”

“Of course, my lord,” the woman returned, evidently pondering what was required of a wandmaker of all things.

He had not divulged why.

Bellatrix was his most loyal, most trustworthy follower, but given what had seemingly happened to Rodolphus, Scabior, and Augustus, he thought it best to keep things a little vaguer, for the time being, at least.

“And there he is,” the Dark Lord murmured, spotting the elderly man he’d been seeking.

It hadn’t been so difficult to track down the retired wandmaker.

Gregorovitch had closed his shop for the last time a few years prior and had returned to the small village he had been raised not so far from the Croatian capital.

The Dark Lord gestured for Bellatrix to remain where she was in the village square whilst he followed the man to a rather humble abode only a few cobbled streets away.

“I do not suppose you are here for a social visit?” he asked in German.

“No, I am here to ask you about something you would rather not hear being spoken of in public.”

Gregorovitch frowned at him.

The man was old, his back slightly hunched, but his gaze was sharp.

“An Englishman,” he murmured. “We do not see many of you here. Do not expect so much from me. I feel your magic and am close enough to death to no longer care what you might do to me.”

“I have no intention of harming you.”

“But you will if it gets you what you want. Very well, you’d best come inside.”

It was odd to encounter a man that did not fear him, but then again, it was possible that Gregorovitch did not know just who it was who’d come to visit him.

The home he entered was much larger within than it appeared to be on the outside, modestly furnished, favouring a much older style of furniture. It was tidy, and though the wandmaker had retired, there were dozens of jars of various ingredients lining the walls and even wood samples.

“I still tend to the wands of my customers,” Gregorovitch explained. “Repairs, specialist cleaning, and so on. Now you, you are not one of mine. No, you would’ve visited Ollivander.”

“I did.”

Gregorovitch nodded satisfactorily as he sat at a scrubbed, oak table.

“Then why is it you have sought me out?” he asked.

“The elder wand.”

Were it not for the slightest of twitches in his left eye, the Dark Lord might believe the man had never even heard of such a thing.

“You are not the first, nor will you be the last to ask me about it,” he sighed. “I’m afraid you are more than half a century too late.”

“You have seen it?” Voldemort whispered.

“Seen it? It was in my possession for many years until it was taken from me, by a man quite similar to you I expect, no less.”

The Dark Lord frowned, and Gregorovitch smiled.

“Why is it you seek it?” he asked.

“Because my foe seems to have found one of the others, the stone, which he has used against me.”

Gregorovitch’s eyes widened just a little more.

“Interesting,” he mused aloud, “which makes my news just that little more troublesome for you, Lord Voldemort. The wand did indeed belong to me, many decades ago now, but it was taken by none other than Gellert Grindelwald.”

“Grindelwald.”

The man was known to be an exceedingly powerful wizard, one that had pushed Dumbledore to his very limits during their fateful encounter more than five decades prior.

If Grindelwald had indeed had the elder wand, that means that it was either lost after the battle, or claimed by…

“Dumbledore,” he whispered in realisation. “Dumbledore would have taken it.”

Gregorovitch nodded.

“But he is dead, and whoever killed him would be the new wielder.”

“Barty Crouch, but he did not do so of his own accord.”

“Then whoever was controlling him.”

“His son.”

“Then his son is the rightful owner of it.”

The Dark Lord shook his head, a familiar sense of unease filling him.

“No, he too was killed.”

“Then the wand belongs to whomever killed him,” Gregorovitch sighed.

“Potter,” the Dark Lord said in realisation. “It belongs to Potter.”

“Oh, that is most interesting,” Gregorovitch said excitedly.

“Interesting?”

The wandmaker nodded as a grin tugged at his lips.

“Potter is descended from them.”

“Them?”

“The three brothers, well, one of them,” Gregorovitch said dismissively. “You see, the wand did not work for me as I expected, nor did it work for Grindelwald so well. Had it, then perhaps Dumbledore would not have been victorious. No, I studied that wand extensively, and it resisted me at every turn. It hungers for blood, but not just for the blood of the wielder’s enemies. It calls to the blood of the Peverells. If he has the wand and the stone, then he will prove to be a most powerful enemy. All that remains is for him to find the cloak, if he does possess the wand. Perhaps Dumbledore had it buried with him.”

“The cloak…”

“Has never been seen nor heard of outside the tale of the brothers, much like the stone, until now. The wand is the easiest to come into possession of. It has a storied, bloody past that is easy enough to follow.”

Th one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord.

Could the prophecy be referring to the Deathly Hallows?

Lord Voldemort could not be certain, but the very thought was a troubling one.

He would need to be cautious.

Of course, he would search Dumbledore’s grave in the hope of finding the wand. Even if he could not use it, he could prevent Potter from doing so against him.

Not saying another word, he took his leave of the wandmaker’s house, almost certain he heard a snort of laughter from the man he had so mercifully spared.

Still, his mind was no longer on Gregorovitch, but on Potter, and what he could do to mitigate this latest revelation regarding his ever-troubling foe.