He leaned on his walking stick and turned toward Gringotts.
The snow-white marble bank loomed like a pale fortress over the alley, its long shadow swallowing every smaller shop around it.
The goblin guards in scarlet-and-gold uniforms stiffened the instant they spotted the black iron key in Lucian's hand. One of them bowed deeply, reverence and fear tangled together in the motion.
"Ashford family… this way, sir. Ragnok will escort you personally."
They passed through the second set of doors, where the engraved warning waited:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
Inside the towering marble hall, over a hundred goblins perched on high stools behind long counters, weighing coins, examining gems through eyepieces, scribbling in massive ledgers. Dozens of doors led deeper into the bank, goblins hurrying clients through them.
Lucian's gaze landed on a striking pair: a giant nearly twice normal height and five times as wide, hands like dustbin lids, massive boots. Beside him stood a black-haired boy his own age, looking around with wide-eyed curiosity.
He remembered the fragments of the original story. That had to be Hagrid… which meant the boy was Harry Potter.
Lucian stopped. His eyes sharpened on the lightning-bolt scar. Deep inside it, a filthy scrap of soul clung like a parasite, slowly poisoning the boy's pure spirit.
As if sensing the razor-sharp stare, Harry looked up. Their eyes met across the crowded hall.
Harry froze. For one brief second he felt completely seen—stripped bare from the inside out. Strangely, it didn't feel violating. Just a quiet, lonely kind of understanding.
…
No queue. No paperwork.
Lucian was taken straight down to the deepest vaults.
The mine cart hurtled past flaming torches and through the Thief's Waterfall before screeching to a halt in front of an ancient, verdigris-covered door deep beneath the earth. The air smelled of cold stone and forgotten tombs.
"Vault nineteen," Ragnok rasped, refusing to even glance at the door. "Sealed for thirty years since your grandfather died."
The key slid home. Complex gears ground and echoed through the darkness.
The heavy door swung open.
A mountain of gold Galleons sat in perfect silence. Coins spilled like sand across the floor, stretching into shadow. Half-buried in the golden sea were ancient suits of armor, rare magical ores, and priceless manuscripts sealed in crystal cases.
Enough wealth to buy half of Diagon Alley—or purchase a Department Head seat at the Ministry.
Facing a fortune that would drive most men insane,
Lucian simply scooped a handful of Galleons into his undetectable-extension pouch, as casually as picking up pebbles by a river.
"Let's go," he said, turning away without a second glance.
After leaving Gringotts, Lucian avoided the crowded street and walked straight to a small, shabby shop at the very end of Diagon Alley.
The faded gold lettering on the sign read:
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
In the window sat a single wand on a faded purple cushion. The place looked almost forlorn.
He pushed the door open. A bell tinkled softly.
The shop smelled of dust and polished wood—comfortingly familiar, like the Ming-dynasty furniture storeroom back at the Palace Museum.
"Good afternoon," said a soft voice.
A series of loud clicks followed from behind the towering stacks of wand boxes.
An old man appeared. His pale, wide eyes shone like twin moons in the dim light.
The moment he looked at Lucian, his expression shifted to confusion.
"How very strange…" Ollivander murmured, leaning closer. "Extremely strange. Mr. Ashford, I presume? I remember your father's wand—oak with dragon heartstring, powerful but prone to bending. Yet you… I can't read you at all."
In Ollivander's eyes, the boy's soul was shrouded in thick mist. There was none of the usual youthful excitement. Instead he saw a silent forest wrapped in eternal night—any attempt to peer inside would only lead to getting lost.
"I'm here to select my wand, sir," Lucian said politely, voice calm.
"Of course, of course." Ollivander produced a measuring tape and began taking measurements—arm length, nostril distance, even eyebrow length. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Ashford. Let's see…"
The next thirty minutes were a disaster.
"Beechwood with dragon heartstring, nine inches… no, it's already withering."
"Willow and unicorn hair… Merlin's beard, it's screaming! Put it down!"
"Red oak… far too weak. It's trembling in your hand."
Over thirty wands. Each either lay dead and unresponsive or violently rejected him the instant he touched it.
The floor was soon littered with discarded boxes. Yet the more wands Ollivander brought out, the more delighted he seemed.
"Particular… extraordinarily particular," the old wandmaker muttered as he vanished into the deepest part of the shop. "But I think I understand now. Ordinary combinations simply cannot bear your… particular weight."
A long time later he returned carrying a dusty black box.
"This is a dangerous wand," Ollivander said, voice low. "Ebony. Not uncommon—it chooses those who are strong-willed and refuse to conform. But its core…"
He opened the box.
Inside lay a completely black wand, unadorned, its surface rough like charred deadwood.
"Thestral tail feather," Ollivander stared into Lucian's eyes. "Only those who have faced death and truly understood it can master this material. It's extremely unstable, immensely powerful. Many consider it an ill omen."
Lucian gazed at the wand.
In his heart-phase vision, it wasn't lifeless. A deep, cold, yet perfectly pure gray energy flowed within it—quiet, absolute power.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the wand, there was no explosion of sparks or rushing wind like with other young witches and wizards.
Instead, the entire world simply… stopped.
Floating dust froze in mid-air. The noise from the street vanished. The air itself turned solid.
An indescribable pressure radiated outward from Lucian.
Every wand box in the shop stopped rattling, as if paying homage to a king.
Or a tyrant.
A cool sensation flowed up his arm, down his spine, and merged seamlessly with the black magic inside him. Submission. Resonance. This wand was an extension of his arm—the missing piece of his soul.
Seconds later, everything returned to normal. Dust fell. Sound rushed back.
Lucian gave the wand a gentle wave. No light. No sound.
The glass vase on the counter silently melted into liquid, then reformed in the next instant into a flawless crystal lotus.
"Deconstruction and reconstruction…" Ollivander's pale eyes were fixed on the lotus. "Without a single incantation? That's impossible…"
Lucian tucked the wand away and looked down at the unassuming piece of deadwood with quiet satisfaction.
"I like it."
He paid seven Galleons and turned to leave.
At the door, Ollivander suddenly called out.
"Mr. Ashford!" The old man's voice trembled slightly. "Be careful with that wand. It will amplify the deepest traits within you. If you seek light, it will be a holy sword. If you turn toward darkness… it will become catastrophe."
Lucian paused in the doorway. Backlit by the bright street, his expression was unreadable.
"I seek neither light nor darkness, Mr. Ollivander."
He stepped out into the noisy sunlight.
"Power is only a tool. What matters is the pursuit of truth."