Chapter 25: A Wand to Call His Own

The dawn broke gently over the horizon, casting a soft, golden light across the ancient walls of Peverell Castle. Inside, Damian was already awake, his mind buzzing with anticipation for the day ahead. The events of the previous day still lingered in his thoughts—his meeting with Theodore Nott, the promise of a custom wand, and the subtle thrill of knowing that his journey was steadily progressing.

But today was a day of particular significance. Today, he would craft his own wand—a wand that would be uniquely his, attuned to his magic in a way no other wand could be. The very thought of it sent a shiver of excitement down his spine.

After a quick breakfast, Damian and Mortem once again made their way to Diagon Alley, the bustling energy of the place filling the air with an undercurrent of magic. The streets were alive with activity, but Damian's focus was singular as they approached Ollivanders once more.

The shop looked as unassuming as ever from the outside, but the moment they stepped through the door, the familiar hum of ancient magic surrounded them. Ollivander was already waiting, his piercing blue eyes sharp and calculating as he greeted them.

"Mr. Peverell," Ollivander said, his voice carrying a note of anticipation. "Are you ready to find the materials that will shape your wand?"

Damian nodded, his heart quickening at the prospect. "I am."

Ollivander led them to a small, secluded room at the back of the shop, where the walls were lined with various vials, jars, and boxes. Each container held a different material, each one carefully labeled with the name and origin of its contents. The air was thick with the scent of wood, herbs, and something else—something ancient and powerful that seemed to emanate from the very walls.

"Wand-making is a delicate art," Ollivander began, his voice low and reverent. "It is not merely about finding the right materials, but about understanding how those materials will work together, how they will resonate with the magic of their owner. This is especially true for a custom wand."

Damian listened intently, his eyes scanning the array of materials before him. He could feel a subtle pull in the room, as if something within was calling to him, waiting for him to discover it.

"We will begin by finding the wood," Ollivander continued, motioning to a series of small wooden blocks arranged neatly on a nearby table. "Each type of wood has its own properties, its own personality, if you will. The right wood will call to you, resonate with your magic."

Damian approached the table, his gaze sweeping over the different types of wood. There were blocks of oak, ash, yew, holly, and many others. But as his hand hovered over them, he felt nothing—no spark, no pull.

And then, his hand reached the block of vine wood.

The moment his fingers brushed against the smooth surface, Damian felt a surge of warmth, a subtle hum that vibrated through his fingertips and into his very core. It was as if the wood itself had recognized him, responded to his presence.

"This one," Damian said quietly, lifting the block of vine wood. "This is the one."

Ollivander's eyes gleamed with approval. "Vine wood," he murmured, his tone almost reverent. "A rare choice, but a powerful one. Owners of vine wood wands are often those who seek a greater purpose, who have a vision beyond the ordinary. It is a wood that responds strongly to hidden depths and inner strength."

Damian nodded, feeling a deep sense of rightness in his choice. The vine wood was his—it was as if it had been waiting for him all along.

"Now, we must find the core," Ollivander continued, leading Damian to another section of the room where several vials and jars were arranged. "The core is the heart of the wand, the source of its power. It must be chosen with the utmost care."

Damian approached the selection of cores, his mind focused and his magic thrumming beneath the surface. He could feel it reaching out, searching, sensing.

The first vial he picked up contained the hair of a unicorn, its silver strands glowing faintly in the light. But as he held it, Damian felt nothing—no connection, no resonance. He set it aside.

The second vial held the feather of a phoenix, its fiery red hue captivating in its beauty. But again, Damian felt no pull, no spark of recognition.

It wasn't until he reached the vial containing a piece of elder Hungarian Horntail dragon horn that he felt it—a deep, powerful thrum of magic that resonated with his own. The horn was dark and smooth, with a subtle sheen that hinted at the immense power it contained.

"This one," Damian said, his voice firm.

Ollivander nodded, his expression approving. "A fine choice. The horn of the elder Hungarian Horntail is known for its strength and resilience. It is a core that demands respect, but when paired with the right wizard, it can produce extraordinary results."

But there was still something missing. Damian could feel it—a sense that the wand needed something more, something that would complete it.

He turned his attention to the last vial, the one that held the crystallized blood of a thestral. The blood had been crystallized into a deep, dark red stone, its surface shimmering with a faint, almost imperceptible glow. The moment Damian touched it, he knew—it was the final piece.

"The crystallized blood of a thestral," Ollivander said, his voice filled with wonder. "A rare and powerful core. Thestrals are creatures of death and mystery, and their blood carries a unique magic—one that is both ancient and profound. It will complement the dragon horn well."

Damian felt a deep sense of satisfaction as he placed the two cores alongside the vine wood. The combination felt right, as if all the pieces had finally fallen into place.

"One more thing," Ollivander said, his gaze fixed on Damian. "A wand of this nature deserves something special—something that will make it truly yours."

He reached into a small box and pulled out a stunning purple diamond, its facets catching the light and reflecting it in a brilliant display of color. "This will be set into the handle of the wand, engraved with runes to enhance its power and to connect it more deeply with your magic."

Damian accepted the diamond, feeling its cool surface against his skin. He could sense the potential within it, the way it would bind the wand to him, making it a true extension of his own magic.

"This is perfect," Damian said, his voice filled with quiet determination.

Ollivander smiled, a smile that spoke of deep satisfaction. "Then let us begin the crafting. Your wand will be made to your specifications, with the vine wood, the elder Hungarian Horntail dragon horn, and the crystallized blood of the thestral. The purple diamond will be set into the handle, and the runes will be carefully chosen to align with your magic."

The process was intricate, requiring precision and skill that only a master wandmaker like Ollivander possessed. Damian watched with fascination as the wand was carefully assembled, each piece fitting together seamlessly, as if it had always been meant to be.

When it was finally complete, Ollivander handed the finished wand to Damian, a look of quiet pride in his eyes. The wand was a work of art—elegant and powerful, with the purple diamond set into the handle, its surface engraved with runes that glowed faintly with a soft, ethereal light.

Damian took the wand in his hand, feeling its weight, its balance. The moment he held it, he knew—it was perfect. The wand responded to his touch, humming with power that resonated with his own magic. It was as if the wand had always been a part of him, waiting to be discovered.

"Try it," Ollivander urged, his voice filled with anticipation.

Damian nodded, raising the wand and allowing his magic to flow through it. He felt a connection like never before, as if the wand had become an extension of his very being. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a stream of purple sparks shooting from the tip, the air around him crackling with energy.

Ollivander watched with approval, his eyes gleaming. "Magnificent," he murmured. "A wand truly worthy of its owner. It will serve you well, Mr. Peverell."

Damian lowered the wand, a sense of deep satisfaction settling over him. This was more than just a tool—it was a part of him, a piece of his magic that would accompany him on the journey ahead.

"Thank you," Damian said, his voice filled with sincerity. "This is… perfect."

Ollivander inclined his head. "It was my pleasure. May your wand bring you great success in all your endeavors."

With that, Damian and Mortem left the shop, the weight of the new wand a comforting presence in his hand. The day had been filled with significant milestones, but this—this was the one that mattered most. The wand was his, and with it, he was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

As they walked back through Diagon Alley, the sun setting behind them, Damian couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement bubbling up within him. The journey to Hogwarts was just beginning, and with his new wand in hand, he knew that he was ready for whatever the future held.

But for now, there was still time to savor this moment, to appreciate the significance of what he had just accomplished. The wand was more than just a tool—it was a symbol of his power, his potential, and the endless possibilities in his future.