The room smelled of metal and dust—old stone walls wrapped around flickering candlelight like a noose around the neck. Chains hung from the ceiling like decorations at a madman's party. One of them still rattled softly.
Vincent lay on the ground, his eyes hollow, and vacant. Like the glass eyes of a doll that had been dropped too many times. Blood crusted the edge of his nose. Sweat glued strands of hair to his face.
Across from him, Gepet Stein stood barefoot in his long coat, smiling. Always smiling.
"Again," Gepet said cheerfully, as if teaching a lesson. "This time, I want you to love the pain. Let it remind you that you're still real."
Vincent twitched.
There was no incantation—Gepet didn't need one. The magic sank into Vincent's skull like a needle slipping through cloth, precise and cold. A sudden rush of warmth flooded Vincent's body. Pleasure. A sickening, artificial high every time pain lanced through his nerves.
He screamed.
He laughed.
Then he screamed again.
"No, no. That's not the reaction I wanted." Gepet crouched beside him and placed a hand on his temple. His fingers were gentle. Too gentle. "Let's try something different. Let's make you despise your own name."
A pulse of magic. Reality fractured.
Vincent blinked—and forgot what his name was.
He saw flashes. The floor. The chain. A burning house. A woman screaming. His own hands—covered in blood or ink or nothing at all. Then they vanished like water circling a drain.
Another pulse. His mind snapped into place, reassembled like shattered porcelain glued together with spit and desperation.
"You're not meant to be whole," Gepet whispered. "You're meant to be useful."
Vincent crawled backward, shaking. He gritted his teeth against the rising urge to vomit, to beg, to scream. He hated this. Hated himself for how used to it he was becoming.
And then—he punched Gepet.
A weak, wild, desperate punch. It landed. Barely.
There was silence.
Then Gepet laughed. Not in amusement, but in joy. Pure, giddy joy.
"Yes!" he said, beaming. "That's it! That's the spark! That resistance is the boundary. The soul's last wall before complete collapse. We'll break it—and build it back up. Stronger. Smarter. Immune."
He grabbed Vincent by the chin, forcing the boy's eyes to meet his.
"Every time you defy me, I know it's working. One day, no one will be able to control your mind. Not even gods. Do you understand, Vincent? No one will own you—except me."
Vincent fell to the floor, his hollow glazed eyes catching sight of the boxes in the far corner, focusing on a singular hand that stuck out, splashed with a bit of red. His mind was a battlefield littered with pieces of himself he couldn't name. Memories stitched together wrong. Emotions carved apart and reassembled like mismatched puzzle pieces.
And yet, he lived.
For what, he doesn't know.
...
"You sure you don't want to swing by the Great Hall for some food?" Hermione asked, glancing at Harry with concern.
"I've lost my appetite," Harry muttered as they made their way out of the Gryffindor Tower.
Vincent stretched and scratched the back of his head. "He probably doesn't want to be stared at. Can't really blame him." He looked at the others. "Let's just head to my hut. I'll make something."
That perked Harry up a little.
On the way down to the grounds, it was clear just how fast news had spread. Whispers followed them like shadows, students pausing mid-conversation to shoot glances their way.
"They must've done something to the Goblet, right?"
"It's always them. Every year, it's them."
"We've got two cheaters, a Muggle, and a Slytherin representing Hogwarts. Who the hell do we even root for?"
Vincent ignored the murmurs. He'd heard worse. He flipped the pancake in his skillet and served it up. Something simple, something warm—maybe a bit of comfort food could bring everyone back down to earth. "I wonder how Nicholas is taking it," he mused aloud. "Given his reputation, this probably didn't help."
"Not gonna lie, I'm kind of jealous right now," Ron said with a mouthful.
Harry sent him a glare.
"I mean, aside from the whole You-Know-Who possibly trying to murder you thing, a thousand Galleons and a bunch of fame? Hard not to want that."
"Way to cheer me up, Ron," Harry grumbled.
He turned to Vincent. "And your name—how did it even get in the Goblet? And why?"
"It was Dracula's blood," Vincent said flatly, pausing mid-bite. "Someone dropped a bit of it into the flame. That's why the Goblet reacted like that and why my name came out."
Silence.
"...What?" he asked, noticing everyone staring at him.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'WHAT', YOU—?!" Ron nearly spat his food, swearing loudly and creatively enough that, had McGonagall heard him, he'd be polishing trophies until graduation. "How the hell do you know that?!"
"I asked Arnya."
Everyone turned to look at the vampire girl seated across the table, still calmly enjoying her pancakes.
"She wasn't the one who did it," Vincent added. "She just... sensed it. Said she could feel a drop of Dracula's blood in the Goblet. It was faint, but there. Whoever added it must've timed it perfectly with the start of the selection. No one noticed."
Arnya gave a small hum of affirmation, still chewing.
"A drop of blood was enough to make that happen?" Hermione said, shocked.
"Dracula can influence people through his blood," Vincent explained, scratching his head. "Like a more... intimate version of the Imperius Curse. He can embed commands, information, even certain compulsions directly into someone. All it takes is a trace."
Hermione frowned. "I've read almost every reference book on vampires and even Dracula himself. None of them mentioned this."
Vincent caught the wary glance Hermione shot toward Arnya. He couldn't blame her. He'd had the same thoughts himself.
What else could Dracula do?
Could Arnya have been controlled—without even realizing it?
And the most troubling question of all: Why was she even allowed to attend Hogwarts?
Vincent thought back to Arnya's arrival at the start of the year. At first, there was the usual buzz—curious whispers, long stares, and the kind of quiet speculation that followed anything unusual at Hogwarts. But then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped. The interest, the gossip... it all just faded.
Too fast.
He might've chalked it up to acceptance—students getting bored and moving on—but something about it didn't sit right. Not when he compared it to his own experience.
Vincent was a Muggle. He wasn't bullied not outright—mainly out of fear due to his reputation—but he'd gotten his share of cold glances, offhanded remarks, and quiet pushback from certain Slytherins. It was clear some Purebloods didn't think he belonged.
But Arnya?
Not a single comment. Not a whisper of protest. Not even Malfoy, who had something to say about everyone.
No ridicule. No arrogance.
Just silence.
And maybe it was nothing. Maybe Malfoy had heard something in passing, or maybe he was warned off by someone else. Vincent had no way of knowing for sure. All he knew was that, since that first meeting between Malfoy and Arnya, no one dared to bother her. No insults. No challenges. Just a quiet, uneasy distance that lingered in the air around her.
"I'm sure Dumbledore has considered the risk already, yet he still allows her to attend," Vincent rested his chin his hands. "I suppose it has to do with that 'dept' she mentioned."
Vincent recalled Arnya's words from the previous night, her answer to his question on why she was allowed to attend the school. Like before, she wasn't well informed about why and how it was made possible, but there was on tidbit of information that stood out:
"The wizarding world, and Dumbledore, both owe Dracula a great deal."
"What does she mean by that?"
Vincent was shaken out of his thoughts by Harry's voice.
"I feel like I should've asked this way earlier... but why is Dracula so fixated on you, Vincent? You've mentioned being a 'King's Candidate' before, but none of us even know what that really means."
"I asked Dad about it," Ron added. "Even he had no idea. The only thing he told me was, and I quote, 'Don't get on Arnya's bad side.' Which, honestly, fair."
Vincent sighed, glancing at Arnya—still content to let him do the talking.
"To keep it short, Dracula selects Muggles with the potential to become the next Dracula. Why only Muggles? Even Arnya doesn't know."
"Wait," Hermione blinked. "She's his daughter, though."
"Yeah," Vincent nodded, "but apparently, she's not exactly in the inner circle. Arnya's pretty far removed from vampire politics. She hasn't even been in contact with them for a while now."
A heavy silence settled over them, thick with unspoken thoughts.
Arnya's lack of answers was one thing, and there was a bit more that she revealed that Vincent felt wasn't appropriate to share at this point in time—but there were more pressing questions.
Namely—and most concerning—why now?
Before anyone could voice those thoughts, Harry went pale.
"Wait, since Dracula was responsible for messing with the Goblet and that... Entity—"
"Entity? That thing was an Entity?" Hermione cut in, alarmed.
"Nicholas said so," Vincent said flatly. "Not the priority right now."
Harry pressed on. "If Dracula's involved in this... then does that mean—does that mean he's working with Voldemort?"
The words hung in the air like poison.
Ron's fork clattered against his plate.
Hermione's face had gone pale, lips pressed into a thin line.
Vincent didn't flinch. He just stared at the last bite of his pancake as if it might answer him.
"If he is," Vincent said at last, voice low, "then all we can do is brace ourselves and see what comes next."
They all sat with that.
There was no grand speech, no sudden burst of courage. Just the quiet scrape of cutlery. And the weight of something bigger than all of them settling in like a stormcloud.
Vincent glanced at Arnya.
She still hadn't said a word.
...
The days that followed moved slowly—grinding, grey things weighed down by whispers.
Vincent and Harry found themselves the center of attention whether they wanted it or not. Which they didn't.
"You'd think with this level of attention that I blew up the school again," Vincent said thoughtfully as they walked through the corridor on their way to potions. "Actually, scratch that, it's somehow worse."
"... If I give you a hundred galleons, would you do it?" Harry asked under his breath, keeping his eyes on the floor.
"Honestly? I'd do it for free if it meant we get out of this mess."
Everywhere they went, there were stares. Half the school looked ready to hex them; the other half simply didn't know what to think. Vincent heard everything.
"Why on earth was Nott chosen?"
"Should've been Diggory, he's grades are better."
"Vincent's a Muggle, how's he going to survive?!"
"They're going to get themselves killed."
Some of the whispers turned into pointed comments. Others stayed hidden behind glances and silence. Even the portraits watched more intently now.
What stung most wasn't the hate—it was the uncertainty. The indecision. Hogwarts wasn't divided into House lines this time. The rift ran deeper, more personal. Vincent wasn't sure who the students feared more: the Muggle, the Slytherin, or the Boy Who Lived.
In the corner of the courtyard one afternoon, Vincent overheard two Hufflepuffs talking quietly.
"Cedric looked devastated."
"He really wanted to prove himself. Said he was hoping to show people Hufflepuffs could be champions too..."
"Poor bloke didn't even get the chance."
Vincent had seen Cedric in passing, looking somewhat crestfallen at the missed opportunity. There were times when he caught him looking envious at Nicholas, who, as far as Vincent was aware, kept to himself for the most part, with none of the Slytherin's seeming to care to bother him, simply feeling uneased by his mere presence.
It was strange, Nicholas didn't appear to be someone who fought for glory or fame, quite the opposite if his attitude was anything to go by. Every time he laid eyes on him, Vincent felt as if the older boy found the situation to be rather troublesome.
Almost as if, he too, had no interest in the Tournament whatsoever.
Most nights, Vincent would wait until everyone was asleep before pulling out the Marauder's Map. He traced the winding halls, the dungeons, the darkened towers, over and over, looking for something—anything—out of place.
Nothing. Not that Vincent had expected anything anyway. Whoever put their name in the cup, they could as well be long gone by now. Even if they were still in the castle, there was no way for him to know without some sought of sign.
He said it himself, all he can do is wait for them to make the first move. All he can do is simply respond.
That didn't make it any easier though.
...
The wand weighing ceremony arrived with little warning.
Professor McGonagall had escorted the three Hogwarts champions—Vincent, Harry, and Nicholas Nott—down the marble staircase and through a back corridor toward a small hall where the event was being held.
The chamber was smaller than expected—old stone floors, high-arched windows, and the faint scent of dust and polish lingering in the air. At the front stood a polished wooden table, laid with a velvet cloth and the official Triwizard Tournament crest, stitched in gold.
Vincent entered alongside Harry and Nicholas Nott, flanked by Professor McGonagall, who looked more rigid than usual.
The Beauxbatons champions were already there. Fleur Delacour stood poised like a painting come to life, her silver-blond hair cascading down her shoulder. Beside her, Sylvie Flamel—tall, severe, and unreadable, with piercing eyes that missed nothing—and finally, Eloise Bernard, absentmindedly stared at the ceiling, as if she lived halfway between this world and another.
A few feet across, the Durmstrang trio waited. Viktor Krum brooded in his usual silent fashion, arms crossed and brow furrowed like the world owed him answers. To his right, Nikolai Osman stood straight-backed with an aristocrat's grace, the arrogance from the selection was now muted, almost subtle, whether that was from learning about the circumstances or not was Vincent's guess. Nina Fortner, meanwhile, leaned against the stone wall, arms folded, watching everyone her eyes flickering about.
Mr. Ollivander, ancient and soft-spoken, stood present behind the velvet table, with a suitcase by his side, a bit over half a meter in length. His silver eyes glinted as he looked over the collection of champions before him, pausing on Vincent for just a moment.
"Champions!" Ludo Bagman greeted them with boyish enthusiasm. "Now, while the circumstances of this Tournament has been rather... unnatural, I'm pleased to see you all standing before me now!"
"We've made some... changes to the way this Tournament will run, but rest assured, all will be explained. But before that—we must examine your wands!"
Mr. Ollivander stepped forward, ancient and deliberate, eyes already scanning them with professional curiosity.
But before he could begin—
Click.
A camera flash lit up the room, followed by the clatter of hurried footsteps and a deliberately loud voice.
"Hold it right there!" came the honeyed tone of a woman, dressed in lime-green robes with matching crocodile-skin boots, a notepad floating beside her, quill already scribbling of its own accord.
"Rita," Bagman sighed, "we agreed you'd stay out of—"
"I was promised exclusive access," Rita purred, her red nails tapping against her Quick-Quotes Quill. "Our readers have a right to know about the brave young souls representing their schools—and the juicy details behind their selection."
She turned to Harry first, eyes sharp behind jeweled glasses. "Harry Potter! How does it feel being once again at the center of a major magical event? Fame seems to follow you like a lovesick hippogriff."
"I didn't enter my name," Harry muttered. "I don't want to be famous."
"Modest," the quill scribbled. "Despite the burden of fame, young Potter faces danger with quiet dignity and boyish charm—"
"Wait, I didn't say—"
"Now, now," Rita cut him off, swiveling to Vincent with a slow, curious smile. "And you must be Vincent Wong. Our first ever Muggle student at Hogwarts... and now, a Triwizard Champion. Tell me, dear—how does it feel being thrown into a deadly magical tournament against trained witches and wizards?"
Vincent eyed the quill. "Feels like a trap."
"Oh, delightful!" The quill scratched eagerly. "Wong, a gritty underdog with a troubled past and sharp tongue, unafraid to stare death in the face..."
He frowned. "I didn't say that either."
Rita leaned in. "But you have faced death, haven't you? I've heard... intriguing things... the Chamber of Secrets... a hand in proving a once condemned man's innocence... being one of the first responders to the Death Eater incident at the Quidditch Cup... and just recently, I hear tales of a man who was thought to be dead. You wouldn't happen to know any of that would you?"
Vincent simply raised a brow in response, not bothering to answer her.
Rita didn't look offended in the slightest. If anything, she looked excited.
The heavy oak doors of the hall creaked open with deliberate grandeur.
In strode Headmaster Dumbledore, his robes deep midnight blue and speckled with tiny silver stars that shimmered under the floating candles. Behind him followed the other two visiting headmasters—Igor Karkaroff of Durmstrang, sharp-eyed and that ever present sneer on his face, and Madame Olympe Maxime of Beauxbatons, towering above everyone, clad in flowing silks of pale lavender.
Their entrance sent a ripple through the room. Conversation dulled. A few flashes went off from Rita Skeeter's hovering photographer.
"Albus!" Rita Skeeter swept forward in her acid-green robes, Quick-Quotes Quill already hovering beside her parchment. "A word before we begin? Just a few thoughts for the Daily Prophet—our readers are dying to know how you feel about hosting not one, but three—"
"I'm afraid I haven't had time to consider anything dying today, Rita," Dumbledore replied smoothly, with a genial smile that stopped just short of warmth. "But rest assured, I'm delighted by the opportunity for our students to learn from one another."
Rita tittered, brushing back her elaborate curls. "Of course, of course. Any truth to the rumors that you were hoping for a certain Boy Who Lived to enter the Tournament—?"
"Rumors have a tendency to multiply when left unfed," Dumbledore replied gently, "but I've found they die rather quickly when ignored."
Before she could press further, Dumbledore turned toward Mr. Ollivander, who was already setting out the polished velvet cushions for the champions' wands.
"Well then," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying easily over the assembled crowd, "now that all are present, I believe it's time we began the wand weighing ceremony."
The champions stirred to attention. Rita's quill scribbled frantically behind her, and Vincent caught her shooting Harry and himself a particularly hungry look—like a jackal circling a pair of wounded deer.
Fleur Delacour stepped forward first, offering her wand with a small, polite smile.
"Oak, nine and a half inches, inflexible," Ollivander said, "containing a single strand of Veela hair. Temperamental, not something I would usually work with, but to each their own."
He flicked it lightly, and a flourish of rose petals erupted mid-air. "Delicate and proud. Still performing flawlessly, I trust?"
Fleur nodded once.
Sylvie Flamel followed, handing over a wand of dark cherrywood etched with fine lines.
"Cherry wood, eleven inches, phoenix feather. A wand for the willful," Ollivander murmured. He gave it a wave, and the scent of burning parchment filled the air, golden letters swirling briefly before vanishing.
Sylvie gave a nod. "It doesn't like anyone else touching it."
Ollivander chuckled. "Yes, I can feel that."
Eloise Bernard was next—her gaze meeting Olivander's for a quick moment before focusing on her wand.
"Yew, twelve inches, unicorn hair, brittle flexibility... curious combination. Yew is rare. Often favors those who carve their own paths."
The wand sparked with blue light at Ollivander's touch.
Eloise blinked, surprised, but said nothing.
Then came the Durmstrangs, with Viktor Krum leading by handing over his own wand.
"Hornbeam, ten and a quarter inches, dragon heartstring. Rigid, uncompromising," Ollivander mused, rolling the wand between his fingers. "Gregorvitch I presume? Matches its master well."
With a flick, the air turned heavy for a second before releasing. "In fine condition," he noted, handing it back.
Krum merely nodded and returned to his corner.
Nikolai Osman stepped forward next.
"Blackthorn, twelve inches, basilisk scale core," Ollivander said, his eyes widening slightly. "My word. Where did you—?"
"I didn't craft it," Nikolai said simply, but his eyes betrayed the pride he held as he stared at the wand. "It was passed down. Refitted to me."
Ollivander nodded slowly, almost reverently. "This wand demands blood and clarity in its wielder. A dangerous combination."
When he tested it, shadows pulsed briefly from the tip before vanishing. "Very... potent."
Nina Fortner approached with an unreadable face. Her wand was pale—a silvery white wood with a core Ollivander seemed puzzled by.
"Rowan, nine inches, unusual flexibility... Hmm. Is this—"
"Grindylow bone," Nina said simply.
There was a beat of stunned silence. Even Bagman stopped fidgeting.
Ollivander gave the wand a cautious wave. Green sparks hissed from the end like fireflies. "Incredibly difficult to work with... but undeniably effective."
Now came the Hogwarts students, with Nicholas leading the way.
"Ebony wood, eleven inches, dragon heartstring. Powerfully attuned," Ollivander said as he turned it over. "A wand that respects control—but rebels against chaos. Ah yes... I remember making this one."
He flicked it. A dark pulse erupted from the tip, spiraling upward before fading like mist. "It has a quiet pride to it. Like its owner, perhaps. It still performs well I hope?"
"Yes sir," Nicholas gave a nod in thanks as the wand was returned to him.
Now it was Harry's turn. As he stepped forward, Vincent could see the nerves tightening in every movement—Harry was doing his best not to trip over his own feet.
"Ah yes," Ollivander said warmly. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, slightly bendy. I remember this one well."
He waved it gently. Golden sparks danced through the air.
Still as responsive as ever, though Ollivander's eyes lingered a moment too long.
"Well!" Ludo Bagman clapped his hands, his round, ruddy face beaming. "That wraps up the wand weighing—nicely done, everyone! And now, we'd like to take a moment to share some rather important developments regarding the structure of this year's Tournament."
The room perked up again—champions shifting subtly, murmurs rising from the photographers and gathered faculty.
Bagman gestured for silence, smiling like someone about to unveil a grand surprise.
"This year's Triwizard Tournament will feature a small but significant adjustment. Due to the Goblet of Fire selecting three champions per school rather than one"—he glanced meaningfully at Vincent and Harry—"the Ministry and the Headmasters have come to an agreement."
The crowd hushed.
"The Tournament," Bagman announced, "will be team-based."
Gasps. Whispers surged through the room.
"All champions will compete alongside their fellow representatives. That is, Hogwarts will field a team of three—Harry Potter, Vincent Wong, and Nicholas Nott. Durmstrang will be represented by Viktor Krum, Nikolai Osman, and Nina Fortner. And Beauxbatons, by Fleur Delacour, Sylvie Flamel, and Eloise Bernard."
Madame Maxime stepped forward, her tall figure casting a graceful shadow beneath the enchanted ceiling. Her voice, smooth and accented, carried a crisp elegance as she addressed the room:
"To ensure ze fairness, each task will be designed by one of ze 'eadmasters. One by myself. One by 'eadmaster Karkaroff. And one... by 'eadmaster Dumbledore."
Karkaroff smirked, clearly pleased with himself. Dumbledore gave a small nod.
"Zis way," Madame Maxime continued, "no school will 'old an unfair advantage. Each trial will be judged as objectively as possible."
Bagman picked back up, voice chipper. "Furthermore, each task will be reviewed before implementation by myself and Madam Amelia Bones—Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—who unfortunately could not be here today, but sends her regards. Our job will be to ensure every trial is safe, appropriate, and within bounds before it's finalized."
Vincent noted the wording. Safe, but not without risk.
"The first task," Bagman said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "is just a few weeks away. No hints, of course—but let's just say you'll need teamwork, courage... and the ability to think on your feet!"
The champions exchanged glances. Vincent met Harry's gaze—both already weighing the uncertainty ahead.
Bagman's grin faltered as his eyes settled on Vincent. For a moment, there was visible discomfort—like he'd just remembered something inconvenient.
"You'll all be informed a couple of days before the task begins," he continued, clearing his throat. "Now... there's one rule that must be made absolutely clear."
His tone grew more clipped.
"Unless the task permits it explicitly, wands will be the only tools allowed at the start. You may conjure or enchant objects during the task itself, of course—but you are not to bring external equipment in with you. This rule is non-negotiable."
A silence fell over the group.
Vincent didn't react outwardly, but he could feel every pair of eyes shift in his direction. Harry looked horrified. Even a few of the foreign champions—Krum, Sylvie, Nina—stole curious or pitying glances.
Vincent, after all, didn't even have a wand.
Bagman gave a nervous little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ahem—of course, if a task allows additional gear, you'll be told ahead of time. But otherwise... wand only. No exceptions."
He avoided Vincent's eyes after that.
"Their really going to let me go out there unarmed?" Vincent felt a twitch in his brow. "Might as well just ask me to die right here and now."
Someone coughed—softly, but it cut through the room like a spell.
All heads turned.
It was Mr. Ollivander.
"So... they only need a wand, do they?" he said lightly, placing a long, polished suitcase on the nearby table. "Well, as the wandmaker present, I suppose it falls to me to provide one."
All eyes followed the case as he unlatched the silver clasps and opened it. Inside lay a sleek silver rod, roughly the length of a wand, with five small sockets embedded along its spine.
Bagman blinked, baffled. "Mr. Ollivander, that's—?"
"A prototype," Ollivander said, his eyes twinkling. "The first wand ever designed specifically for a Muggle. If you would, Mr. Wong."
Vincent stared at the rod in surprise before walking slowly to the table under the stunned silence of everyone present. He picked it up, turning it in his hands—it was lighter than his usual iron rods, a bit more refined, but the grooves and balance were familiar.
"This must be where the power stones go," Vincent thought with a grin, running his fingers across the sockets. "Ollivander never disappoints."
Reaching into his pocket, Vincent retrieved the colored gems that once powered his gloves. The moment they caught the light, a sharp gasp rang out.
It came from Sylvie Flamel.
She was already storming toward him, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Where—where did you get those?!" she demanded, grabbing his wrist to get a better look.
Vincent blinked. "I made them. Is there... something wrong?"
"Impossible!" she hissed.
She stared into his eyes as if searching for a lie, as though willing deception to surface. Behind her, Eloise Bernard stepped forward and gave a small nod—silent, but affirming something unspoken between them.
Sylvie's grip loosened. She closed her eyes, drew a slow breath, and let go of his arm.
"...I apologize," she muttered, retreating back toward her fellow Beauxbatons champions, though her gaze remained fixed on the stones.
Still puzzled, Vincent turned back to the wand. Carefully, he slotted each gem into place. One by one, they clicked and shimmered—snapping into the rod with faint pulses of magical energy. When the last one locked in, the entire surface of the rod shimmered and settled into a smooth, silver finish.
"Why not give it a try?" Ollivander asked, his voice soft with anticipation.
Vincent spun the rod once in his hand, then pointed it toward a bare corner of the room. He focused.
Picture it. Will it into existence...
A jet of fire erupted from the tip—bright, sharp, and wild. It scorched a dark mark onto the stone wall. The fire vanished, replaced by a burst of frost that coated the floor in a thin layer of ice. Then, a flicker of light—crackling arcs of lightning danced across the wand's tip before fading into the air.
Silence.
The room was stunned.
Harry gaped. Vincent turned to meet his eyes, a grin slowly spreading across his face as he exchanged a knowing look with Ollivander.
"Now this," Vincent said, lifting the wand, "I can work with."