The beginning of Greatness (2)

The cry was like the crisp buzz of electricity, numbing the mind.

The cry was like the crack of a lightning bolt, blinding the eyes.

The cry was also like the booms and rumbles of thunder, awing the heart.

Mighty. Stupendously magical. Arrogant, but Wise.

Darcie had heard it before, a very diluted and weak version of this cry. It had happened in the Valley of Endless Rumbles.

It was the cry of a... Thunderbird!

Darcie had heard two Thunderbirds that time. One had come from a Thunderbird fledgling, who had imprisoned her in its claws. The other had come from a mature Thunderbird after she had escaped, falling into the valley.

None of those cries could hold a candle to the cry rumbling in her mind. Even hundreds of adult Thunderbirds couldn't hope to match its majesty, it seemed.

The cry seeping into Darcie's mind through the wooden log felt… regal.

The cry belonged to no ordinary creature, but a King.

Darcie jerked her hand back as if shocked by the current, her face paling.

"What happened?!" Mr. Ollivander shuffled on his feet, concerned, but shocked the most.

Darcie looked up. "You didn't tell me they would affect me upon touching them," she complained. "And didn't you say Ollivander's Wandlore concerns with only three wand cores; the supreme ones? This one has a Thunderbird King feather within it, no?"

Mr. Ollivander pulled Darcie back, sending her behind him, and looked at the wooden logs. His mouth opened and closed several times, his lips going dry. He bent and touched the rightmost log, closing his eyes.

After several breaths, he lifted the wooden log, turned around, and smiled at Darcie. "Sorry about that," he apologized. "Let's go."

They left the trunk open. Mr. Ollivander brought her to the middle of the workshop, held out his wand, and cast another spell.

A strange, magical diagram materialized on the table. The wandmaker put the wooden log in the middle of the diagram. "It is the last stage of Core Resurrection method," he said, eying the log, his expression extremely solemn. "But it is also the most important. Carving must be guided, my apprentice. Never controlled or forced. Did you hear me?"

Darcie, standing opposite Mr. Ollivander on the other side of the table, nodded.

"A wand shapes itself," Mr. Ollivander taught. "The channel creates itself, specifying its needs. It will tell you how to guide it… if you are willing to listen."

A profound silence lingered in the surroundings.

Then Mr. Ollivander pointed at the wooden log with his wand, and begin the Carving.

The log lifted and hovered mid-air. Chips began falling off, magical contours and veins running up and down the bark.

In no moments, the log was naked, sparkling, with no visible sign of Grafting.

Spells changed, taking a more rigorous and complex turn. Darcie recognized some, but most were unfamiliar. Mr. Ollivander did slow down as much as possible, letting her hear the words and the tones behind them.

For an hour, woodchips kept falling, some angular, some longer, and some shaped odd and hideous. But, to Darcie, it gave the impression as if the log was shedding the chips by itself.

Mr. Ollivander changed the pacing of spells but then stopped altogether. His eyes were transfixed on the odd piece of wood, still shedding chips. He gaped. "Merlin's beard!" he exclaimed. "Amazing!"

Darcie couldn't control her curiosity. "What happened, master?"

The old wizard licked his lips. "There is a cauldron of Wood Shaping potion near the fire, Darcie!" he blurted. "Bring it over here. Hurry!"

Darcie hopped to the fire. The said cauldron was also resting in the middle of a magic circle, the potion frothing and bubbling within it. Wood Shaping potion was a polishing and finishing potion many wizards used, mostly the broom makers.

This one felt different even to the naked eye. What charms were placed on it, Darcie wondered, curious.

She cast a levitating spell on it and brought it to the table. Mr. Ollivander made her put it under the log, which had reduced to half its size, crudely resembling a long, cylindrical rod.

Not hinting at anything, Mr. Ollivander let the log fall into the potion.

A puff of green, black smoke rose out of the cauldron. The smoke whirled, churned, and roiled in the air.

And the world transformed in Darcie's vision.

...

Darcie could have sworn she saw thousands of Basilisks slithering on the ground, baring their fangs.

… Darcie…

Then, death descended upon them from the sky, taking the shape of a Twelve-Winged bolt of lightning.

… Darcie…

All serpents got obliterated to ashes.

...

"Darcie!"

The young Malfoy jolted. Her mind felt groggy, her vision a blur.

Mr. Ollivander rushed near her, held her shoulders, and shook her. "Did you see something?!" he asked, his breath broken. "What did you see?!"

Forcing down the nauseous feeling, Darcie told the old wandmaker what she saw. "It's smoke, no?" she asked after a moment, rubbing her eyes. "It burned my eyes."

Mr. Ollivander had let go of Darcie already, returning to his position. From the look on his face and his dilated pupils, it didn't seem he could hear anything now.

Bubbles fumed within the cauldron. Surges of sparks and smothered cries. Then everything became silent, the potion becoming as tranquil as a winter lake.

Has it ended? Darcie thought, leaning over the cauldron, standing on her toes.

"I forgot to close the trunk, Darcie," Mr. Ollivander said, looking at the still potion. "Can you be a dear and close it?"

"Sure."

Darcie ran to the large ancient trunk, its lid opened. The two wooden logs were still there, missing their third centuries-old brethren.

Darcie held the lid and brought it down, but paused. She looked at the woods again, thinking about which wand cores they held.

She shouldn't touch them, Darcie knew. Not behind Mr. Ollivander's back.

Curiosity got the better of her, anyway.

With one hand on the trunk's lid, Darcie bent and touched the middle wooden log, greeting her teeth in preparation.

The tips of her fingers landed on the wood. Then her palm.

Then she rubbed it.

Nothing.

Darcie's heart thumped, bouncing against her chest. With bated breath, she looked at the leftmost wooden log and touched it.

She gulped.

Again, nothing. No cry, hiss, or roar. No shock, burn, or pain.

Her mind was a mess, Darcie closed the lid and walked out from behind the shelves. She found Mr. Ollivander holding it, a crazed grin planted on his wrinkled face.

"330 years old, Willow," the wizard introduced. "11 and a quarter inches long and quite limber. Green mostly, but light hues of black snaking up like bolts of lightning. The handle is imperial black and silver, ornamented with six pairs of golden wings.

"The core is a feather collected from the Algonquian people 400 years ago. They claimed it belonged to a... Thunderbird Emperor — Ruler of Skies; Destroyer of Serpents; Annihilator of Darkness; Bringer of Doom…

… A God; age unknown."

Mr. Ollivander looked up and walked toward Darice, who had frozen at her place.

"Lightning…" the old wandmaker whispered, accompanied by the overwhelming silence and magic, "… It brings life. It brings death as well. It shakes the skies, hearts, and the Nature itself. Extremely difficult to master, if not chosen well. 

"When bonded right, nothing is better at transfiguration than a Thunderbird feather core. It can sense danger. It can cast curses on its own. It is alive. A God seemed to have claimed you, child."

Mr. Ollivander ran down his old, shaky fingers on the wand, lacking words.

"Willow is an uncommon and the most complex wand wood," the old wizard said. "It's a wand of great healing powers. Among all wands, Willow gains the most handsome appearance. But it's the other characteristics it possesses that make it impractical to wield for all, especially when paired with a core that heightens its… personality, yes.

"I have noted that the ideal owner for a willow wand often has some (usually unwarranted) insecurity, however well they may try to hide it. Willow wands are the only ones that strengthen and enhance advanced, non-verbal magic. The better the owner, the more it assists. But it's the last characteristic about it which I truly admire; which all ancient wizards admired."

Mr. Ollivander looked at the wand, then at Darcie, and then back at the wand. "There's a proverb in my family, Darcie," he said, his voice lost in the past. "Those who have the furthest to travel will go fastest with willow, for willow wands have consistently selected those of greatest potential, rather than those who feel they have little to learn. And a Willow wand with a Thunderbird feather core…

"… claims nothing, but Greatness. Such is its nature. It was also because of this I never use Thunderbird feathers as cores. They don't bond, child. They claim."

Darcie looked at the wand, her poisonous pupils reflecting the green-black wand with a black-silver handle. The twelve golden wings felt the personification of storm and thunder rumbling in her mind.

Mr. Ollivander carefully swirled the wand, pointing its handle toward Darcie.

It was then she noticed something there, at the top, flat surface of the wand's handle. A glyph in the shape of an X mark, which felt more like a bird, outstretching its wings.

Regal. Majestic. Divine.

The glyph flashed as if little bolts of lightning had slithered across it.

"The wooden logs never reveal their secrets before Carving, Darcie," Mr. Ollivander said. "No method does that to them. As one can't learn Wandlore without having a wand, I had already asked the minister to let you have a wand. Yes. But from the ones I have already made. Not this one. Never this one.

"The middle wand wood in that trunk is Snakewood, with Basilisk horn as the core. I put it there… thinking that you will bring out some reaction. The leftmost wand wood is Elder, with Thestral tail hair as the core. I put it there… hoping that you will bring out some reaction. Once again, you have surpassed all expectations. Come on, now. Try it."

Was it truly happening? Darcie looked at the handle, lifting her hand. Was she dreaming?

When she held the wand, it answered her.

A storm brewed in her surroundings, lifting her golden-white hair.

Green, black arcs of lightning slithered on her body, running down her hair, and then vanishing into space.

A surge of wild power loomed over her, seeping into her bones.

Darcie's pupils dilated, almost becoming black.

Death. Destruction. Madness. Doom…

... Life and Purity. 

Darcie breathed in the storm, listening to the distant cries of a God and the flaps of its mighty wings.

Yes. She knew, her grip tightening on the wand. This was Greatness.

*************

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