Cassius Snape's eleventh birthday was seven days away, and for the first time in years, his concentration wavered.
The boy who had drafted blueprints for brooms faster than the Firebolt, who had theorized entire categories of new charms, who had begun the process of political instability with the end goal to replace a minister of magic, with quills instead of wands—was daydreaming.
Daydreaming of Ollivander's shop.
Of polished wood and whispered resonance.
Of the moment when the wand would choose him.
Cassius had always wielded magic through, the practice wand, a piece of forged metal imbued with enchantment to allow simple charm casting so long as the resoviour still possessed magic, or via puppetry tactics to conduct spellcraft vicariously through his mentor.
Neither of which was him actually wielding his magic, not properly at least.
But something did come out of all that training practice with the near useless wand.
A perceptible difference between when he weilded the wand left-handedly vs with his right-hand.
It was quickly decided his left hand would be his primary hand, since it was 'stronger' when using the training wand, though his mentor didnt let him slack and required ample training with either hand.
A lesson about how he could keep on fighting on even if he lost a hand, simply just grabbing up a wand in his still attached hand to refuse giving up the fight.
Grindelwald had noticed the difference quickly, as to be expected of a masterclass wizard.
"Your left hand sings with Charms," the old man had murmured during spellcraft exercises, his eyes alight with something between pride and nostalgia. "Your right resists a little, most likely inclining you more towards the dark arts. You are balanced, but not identical. Two hands, two inclinations."
That observation had gnawed at Cassius.
What if his true wand sang only to one hand?
Would that mean he had to accept imbalance?
Or… was there another way?
Cassius already had a plan.
Ollivander's wand would be his primary, his light side wand.
After his initial acquisition, by using a portkey he would head to Bulgaria, to Gregorovitch, for a second wand—his shadow, a wand meant for his right hand.
If each hand bore a wand of different allegiance, could he not fuse them in concert?
He imagined clapping them together in spellwork, like the alchemists in stories from his past life, producing waves of transmutation and destruction far beyond the scale of a single wand.
It was theory—beautiful, dangerous theory.
And soon it would be tested.
~
The anticipation of magic had not dulled his pettiness.
Twice in the last few months, Cassius had made quiet walkbys of Privet Drive.
He never approached, never revealed himself, merely observed, looking no different than a regular muggle child on his way home from visiting friends over the summer break.
Harry was there, thinner than Cassius, with a mess of black hair and clothes far too large for him.
The boy played in the garden one time, getting ample tutelage in how to properly tend to the flowers under the shrill voice and reprimand of his Aunt.
All the while Dudley walked the yard like a king, decked out in the latest headphones, media player, and portable game station.
The contrast between then couldnt be more different.
Cassius watched with no sympathy.
He had long since secured Vernon Dursley's loyalty without the man even realizing it.
Owning his company meant raises, promotions, and holidays abroad for the family—luxuries they would flaunt in front of the boy they despised, while the boy himself was never given any of it, left to stay behind with Aunt Marge when the Durselys absconded for fun in the sun, leaving harry to wallow in misery.
Harry, the have-not among the have-everythings.
It wasn't cruelty for cruelty's sake, Cassius told himself.
It was a stage being set.
When Harry learned what his parents and his beloved headmaster had done—abandoning him to such a life—it would strike harder than any curse.
And doubly so, when Lilly and the headmaster realized just how much their actions affected the young lad their own hearts just might break, thinking about what torture they had rought upon the boy for years silently nodding their heads in acceptance of his abuse all the while being ignorant to the goings on.
Revenge is sweetest when the victim cannot blame me, Cassius thought as he walked away from the neat little houses.
~
Every night, he imagined his wand.
Would it be unicorn hair, noble and steady, perfect for charmwork?
Phoenix feather, versatile, temperamental—mirroring Grindelwald's gift?
Thunderbird tailfeather, rare and powerful, resonant with storms?
He considered woods as well.
Yew had been Voldemort's choice.
Holly belonged to Harry.
He thought of ebony, the same he had chosen for his broom design, its strength and elegance appealing, suitable enough for his own fathers wand.
But he also considered rowan, elder, even blackthorn.
In his more fevered dreams, he saw a wand that glowed with two cores, twin lines of magic woven together like the veins of a leaf.
A wand not meant to be held, but wielded in pairs.
~
The Arcanum continued its endless motion, though Cassius now watched it at a distance.
His lieutenants sent reports—progress on Lucidus experiments, setbacks in magi-technology, whispers of Skeeter's next smear campaign against Fudge.
Normally, Cassius would dissect each line.
Now, he skimmed, his mind always circling back to Ollivander's.
Still, one project caught his eye: rune-circuits woven into wood or plastic that work in small scale similarly to motherboards and chipsets used in modern electronics.
It was a distraction worth entertaining.
As the moment for the technological revolution of the magical world was closer at hand than he'd origionally assumed.
~
The days stretched long.
He counted them by meals, twidling his thumbs as he stared longingly at manuals on wandlore.
Each morning, the tension coiled tighter.
By evening, he found himself lying awake, imagining the creak of Ollivander's floorboards, the dust motes hanging in the air, the way the old man's pale eyes would glint as he whispered, "I wondered when I'd see you, again."
He imagined the shelves—thousands of boxes, each containing destiny in wood and string.
And then he imagined his twin.
Harry, on his birthday, receiving the same letter.
Harry stepping into Ollivander's a day or two after.
Harry finding his wand.
Cassius clenched his fists when the thought came.
The world believed Harry Potter to be the savior, the child of prophecy.
But when the wand chose Cassius Snape, the world would learn otherwise.
~
On the seventh night, Cassius stood at his window, the summer air warm against his skin.
Tommorow was the day.
The day he'd longed for, for seven years... no even longer than that.
He would turn 11 years old, and before even bothering to get his Hogwarts letter Cassius would go to Diagon Alley to claim his prize for patience.
His wand awaited him, and Cassius could hardly suffer to wait even a moment longer.