Leaning lightly on his cane, Lucian turned and made his way toward Gringotts.
The white marble building rose above Diagon Alley like a monument carved from bone. The smaller shops nearby seemed to shrink beneath its shadow.
At the bronze doors stood a goblin guard in a crimson and gold uniform.
The moment his sharp eyes fell upon the black iron key in Lucian's hand, his posture shifted.
He bowed deeply, his attitude a mixture of reverence and unease. "Ashford family… this way, sir. Ragnok will personally escort you."
A second door appeared before them. Carved upon it were the familiar warning lines about thieves and punishment.
Lucian glanced over the words without interest.
Beyond the doors lay a vast marble hall.
Rows of goblins sat behind high counters, weighing coins, examining gemstones through lenses, scribbling into massive ledgers.
Countless doors lined the hall, and goblins hurried clients in and out with efficient precision.
Lucian's gaze paused briefly on a noticeable pair nearby:
A towering man nearly twice the height of an ordinary person, broad as a wardrobe, and beside him a black-haired boy looking around in wide-eyed curiosity.
He remembered enough of the original story to recognize the pattern. The giant escort. The boy.
Harry Potter.
Lucian's eyes drifted to the lightning-shaped scar on the boy's forehead.
In his inner sight, a fragment of corrupted soul clung there like rot buried in bone, staining the purity of its host.
As if sensing the intensity of the stare, Harry looked up. His gaze passed through the crowded hall and met Lucian's directly.
For a split second, Harry felt as though someone had looked straight through him. Not judged. Not mocked.
Understood.
It left him oddly unsettled.
...
There was no queue and no tedious paperwork for Lucian. He was led directly to the deepest tunnels below.
The cart sped along rails like a reckless roller coaster, plunging through torchlit caverns and past the Thief's Downfall waterfall.
Finally, it halted before an ancient vault door mottled with green patina. The air here carried the cold scent of old stone and buried history.
"Vault nineteen," Ragnok said in a hoarse voice. "Sealed for thirty years since your grandfather's passing."
The key slid into place. Gears groaned as the door unlocked.
When it opened, a mountain of gold Galleons greeted them in silent splendor.
This was centuries of Ashford wealth made visible.
Coins lay piled like dunes of sand, stretching into darkness.
Ancient armor, rare magical ores, and sealed crystal cases containing priceless manuscripts were half-buried among the glittering hoard.
It was enough wealth to purchase half of Diagon Alley. Enough to buy influence in the Ministry itself.
Lucian studied it calmly.
Then he scooped a handful of Galleons into an expanded pouch as casually as someone gathering pebbles by a riverbank.
"Let's go," he said.
He did not spare the gold mountain another glance.
...
Back in Diagon Alley, Lucian avoided the densest crowds and walked toward the narrow shop at the far end.
The sign above the peeling storefront read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
In the dusty window sat a single faded purple cushion holding one wand.
He pushed open the door. A bell chimed softly.
The shop smelled of wood and dust. It reminded him faintly of old furniture storerooms from his previous life.
"Good afternoon," came a gentle voice.
A series of sharp rustling sounds followed as a thin elderly man emerged from behind towering stacks of wand boxes.
His pale eyes gleamed like twin moons in the dim light.
The moment he looked at Lucian, confusion flickered across his face.
"Curious… very curious. Ashford, yes? I remember your father's wand. Oak, dragon heartstring. Strong but flexible. Yet… I cannot quite see you."
Ollivander leaned closer.
Lucian's presence felt obscured, like a forest under perpetual night. Any attempt to peer deeper seemed to dissolve in shadow.
"I have come for my wand," Lucian said politely.
"Of course. The wand chooses the wizard."
Measuring tape snapped to life, taking arm length, shoulder width, even eyebrow span. Then the testing began.
It quickly turned into chaos.
"Beech, dragon heartstring, nine inches… no, it's withering the moment you touch it."
"Willow, unicorn hair… good heavens, it's shrieking. Put it down!"
"Yew… too weak. It trembles in your grip."
More than thirty wands were tested. Some lay inert like dead wood. Others rejected him violently.
The floor filled with discarded boxes.
Yet Ollivander seemed increasingly fascinated.
"Picky… extraordinarily picky," he murmured before disappearing into the back of the shop.
He returned after some time, holding a dust-covered black box.
"This wand is… dangerous," he said quietly. "Ebony wood. It favors strong-willed individuals who refuse to drift with the current. But its core…"
He opened the box.
Inside lay a wand entirely black, undecorated, rough like a charred branch.
"Thestral tail hair," Ollivander said, locking eyes with Lucian. "Only those who have faced death and understood it can wield such a core. Powerful. Unstable. Many consider it an ill omen."
Lucian studied it.
In his inner sight, it was not inert. A deep gray energy flowed within it, cold yet pure.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the wand, there were no sparks, no gusts of wind.
Instead, everything stopped.
Dust froze midair. Street noise vanished. The air felt solid.
A subtle pressure spread outward from Lucian.
Every wand box in the shop ceased trembling, as though acknowledging a presence of authority.
A cool sensation traveled from his palm into his spine. The wand merged seamlessly with the gray vortex inside him.
Not resistance.
Recognition.
For a few seconds, the world remained suspended.
Then motion returned.
Lucian gave the wand a light flick.
No incantation.
The glass vase on the counter melted soundlessly into liquid, then reshaped itself into a crystalline lotus.
Ollivander stared at it, pale eyes wide.
"Deconstruction and reconstruction… without a spell? Impossible…"
Lucian lowered the wand, satisfied.
"I like it."
He paid seven Galleons and turned toward the door.
"Mr. Ashford," Ollivander called out, voice faintly trembling.
"Be wary of that wand. It will amplify your deepest qualities. If you seek light, it will be a holy blade. If you yearn for darkness… it will become calamity."
Lucian paused at the threshold.
Backlit by sunlight, his expression was unreadable.
"I seek neither light nor darkness, Mr. Ollivander."
He stepped outside into the bustling street. "Power is merely a tool. What matters is the pursuit of truth."