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Late at night, Robert returned to the wand shop. After enduring prolonged tension, the sudden release left him overwhelmed by fatigue. His head felt heavy, dizzy, as if weighed down by invisible chains.
But Robert forced himself to stay awake. Instead of heading straight to bed, he first drew the curtains tightly shut. Then he slowly opened his left hand, which had been clenched into a fist the entire time.
A small pile of grayish-white dust spilled into his palm—like burnt, crushed charcoal.
Before stepping into Knockturn Alley, that dust had been a full, two-inch wand.
And it was precisely because of that wand that Robert had dared to enter such a dangerous place, subconsciously ignoring the looming threats.
After all, how could Robert be afraid of those lowlifes—those who only picked on the weak—when he could cast the Killing Curse freely, without incantation or gesture?
As it turned out, reality didn't disappoint him. The enhanced Killing Curse had annihilated all his enemies in an instant. He hadn't even needed to summon the Unicorn to stall for time.
But the cost was steep.
As the final afterglow of the curse faded from the dim interior of Borgin and Burkes, the wand had disintegrated completely. All that remained in his palm was a handful of hot ashes.
Over a thousand years of dragon blood wood, rare snake wood fragments, and even a piece of Voldemort's soul—gone without a trace.
Still, despite the loss, Robert couldn't deny that it had been worth it.
No incantation. No hand movements. Just the slightest magical intent and the Killing Curse burst forth—area-of-effect, automatically targeting enemies.
Apart from a small side effect, it had been perfect.
A shame it only worked once.
Robert fetched a small box and carefully funneled the ashes into it, preserving them as a memento—a keepsake of his first narrow escape from death.
It was strange, really. Why did it feel like his life as a wandmaker was more dangerous than Harry Potter's, the so-called savior?
He didn't even know if those people had accomplices.
They shouldn't, right?
According to old Borgin, there were six Death Eaters who came to Diagon Alley from North America using Polyjuice Potion. All six were there—neatly arranged, one part Voldemort's soul among them…
In a way, they'd perished together with the soul fragment. That alone could be considered an honor, at least from a Death Eater's twisted perspective.
Robert couldn't help but feel he was a truly good person. People had tried to kill him, and in return, he'd helped them fulfill their dreams.
Who else in this world could do something so generous?
No one. Absolutely no one.
That thought made him feel a little better.
He lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Inevitably, he began to overthink.
Borgin had only mentioned six Death Eaters from North America. But what about other regions? Could six more be arriving from South America?
Come to think of it, Robert had found Borgin's attitude suspicious in the end. He had been almost too polite when parting. His upper body bent nearly parallel to the ground, his tone steeped in reverence.
Yet before that, he'd been arrogant—especially when it came to money. That desperate, greedy attitude had nearly broken Robert's cool.
When had his demeanor shifted?
Ah, yes—when Quirrell was mentioned. That's when Borgin's attitude had changed, becoming oddly respectful.
He even allowed Robert to pick through the spoils first, dropping the previous restriction of taking only one item. He'd even offered his help with recommendations.
If this had been Dumbledore, such deference would've made sense.
But Robert clearly wasn't Dumbledore. Something about it felt wrong.
Drowsiness crept over him as he mulled over that thought. His eyelids drooped heavily…
Borgin had probably mistaken the effect of the wand for some secret Ollivander family technique.
Well, it wasn't entirely wrong—it could be considered an Ollivander technique.
…
Robert didn't know how long he'd slept. When he opened his eyes, the room was filled with early morning light.
Groggily, he crawled out of bed and rubbed his eyes hard.
He hadn't slept well. His dreams were fragmented and disturbing. He often woke abruptly not long after drifting off.
Maybe it was guilt. He had used the Killing Curse to end lives for the first time.
But as soon as he took out Silver Mane and held it in his hand, peace finally settled in.
It was already early morning by then, so he'd slept no more than three hours.
Yawning, he trudged downstairs.
His grandfather, Garrick Ollivander, had already opened up the shop and stood behind the counter, ready to greet early customers.
"Here," Garrick said, handing Robert a letter and a pouch heavy with coins. "The school sent this for you."
Robert tore open the yellowed parchment envelope and scanned its contents.
The letter reminded him to board the Hogwarts Express at Platform 9¾ on September 1st, and included the book list for the upcoming school year—a list even longer and more absurd than last year's.
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2, by Miranda Goshawk. Okay, that was reasonable—one per year, five sickles wasn't too much.
But then came the rest…
Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart.
Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart.
Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart.
…
Seven in total. Each book cost at least five galleons.
Robert cursed under his breath. How could he have forgotten that guy—Gilderoy Lockhart?
He scratched his hair in frustration. Now it made sense why Garrick had handed over extra money. This year's book expenses were astronomical.
How could Dumbledore approve such an outrageous demand?
Was he… taking kickbacks?
Robert thought grimly to himself.
"Grandfather," he said suddenly, "I'm going to put up an advertisement outside. For wand dyeing spray, stickers, and also the maintenance kits we talked about two years ago."
"Hm?" Garrick raised an eyebrow, reacting just as he had in the past—somewhat skeptical.
But he didn't refuse outright. Instead, he asked, "Why? Weren't you the one who said all that was a scam before?"
Magical creature stickers matching wand cores—one Knut to make, one sickle to sell. Rare shiny ones cost two Knuts and sold for five sickles.
The spray was even worse—priced in galleons.
Only the maintenance kit seemed slightly less ridiculous, with a cost that could rise to a few sickles.
Truth be told, even Robert had felt embarrassed by the pricing, which is why he'd never promoted them seriously.
"You don't need to worry about the books being too expensive," Garrick said with a soft smile. "We can afford it."
"No… It's not just about that," Robert replied, dazed. His mind wandered back to the devastating power of last night's Killing Curse.
It had been so effective that even one night without it left him feeling… unsafe.
Voldemort's soul fragment was manageable. Whether through Horcruxes or Harry, there would be future opportunities to acquire a piece.
But the wand body—that was a real issue.
Robert rubbed his face with both hands, his expression growing more and more resolute.
Reputation?
Who cared about that anymore?
Right now, he just wanted money.
He needed to buy dragon blood wood...
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