Diagon Alley.Sunlight flickered off brass signage and polished broomsticks. Crowds bustled with giddy children and gossiping parents. Laughter echoed from Florean Fortescue's and owls hooted in cages.
And through it all walked Malthazar Black Riddle.
He did not belong here—and he knew it.His robes of void-silk absorbed light.His aura—part Hellfire, part Death—sent shivers through stray cats and squibs alike.
Children stepped back. Parents pulled them closer.Even the shadows seemed to watch.
Ollivanders Wand Shop
The bell above the door gave a strange, choked wheeze as Malthazar stepped inside.Dust hung like cobwebs in the air. The scent of ancient wood and dragonbone filled his nostrils.
"Ah… yes."A voice—fragile, as if speaking upset the balance of the world—slid through the gloom.
Mr. Ollivander, elder wandmaker and keeper of many secrets, appeared from the mist of wand boxes.
"I was… expecting you," he said slowly, eyes narrowing. "You… are not quite alive, are you?"
Malthazar tilted his head. "Nor are you completely blind, old man. Let's begin."
Wands flew from shelves. Phoenix feather, dragon heartstring, unicorn hair…He tried them all.Nothing fit.
Wands snapped in his hand, recoiled in fear, or burned out entirely.
Ollivander frowned, sweat beading his brow.
"You… were not meant to carry a wand made by another. You are… something else. Something born of conflict and contradiction."
"You're wasting my time," Malthazar said coldly, brushing ash from his palm.
"No. You're wasting your birthright," Ollivander said suddenly, voice sharp with an edge rare for him. "The wand chooses the wizard. But you— you were forged, not born."
Malthazar turned without another word, his cloak hissing behind him like a serpent's tail.
On the Cobblestone Street
As he stepped from Ollivander's threshold, his eyes locked with another boy's.
Green eyes.Glasses.A forehead scar that pulsed faintly with buried prophecy.
Harry James Potter.
The boy looked startled, but oddly curious. Like he felt something he couldn't name—an echo of something wrong.
"Hi," Harry said. "Are you a first year too?"
Malthazar's eyes narrowed. Hellfire flickered behind his irises.
"You're the Boy-Who-Lived," he said. "Raised by sheep. Praised by fools. And destined to disappoint."
Harry blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're a puppet in a dead man's war, Potter. You just haven't seen the strings yet."
Before Harry could respond, Malthazar walked past him, shadows curling at his heels.
Flourish & Blotts. Madam Malkin's. Apothecary.
Malthazar acquired everything else swiftly.Spellbooks whispered secrets only he could hear.His robe measurements required no pins—his blood-runes warped the tape into obedience.
The cauldron he selected pulsed black like a heartbeat.The crystal phials pulsed with captured whispers.Even his owl—snow white with one red eye—perched in silent defiance.
He returned home through a mirror of obsidian and shadow.
The Manor of Black Flame
He strode into the summoning hall where shadows bowed.
"Bring me thestral bone. A fresh femur," he commanded, voice echoing with unspoken runes.
"And a basilisk fang—untouched by death for more than a year."
The servants nodded, cloaks whispering like funeral veils as they scattered into the dark.
He turned to his bound demon, wings curled in reverence.
"One more thing."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Find me a demon skilled in ancient runes. One born before the fall of Atlantis. One who remembers the tongue of the gods."
"For what purpose?"
Malthazar's lips curled into a smile.
"I'm going to forge my wand. A wand that knows death. And speaks in fire."
"And then?" the demon asked, voice almost trembling.
"And then," he said, walking toward the ritual chamber, "I'll write my first spell into the bones of the world."