The Dark Side of the Sun

Fortuna mutua coniuncti

Venia ad vitam aeternam

Author's Note

This isn't your ordinary romance story, even though it contains classical romantic moments. Here you won't find your classical heroic protagonists. This is a long and detailed dark fiction about passions which drive towards destruction, focused on vindictive and immoral characters.

This piece contains or will contain at one point: love, adultery, more-way relationships, explicit sex, alcohol, drugs, violence, torture, ritual magic, duels, murders, life-long conspiracies, hatred, all kinds of prejudices, Grindelwald, and WW2. If any of this bothers you, don't read past chapter six.

This story isn't written with the intention to offend any individual. As an author, I don't share the views of the involved characters, or support their acts.

That being said, I hope you'll enjoy reading this story. Any comments and suggestions are appreciated. I'll answer to all the reviews and/or questions.

Chapter One

Different

London, 31st December 1926

Scarcely had the pale moon managed to break through the heavy clouds, weakly illuminating the abandoned streets. The acrimonious snow mercilessly cascaded upon the ground, as if the heavens decided to freeze everything under the white shroud. Even the stray dogs were not wandering around for it was probably the coldest night the city had witnessed since the dawn of time.

As if she was defying the storm, one girl walked down the dilapidated street, her wiry figure swaying under the wind's force. A fluttering moonbeam fell upon her ghastly pale face and her features contorted, her body twitching in pain; her bony hand reached out to touch her stomach that was big and swollen: the betraying sign of pregnancy. Clenching her teeth, she resolutely collected up the scattered pieces of her strength and continued to walk, her feet moving in a jagged line as she tried to wrap the thin, moth-eaten coat tightly around her body, yearning for warmth.

Arcturus Black walked nervously around the room, flinching as the ornate clock struck seven; his daughters regarded him mutely and exchanged grim looks. Another agonizing scream pierced the air but it slowly died out, getting replaced by a loud but pleasanter sound: a baby's cry. Arcturus' eyes widened in anxious expectation, his feet slamming to a stop. A couple of minutes later, one old, chubby woman clad in yellow robes entered the drawing room, a huge smile spread across her face.

"I-Is it a son? Please, just do not tell me that it is a daughter… again…" Arcturus muttered in a fevered voice, firmly grabbing the back of the chair. A son: his longtime wish. He had three daughters but had no son who would one day become his true heir, a son who would make him proud.

The woman observed him quietly as if she wanted to engorge his already enormous nervousness. "It's a daughter, Mr. Black," she announced warmly after a couple of seconds. "Don't feel disappointed. The child's healthy and beautiful, you shall be happy," she added in a slightly rebuking voice after Arcturus let out a disappointed sigh, frowning.

"You are right…" Arcturus replied absentmindedly despite he did not agree with her words completely.

Ignoring the woman's sharp gaze, Arcturus staggered out of the drawing room, heading towards his bedroom. There he found his wife on the bed, her eyes carefully observing the child in her arms, smiling. Hearing the sound of his footsteps, she tilted up her head. Her light-blue eyes were shiny with happiness despite her forehead was beaded with sweat.

"Isn't she adorable?" she whispered softly as her smile expressed the love she already felt towards the small creature.

Unsure what to do, Arcturus slowly approached the king-sized bed. Instinctively, he reached out to take the baby into his arms. Rolled in a green towel, the baby reminded him of a small bundle. Awkwardly caressing her short, golden-red hair, he looked at the baby girl, smiling as her light gray eyes (which were like his, he noticed proudly) stared at him innocently. He let out a sigh; a part of his disappointment vanished for he unwillingly began to feel love for the baby girl. Despite Arcturus often lamented for he did not have a son, his daughters irrefutably were his weakest spot.

A young brunette was sitting close to the window, observing the snowflakes as they raced through the air, chased by the wind. Recently married she was, but she was unable to spend this eve with her husband, needing to work. They scarcely had enough money to cover their expenses (he was jobless while she was underpaid in this small orphanage), but she could not help but lament her decision to stay here during the night.

She would have spent the rest of the night watching through the window, overwhelmed with longing, if a sharp voice of her colleague did not snatch her away from her thoughts.

"Mrs. Cole! Hurry up, we have an urgent case!"

Shaking away her sad thoughts, Mrs. Cole stood up and rushed out of the room, running through the narrow corridor and down the flight of stairs. Upon reaching the entrance hallway, her eyes fell on a young woman who was kneeling down on the floor. Mrs. Cole's colleague rushed towards the girl, trying to help her to stand up on her feet.

Mrs. Cole lightly twitched as her eyes took in the girl's appearance. The lifeless brownish hair, the brooding, scrawny face, and the eyes that stared in opposite directions. There was something unsettling about the girl (which, interestingly, had nothing to do with her ugliness), and Mrs. Cole got an unexplainable urge to run away from her. However, that was unacceptable.

"Hel-l-p me… p-p-lease," the poor girl managed to mutter and bit her dry lips to suppress the scream. She covered her big stomach with her hand, as though she wished to protect the baby from something.

Deciding not to think about the girl's weird aura, Mrs. Cole, with the help of her colleague, managed to lift the woebegone girl up on her feet. Somehow, they managed to carry her over to one of the beds in the nearest room. The girl was in a terrible shape and the parturition (the hardest one Mrs. Cole had ever seen) lasted for hours. At last, the girl gave birth to a boy who was unlike the other babies Mrs. Cole had seen: he was not crying. After a careful examination, Mrs. Cole concluded that the boy was healthy. Why he was not crying in that case?

"I-is he a-alive?" the young girl stammered, causing Mrs. Cole to turn around.

A wave of pity washed over Mrs. Cole as she observed the girl's sweat-covered face. She was not going to survive this, Mrs. Cole had felt it. Maybe it was the air of death around the girl what made her feel uneasy, she concluded.

"Yes, he is," Mrs. Cole replied gently, approaching the girl; she tried to put her uneasiness aside, caressing the girl's lank hair.

"I beg you to take good care of him", the girl said, her voice scarcely audible. Her dark eyes, which looked like deep wounds etched into her gaunt face, filled with tears as she looked at Mrs. Cole.

"N-name him Tom, after his father – a-a-and Marvolo – a-after –" the girl's voice broke, and she desperately tried to grab Mrs. Cole's hand, her eyes trying to show the unspoken wish. " – after my father," she finally managed to end the sentence.

"Don't speak like that, you'll live. You need to, for the sake of your son," Mrs. Cole said, trying to keep her voice low and soothing. She knew that she was telling lies, but what else was she supposed to do?

The girl weakly shook her head, probably feeling the fading of her strength. "I won't… I can't…" she whispered, turning her head around in a slow motion, looking at her son. The baby was peacefully sleeping in the arms of Mrs. Cole's freckled colleague.

"Hi-i-is last name –"

The girl had lost her breath, letting out a frantic, choking sound. Mrs. Cole's eyes widened and she shook the girl's shoulders, panicked for she had never witnessed someone's death before.

An instant later, the girl calmed down as though nothing happened. Yet again, her eyes fell on the boy. "Riddle… Tom Marvolo Riddle," the girl whispered, smiling.

Mrs. Cole flinched at the sight, trying to hold back her tears as the girl's smile expressed more sorrow than any tears ever could.

"I just hope that he'll be as beautiful as his father," the girl murmured, somewhat desperately. Her bony hand reached out to touch the boy but it halted in midair, morbidly frozen for a moment before it fell down on the sheets with an air of finality.

Letting out a loud sob, Mrs. Cole covered her mouth with her palms, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks as she observed the now lifeless body. The girl was breathing no more, her eyes wide and empty, blind to the world around her. That scene was probably going to haunt Mrs. Cole for life.

Slowly, as if she was fighting with paralysis, Mrs. Cole tore her eyes away from the cadaver, shifting them to the baby, then to the window. She knew that the boy's life (the life of an orphan) was going to be grim like the clouds that covered the sky and the moon. A loud thunder echoed in the distance, a lighting bolt appeared on the sky like the long, skeletal hand, illuminating the darkness for a moment. The old clock struck twelve, the bolt disappeared, and the world went dark again.

London, 14th May 1938

A young girl was sitting on a comfortable sofa, holding a big book on her lap. Reading fast, her grey eyes became foggy. Her long, wavy hair fell over the book, covering some sentences; she removed it with a jumpy hiss.

"Maia Ursula Black, get down here immediately!" a female voice echoed through the house, causing the girl to flinch.

Maia rolled her eyes, closing the book loudly as she angrily shook her golden-red head. She hated to be disturbed when she was reading. Besides, her mother had just used her middle name, which indicated nothing good. Tossing the book down, Maia marched out of the room, leaping down the stairs. She had quickly reached the kitchen, opening the door with the unnecessary force.

"What do you need?" Maia stubbornly asked the middle-aged woman who was sitting at the huge, mahogany table.

The woman tilted up her head, her blue eyes observing Maia disapprovingly. "It is time for lunch, and your father is going to arrive soon. You cannot spend the whole day reading."

Maia gave a tiny sigh, leaning against the doorframe. "I need to, mother. You don't want me to be an ignorant person," she replied, as though she had no interest in the conversation, absentmindedly examining her short nails.

"You do not need to learn everything now, you already know enough for your age," her mother said, giving Maia a small smile.

Maia frowned in disbelief for she failed to understand why she needed to study less. She was a Black, for Merlin's sake, and she needed to be the best, or else she would disgrace her family.

"Do not criticize her, wife. We should be happy because we have such a smart daughter."

Maia spun around, her frown dissolving into a smile as her eyes fell on the tall, black-haired man who was sporting a small beard. "Father!" Maia exclaimed cheerfully, flinging herself into his arms.

Her father smiled, caressing her hair affectionately. "Tell me, princess, what you are going to become one day?" he asked with an air of a person who already knew the answer.

Maia stepped back, looking into her father's gray eyes; she replied, her voice holding great confidence, "The greatest sorceress in the world."

Maia's father laughed amusedly, as though he was proud, yet slightly doubtful. Maia threw him a look, smiling. Maybe she was not a son he had wished for, but she was going to fulfill his dream (the one she had too), she was going to make him proud. He had deserved it for all the love he had given to Maia.

London, 30th July, 1938

In Tom's opinion, the people should not be trusted; the weird-looking old man who sat across him was a perfect example why. Special people… Had this deluded freak honestly thought that Tom was going to believe in such stupidities? 'Special' was just a more polite way to say 'mad'.

"Hogwarts is not an asylum, or anything similar to it. Hogwarts is a school of magic," the man, who had told that his name or last name was Dumbledore, said, his voice expressing nothing but calmness.

Scarcely had Dumbledore managed to finish his sentence when another shadow flew over Tom's eyebrows, a strange emotion causing his mouth to twitch as the entire world started spinning around him. Magic… the word had echoed inside Tom's mind. He was always able to do the things the other kids could not, but were those things really the magic Dumbledore was speaking about, or they were just a figment of Tom's imagination?

The later option was more realistic for magic was a part of the stupid stories Tom had loathed. Tom continued to regard Dumbledore, his dark eyes narrowing to slits as they flickered between the warm blue ones. The man glanced at Tom, looking as honest as possible.

"Magic?" Tom repeated, his soft whisper breaking the silence between them.

"Yes, magic," Dumbledore said unceremoniously, as though he had said something perfectly normal, smiling lightly.

The lightest shade of red ruined the pastiness of Tom's hollow cheeks; his legs were trembling without control, as if they were soaked in the coldest water. A feral smile illuminated his features as his mind started to slowly accept the information. Why did Tom even doubt it? He always knew that he was special, better than everyone else he had met.

The very next day Tom decided to check were all the words of that old man true. Surely, the things Dumbledore had shown him seemed real, but it could have been an illusion as well. The memories of the past day were somehow blurry, as though Tom's reasoning was shadowed by the mixture of ecstasy and disbelief. Tom would discard everything like a dream but he had still owned the parchment, the ticket, and the pouch full of heavy coins, which were safely tucked away in his pocket.

Despite Tom was more than amazed by the money he had never seen before, the train ticket captured the biggest part of his attention. Platform nine and three-quarters. The suspicious part of him was sure that such platform had not existed, as well as the Leaky Cauldron, the place which Dumbledore mentioned. Still, the other part of him wished badly to believe in everything Dumbledore had said, and coupled with the curiosity, the wish had won over the other arguments; Tom ought to check everything.

When he informed Mrs. Cole that he needed to buy things for his new school, she had allowed him to go out, congratulating him and wishing him luck. She was impatient to see Tom's departure and he knew it well, despite her fake affability. Old hypocrite…

As Tom left the orphanage and closed the heavy gates behind him, he began to wonder about the things he was going to encounter, if everything was real, in the wizarding world. Everything would be better than this awful, depressive orphanage, Tom concluded dismally.

Tom had vaguely remembered the directions Dumbledore gave him, but it did not take him a lot of time to locate the Leaky Cauldron, despite it was nowhere close to the orphanage. He was used to wander around London alone. The only things Tom hated about it were the bus and the train stations for he hated the bustle and the primitive people who had regularly pushed each other just to get a better seat.

A weird sight greeted Tom's eyes when he entered the Leaky Cauldron. A couple of old, strangely clad women were sitting in the corner; one of them smoked a pipe, which was spreading a heavy, unpleasant scent through the entire room. At the table next to theirs, one man was reading the newspaper, which, Tom was able to swear, contained a moving picture.

"Looking for something, boy?"

The voice had caused Tom to flinch and he spun around to face the man who spoke. Tom's eyes darted upon the unpleasant sight: the young man was horrible-looking, hunchbacked, and almost toothless.

"I'm looking for a bartender named Tom. Dumbledore sent me," Tom replied coolly, frowning. That Tom was supposed to help him, according to Dumbledore's words.

"Oh, I'm Tom!" the man exclaimed cheerfully. "Dumbledore told me that you'll come. We've the same name," he added with a smile.

Tom's mouth twitched with disgust; out of all the people from London, this abomination had the name like his. Tom had started to hate his common name more than ever.

"I know your case – you grew up in a Muggle orphanage. It must be hard living without parents. I remember when I –"

The man was obviously talkative, but Tom interrupted him, having no interest in his speech, "Can you just tell me how to get to Diagon Alley?"

"Of course I can, dear boy. Follow me," the bartender said, obviously failing to notice the coldness in Tom's voice, giving the boy a sign to follow him. "This is the gateway to Diagon Alley," the bartender said as they walked into a small, walled courtyard.

"This?" Tom repeated distrustfully, observing the empty place. "This is just a wall."

"Of course, this. Just watch," the bartender replied and pulled out his wand, which was crooked as his back. Tom crossed his arms over his chest, in disbelief observing the man as he started to count the bricks.

"Ah, this one!" the bartender exclaimed, tapping one brick with his wand.

Much to Tom's surprise the touched brick slightly quivered, twisting. An instant later, a small hole appeared out of nowhere, gradually getting bigger. In a couple of instant, the wall transformed into what looked like a big archway that was leading to a long, wavy street. Tom could not help but stare at the sight, awestruck. Magic… It was real. The pace of his heart quickened as he walked through the archway, which had begun to close behind him, becoming a plain wall again.

The surprise the archway invoked in Tom could not match the one he felt when he had seen Diagon Alley for the first time. It was an enormously big street, crowded with weirdly-dressed people. Soon, something else captured his attention; this place was full of shops that were selling weird things. Wishing to memorize every detail, Tom had begun to turn his head in all directions.

The nearest shop was selling the cauldrons; the one next to it was selling broomsticks, which Tom had not found especially interesting. Soon, his eyes fell on a shop that was selling various rare pets, including owls and toads. For a moment Tom wondered were they selling snakes. He continued to stroll and glance around, tempted to enter one big bookstore for the titles captured his interest, (The wickedest jinxes, read the title of one book that was on display), making him sneer. It would be nice to try some of those jinxes on the annoying brats from the orphanage.

Tom reached out to pull out of his pocket the parchment Dumbledore gave to him, glancing at it briefly. He needed the books, the cauldron, and various things. Putting the parchment back into his pocket, Tom decided to get them later; he had wished to get the wand first. Since he had seen Dumbledore's wand, he was unable to snatch his thoughts away from it. Tom was perfectly able to imagine himself with a wand in his hand, performing better spells than that old donkey.

Tom grinned at the thought, continuing to walk. An instant later, his eyes fell on the building that was unlike any Tom had ever seen, magnificent and breathtaking. It towered over the shops, its white marble columns shining; compared with their whiteness, even the snow looked dirty. Two strange creatures stood in front of the bronze doors, which were adorned with the strange, letter-like symbols. Tom had no idea what kind of building it was, but he liked it, a lot.

Determined to find out what it was, Tom stopped one elderly woman who was carrying a basket that was filled with some strange eggs. "Excuse me, Madam," Tom said politely, smiling. He knew how to gain the affection of the older people: politeness did wonders. "Can you tell me what this building is?" Tom asked, pointing towards the luxurious construction. "I'm visiting Diagon Alley for the first time, so I don't know," he added, having no wish to appear stupid.

"That's Gringotts, the bank," the woman replied curtly.

Tom frowned; he did not have enough gold, so for now, he had nothing to do in there. "Can you please tell me which shop here sells wands?" he asked.

"Ollivanders – the best wandmaker in Britain," the woman replied and pointed at the shop located not too far from Gringotts. "There it is."

Tom had walked away before the woman had finished speaking, heading towards the shop, not even saying thanks. He got what he wished, thus that word was not really necessary.

Maia cast a brief look at the wand that was on display before she entered the shop. She closed the door, glancing around as the bell rung from somewhere. The shop was empty except for the couple of chairs and the piles of narrow boxes.

"Good afternoon, dear. How can I help you?" a soft voice rung out of nowhere, causing Maia to flinch.

Maia tore her eyes away from the boxes, shifting her attention to the middle aged man. She had failed to notice him immediately for he was almost invisible behind the bunch of the long boxes he carried. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander. I'm going to Hogwarts this year and I need a wand," Maia said enthusiastically, sitting down on the nearest chair, glancing at her surroundings curiously.

"Let's see which wand is good for you," Ollivander said and dropped all the boxes he carried down on the floor, obviously not bothered by the mess. "Which is your wand arm?" he asked with an air of a person who was repeating the same line over and over again, pulling the silver measuring tape out of his pocket.

"Right arm," Maia replied curtly, observing the light-eyed man as he picked up two boxes from the floor. She wondered why he had dropped them in the first place.

Ollivander sent the tape flying towards Maia with a flick of his wand. As the tape started measuring on its own accord, he remarked, "You look familiar to me."

"You had seen me before. I'm the daughter of Arcturus Black," Maia replied, a slight hind of pride noticeable in her voice, observing the tape curiously.

"Which Arcturus?" Ollivander asked, scratching his chin and inspecting one yellowish box.

"From the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Maia replied absentmindedly, not surprised by the question for her father was not the only Arcturus in the family, throwing a slightly sad look through the window. Her father went to Gringotts, needing to finish some jobs with the goblins. Maia had wanted him to be present at the moment when she would get her wand, something she longed to have for years. Her father allowed her to practice with his old wand sometimes, but that just was not the same. That wand tended to twitch a lot, as if it hated Maia.

"Oh, I remember your father and sisters. You father's first wand was fine – apple and unicorn hair," Ollivander mumbled, opening the box after the thorough examination. "Larch and phoenix feather, seven inches, somewhat stiff," Ollivander said, handing her one short wand. "Give it a wave," he added with a smile.

Maia took the wand with the frown of disappointment; she had expected a better-looking one. She gave it an impatient, quick wave… Nothing happened.

Ollivander shook his head, snatching the wand away from Maia and quickly replacing it with another one. "Oak and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, sturdy."

Maia took the thick, brownish wand and gave it a wave, this time feeling something. A slight breeze spread across her face but Ollivander was not satisfied, taking the wand away from her.

"Maybe this one will do," Ollivander remarked, handing her another wand. "Willow and unicorn hair, eleven inches, pliable. Try it…"

Maia took the light curvy wand that had begun to twitch in her hands the same instant she took it. She swished it through the air and the vase that was placed on the counter exploded with a strident bang. Maia frowned, observing the scattered porcelain shards. Such things happened to her sometimes when she had used her father's old wand.

"No, not that one!" Ollivander exclaimed, snatching the wand away from Maia. "Don't worry, we'll find the right one soon."

Ollivander kept bringing the wands to Maia, and she had swished them, but nothing happened, except another explosion. The frustration began to well inside Maia's chest as the pile of the discarded wands grew bigger, along with Ollivander's excitement.

"I see – a particularly tricky customer," Ollivander remarked, his almost translucent eyes shiny. "Hmm… Maybe that one will do…"

Ollivander abandoned the room and Maia sighed, bored. This was not nearly as amusing as she had expected. Luckily, Ollivander quickly returned, carrying an old, dusty box. She observed him carefully as he opened it. A thin wand was resting on the tattered purple velvet, its shape and handle reminding Maia of a stiletto.

"Ebony and dragon heartstring, twelve-and-a-half inches, moderately supple," Ollivander said, ceremoniously offering the wand to Maia. "Its core came from a very nasty dragon. Twelve dragon slayers needed to work together to kill that beast. A powerful wand, but dangerous and tricky. I've never offered it to anyone since it created an explosion in the hands of one boy – it almost destroyed the entire shop," Ollivander explained seriously.

Maia frowned and wondered why he decided to give her a wand that was most likely going to create a disaster in her hands; this man was simply weird. She took the black wand impatiently, expecting another failure. The wand made her skin tingle as she took it, as though someone had electrified it. Maia raised the wand and instinctively made a swift, slashing movement. A streak of golden and silver sparks flied out of its tip, dissolving into the air, managing not to reach the floor.

"Absolutely amazing!" Ollivander exclaimed, clapping ardently. "This is the right one."

Maia smiled softly, affectionately caressing the silvery handle as the wand vibrated in her hand, as if it rejoiced in her touch. Ollivander took the wand away from her and she frowned in disapproval, standing up. Somehow she had no wish to let it go.

"I'll pack it for you immediately," Ollivander said, smiling amusedly at Maia's expression as he walked out of the room, leaving her alone.

Upon entering the shop, Tom noticed that he was not the only customer. A tall girl with a pale, arrogant, vaguely gaunt face fixed him with a look of mild interest. Her light gray eyes were piercing, somehow hawkish. Tom spared a moment to observe her appearance, including the knee-length, mauve dress and the long silver hairpin that adorned her unpleasantly red hair. Judging by her looks, she was rich.

Tom turned his head away from the girl, inspecting the shop; it was dusty and full of boxes that reached the ceiling. He glanced at the porcelain shards that covered the floor, wondering what happened here. An instant later, a slender man entered the room.

"Oh, another customer. Sit here, please," the man said enthusiastically, forcing Tom to occupy the nearest chair.

Tom observed the man (perhaps he was Ollivander) with slight envy as he pulled out his wand, with a light flick sending a measuring tape towards him. Tom cocked his eyebrows in surprise for the tape started measuring him on its own.

"Which is your wand arm?" Ollivander asked, observing him.

"I don't understand your question," Tom replied, twitching in annoyance, hating his lack of knowledge about the wizarding terms.

A mocking sound caused Tom to flinch. He looked towards the source of the noise and his eyes fell on the tall girl whose presence he ignored until now. She was shamelessly laughing at him, covering her mouth with her right palm. Tom threw her a look of blazing anger, which she failed to notice.

"With which hand do you write?" Ollivander reformed his question.

"Left one," Tom replied with a frown.

"I'll bring you some wands now," Ollivander informed him. "And I'll pack yours, Miss Black," he added, rushing out of the room.

"Are you a Muggle-born?" the girl asked him, her soft voice full of contempt.

Tom glance at the girl and scowled, her lips twisting in an insolent sneer. "What?"

"You don't know what the Muggles are?" she asked another question, still shamelessly snickering.

"I know – non-magical people. I just don't know why you are interested in it," Tom replied harshly, the girl irritating him. She spoke with him as if he was someone unworthy and stupid. Of course he knew, Dumbledore had told him yesterday.

"Because there is nothing worse than the Muggles and Muggle-borns," she said sharply. "I suppose that you are a Muggle-born as Ollivander's question confused you. A wand arm…" she added, another sneer twisting her lips.

Despite Tom had already started to strongly dislike the girl, he could not help but agree with her statement. Non-magical people like those idiots from the orphanage were good-for-nothing and he was lucky for he was not one of them.

"My father was a wizard, I'm sure," Tom said in a low voice, absentmindedly looking at his long fingers.

"Was?" the girl asked curiously.

Tom shook his head, annoyed. He was not paying attention to what he spoke. "I don't have parents, I have never met them. I grew up in an orphanage. My mother is dead, and I don't know anything about my father," he answered with a hope that she was going to shut up.

Tom regarded the girl coolly as she bit her lips, fiddling with the hem of her dress. "Ah," she gave a tiny sigh, as though she was feeling guilty. "I'm really sorry, such life must be hard," she said honestly.

Tom remained silent for he had not wished this conversation. Why he did not ignore her?

"What is your name?" she asked as if she wished to irritate him even more.

"Tom Riddle. Yours?" Tom asked despite he had no wish to know.

"Tom Riddle…" the girl repeated his name slowly, tasting the words. "Interesting surname, but I think there are no Riddles among the wizards. That must be a Muggle surname," she stated with a frown.

"It is the surname of my father. His name was or is Tom. I was named after him," Tom replied. "That is everything I know about my family, beside my middle name, Marvolo. It is the name of my grandfather – my mother's father," he explained for the girl seemed to know some things about the wizarding world. Maybe she knew someone whose name was Tom, or Marvolo, though he doubted that the later was a wizard. If his mother was a witch, she would be alive.

"Marvolo – that name sounds familiar," she remarked, scratching her head. Her brows furrowed, as though she was concentrating. "I can't recall when or where I have heard it, but I'm sure he was someone important," she added, letting out an annoyed huff.

Tom shook his head. It was just her imagination; the family of his mother was not a part of the wizarding world.

"My name is Maia Black," she introduced herself.

Maia seemingly thought about something for an instant before she slowly offered her hand to Tom, as if he would stain it. He shook her hand lightly, not even looking at her. Maia opened her mouth to say something but Ollivander returned, interrupting her. He was carrying a big stack of narrow boxes, which he dropped on the counter.

"Here is your wand, dear," Ollivander said, picking up one nicely wrapped box from the pile and handing it to Maia. "It costs fifteen Galleons."

Bored, Tom observed Maia as she gave the gold to Ollivander, quickly heading towards the door. She opened the door and turned her head, looking at Tom. "See you at Hogwarts," Maia said, leaving the store. "Goodbye, Mr. Ollivander," she added before she slammed the door shut.

"Goodbye, dear," Ollivander mumbled, disappearing behind the counter for an instant.

Tom had not said anything, absentmindedly glancing at the door. He had somehow felt relieved for Maia left. The girl was curious and he had told her too much about himself. After all, it was not her business. The silver tape, which no longer captured Tom's attention, returned to Ollivander, who was looking around the shelves, taking down some brown boxes.

Ollivander had chosen one box, taking the twisted wand out of it and carrying it over to Tom. "Cypress and unicorn hair, thirteen inches, moderately bendy."

Tom took the wand, looking at it curiously. Unicorn hair… He wondered what it was, but he remained quiet. He was not going to ask Ollivander anything for he would surely deem him stupid.

"Unicorn hair is one of the materials that are used like a wand core," Ollivander said, as though he could read Tom's mind. "Give the wand a wave," he added, pointing at the wand in Tom's hands.

Tom obeyed him, feeling stupid as he swished the wand through the dusty air, wondering why nothing happened.

Ollivander shook his head briefly, taking the wand away from Tom and replacing it with another one. "Hawthorn and phoenix feather, nine inches, very springy."

Tom took the carved wand and gave it a wave; the tip of the wand sparkled a bit and Tom glared at Ollivander questioningly.

"That's not good enough," Ollivander stated, taking the wand. The next one he brought to Tom was thick and significantly longer than the last one. "Maybe chestnut and dragon heartstring? Fifteen-and-a-half-inches, unyielding."

Another failure followed the previous ones. Soon Tom had tried more than thirty wands, feeling stupid.

"Oh, I've really tricky customers today," Ollivander said excitedly, obviously enjoying in the situation. "The girl who had just left also tried a lot of wands and ended up with one of the very dangerous wands… Fine wand it is, but bends to the Dark Arts way too easily for my liking. My father had designed it," Ollivander chattered, rummaging through the boxes.

Tom frowned, rubbing his temples as Ollivander straightened his back, fixing Tom with a weird look. The man's face gained what looked like a fanatical gleam and suddenly he looked transported. "Speaking about powerful wands…" Ollivander muttered, disappearing from the room with a lightning speed.

Quickly had the man returned, carrying one grey box. He had pulled the long, light wand from the box carefully, as if the thing was easily breakable. "Would this wand finally accept someone, I wonder?" Ollivander muttered, approaching Tom. "Yew. Thirteen-and-a-half-inches, reasonably springy. Its core is a feather that belonged to a particularly nice Phoenix. A majestic bird and an extremely powerful wand. Try it," Ollivander said in a ceremonious voice, as if he was holding a very important speech, offering the wand to Tom.

Tom had lazily reached out to pick the wand… Scarcely had he grasped the cool ivory handle when a thick beam of silver and green light burst out from the tip, causing Ollivander to swiftly jump out of its way. Tom observed the wand in awe. Why he had no need to swish it like the other ones?

"Brilliant, simply brilliant," Ollivander muttered, clapping. He looked genuinely awestruck, inflating Tom's ego. "It took years for this wand to find its true master."

Tom looked up at Ollivander's creepy light eyes. What he was talking about? Tom glanced at the wand, the presence of which gave him a strange feeling, as if he and that wand were the same thing, as if they have both chosen each other.

"The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around," Ollivander stated as if he had again managed to read Tom's thoughts, smiling slightly.

Tom grinned as a wave of wild happiness washed over him, looking at the wand, gripping it firmly. His, finally.