A tremor rippled beneath Wyzett's feet. Even with his eyes shut, he could sense the world awash in blinding white through his eyelids.
Only when the shaking faded did he open his eyes.
Before him yawned a hemispherical crater, nearly twenty meters across. Its floor was scorched black, still belching trails of acrid smoke.
He gazed at the devastation, thoughtful. "So this is Fulgur fueled by two kinds of ancient magic?"
If just a small measure of that rarer ancient magic could conjure such power… what would happen if he unleashed it all at once?
A sudden heat surged up from the butt of his wand, searing his fingers.
He raised his hand—and saw cracks spidering down from the tip, curling outward like petals in bloom.
Where the wood curled back, charred scars were visible, faint wisps of smoke rising from the wounds. The scent was that of burnt wood—sharp, but not unpleasant.
Within, the wand core was exposed like the heart of a flower. The dragon heartstring, too, had split into several blackened ribbons, its crimson glow now as dim as a dying candle—ready to flicker out at any moment.
Through the Oculus Magicae, Wyzett saw that every magical circuit within the wand had been severed. At the tip, not a single trace of magic remained.
He recalled Ollivander's notes, which described many types of wand damage.
The wand in his hand was beyond repair—only a new wand would do.
Changing wands was no challenge for him, but this one had been at his side for a year. He felt a twinge of loss as he turned it over in his hand.
Luna joined him, her voice gentle. "Let's put it in the garden, shall we? Let it rest where it first appeared."
With Luna's wand, they repaired and cleaned up the crater, then returned to the garden.
Wyzett fetched a flowerpot. Luna took up a little trowel, scooping soil in bit by bit until only a small hollow remained.
"Thank you." Wyzett ran his fingers along the battered wand, saying his final goodbye.
Luna gathered a handful of magical plants, planning to arrange them around the wand and create a living memorial.
They worked from afternoon until sunset, and by day's end, the arrangement had taken shape.
The pot found its home in a quiet corner of the garden, basking in the golden light of dusk.
A few Bubotubers swayed in the evening breeze, their magical sap sending ripples through the leaves.
Orange-red moss crept over the pot, making it look like a fruitcake dotted with dark pebbles—like little chocolate truffles.
Luna tucked a small Christmas Cactus into the soil. The cactus seemed to adore the wand at its center, its tendrils curling lovingly around the battered wood.
The Sleipnir trotted over, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the cracked wand, clearly intrigued.
It raised its head and let out a deep, thunderous rumble.
Luna laughed. "Frigg says the scent is familiar. She misses it."
The next day, Luna stayed home, working on illustrations of the World Tree's summit for The Quibbler.
That was the magazine's signature: every illustration was hand-drawn—never a magical photograph in sight.
Wyzett traveled by Floo Network to Diagon Alley, heading straight for Ollivanders.
The familiar chime rang as he entered. When Ollivander saw him, a flicker of surprise crossed his face.
"Good morning, Mr. Ollivander!" Wyzett greeted him.
"Good morning, Wyzett…" Ollivander smiled, eyes sharp. "It seems something unfortunate has happened…" He looked Wyzett up and down. "Your wand… has it passed on?"
As Britain's most renowned wandmaker, Ollivander possessed a unique sensitivity to the fate of wands.
He glanced at the shop door and gave it a subtle wave of his wand.
"Yes… Yesterday, after I tested a spell, it just cracked—like this…" Wyzett produced Luna's drawing of the potted wand.
"What a lovely idea. I think it will find peace." Ollivander admired the illustration.
"A flower-like break… That's exceedingly rare. What did you see with your Oculus Magicae?"
"The magical circuits were all severed," Wyzett replied. "The tip—completely gone."
Ollivander blinked, his silvery eyes thoughtful. "That must have been an exceptionally powerful spell… and very mysterious."
"I'd love to witness that magic's power for myself. Come with me, Wyzett." He beckoned, leading Wyzett deeper into the shop.
The air in the workshop was thick with the mingled scents of wood and magical plants.
"If you lack the Oculus Magicae," explained Ollivander, "you must feel a wand with your heart—craft it with your heart. Light isn't so important."
He flicked his wand and the room brightened, revealing the true depth of the space.
The layout was much like the shopfront—long and narrow, but stretching much further back.
Every tool and material was meticulously arranged.
Cabinets lined the walls, each filled with neat golden drawers—pure gold, gleaming in the light.
Wyzett remembered from Ollivander's notes: no matter the magical material, pure gold was the best for storage. Its purity and stability preserved the materials' unique properties without harm.
Beyond, rows of golden shelves held bundles of wood, the source of the room's rich, woody aroma.
The Ollivander family's legacy was long. To ensure the highest quality, they believed it essential to store wand materials in pure gold.
At the center stood a massive workbench, its surface etched with intricate runes and patterns. Just a glance brought a sense of calm.
The tools were in perfect order: soft dragon hide for polishing, rolls of dragon skin, a pure gold cauldron, and more.
"Let's test your magic's power first, Wyzett." Ollivander gestured to a small round platform nearby.
From a workshop corner, he fetched a dusty wand box and handed it to Wyzett.
"There are always a few particularly fussy wands that never find their wizard. But I think… they won't refuse you."
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Inside was a black, knotted wand. Wyzett invoked Custodis Meditatio (Guardian's Meditation) and weighed the wand in his hand…