HP: Monochrome

The stone archway behind the Leaky Cauldron may have been the beginning of his venture into the magical world, but it was here at Ollivanders that his journey had truly begun. Harry could vividly remember the ever-growing amount of unsuitable wands on the spindly chair, while a gleeful Mr. Ollivander kept looking around for the best fit, muttering about tricky customers. He remembered feeling a sudden warmth as soon as he held his trusted holly wand for the first time. In its own way, the bright gold and red sparks had made magic seem more real than all of Diagon Alley and its amazing sights.

Now, his wand was dead. Gone, feeling no different from a regular stick of wood.

And he had come full circle. Right back to the place where it all began.

"Don't worry," he heard Sirius whisper, his godfather's fingers comfortably gripping his left shoulder. Harry would be lying if he said the gesture didn't make him feel at least a tad more reassured.

For two long seconds.

"But what if it goes wrong again?"

"You know what they say. Second time's the charm."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on," his godfather tried, "people lose wands all the time. Every witch or wizard has lost their wand at some point, whether it's from a potion explosion or a spell gone wrong. Back in my day, hit-wizards always had a spare wand holstered to them, in case something went wrong."

"Yeah, and how many of those just upped and died?"

For once, Sirius looked tongue-tied.

"Look," his godfather tried again, "it was an unexplainable act of magic. A fluke. Exceptions don't prove the rules, Harry. They exist despite them."

It was a good argument, save for one single fact.

His life was one giant exception.

"Now come on, there's no point dawdling outside. Let's get your new wand."

Harry gave a passing glance to the single wand that lay on the purple cushion, in the dusty window they strode past. The sound of a tinkling bell immediately welcomed them. The towering columns of wand boxes reinforced the feeling of being in an old and dusty library-esque setting— though now that he noticed it, the boxes were of varying sizes, and the towering structures were asymmetrical at best and outright impossible at worst.

Magic seemed the likely culprit.

"Good afternoon," a calm, serene voice surprised him. Harry turned towards his right, just in time to see a familiar old man walking to the counter. His eyes shone in the darkness of the shop, and for the first time, Harry noticed the flecks of silver in what were otherwise deep golden-brown orbs.

But that wasn't the strangest part.

There was a wild sheen to the flecks, a semi-metallic refraction of sorts. He would've called it a trick of the light, if there was any light in that corner in the first place. The flecks synchronously faded for a moment, and then reappeared once more.

Inhuman.

Harry blinked, resisting the urge to stagger back as he wondered how he'd come up with that deduction of all things. Sure, something about the strange, chatty, nigh-omniscient wandmaker had always seemed more magical than everything else. But never before— not even back then, during the Wand-Weighing Ceremony —had he ever entertained such a fantastical idea.

And yet, some strange instinct told him he wasn't completely off the mark.

He glanced at the window, towards the sign board.

Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

"You're just seeing phantoms, Potter," he muttered to himself.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you so soon again, Mr. Potter." The wandmaker moved in closer, his unblinking eyes never leaving his face, as if the man was carefully studying each of his facial features. "But I have heard the news. Felt the changes. A very sad thing it is, to have one's dear wand perish in front of their own eyes."

Harry stared at him blankly.

Ollivander stared back, his eyes unblinking.

Why doesn't he blink?

Sirius cleared his throat.

"Ah, Sirius Black. Blackthorn, dragon heartstring, thirteen and a half inches. Reasonably springy."

"Right as always."

"Uh, Mr. Ollivander, about my wand…" Harry tried. "What do you think caused it?"

The man gave him a searching look. "I haven't the foggiest idea, Mr. Potter. But perhaps it was for the best. You are no longer the innocent, starry-eyed child who walked in here with Hagrid to meet your first wand. No, you have grown and changed. You have learned, loved, lost. You have known success and failure, regret and betrayal. And…" the man trailed, looming over him, mere inches away from his face, "you shall yet perish or master Death."

Harry gulped, and Ollivander took the moment to glance sharply towards Sirius. "I dare say another phoenix wand will not suit him any longer."

Harry froze at that. A phoenix wand wouldn't suit him any longer? Why? The wand chooses the wizard, Ollivander had said. The holly and phoenix wand had chosen him, a very curious thing, according to the man, since its—

Harry froze.

Since it's brother gave me my scar.

Tom Riddle from the Diary had commented on the strange likenesses between them. Half-bloods, orphans, raised by muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since Salazar Slytherin himself. Even Dumbledore had agreed, saying that Voldemort transferred some of his own powers into him the night he gave him the scar.

Did something— happen in the cemetery that caused this? That unexplainable magic—was that the culprit?

"Why is that?" Harry asked softly. Something told him he wouldn't like the answer.

Ollivander met his gaze. "Phoenixes are part of the world's cycle, Mr. Potter. Creation, Metamorphosis and eventual destruction. And then from the ashes, the cycle begins anew. They show the most initiative, and are the pickiest of the lot, ending up in the hands of bearers that are, more often than not, heralds of change."

"But Harry had a phoenix wand before this," Sirius objected.

"He did, but it is no more. I admit I'm curious as to what form his wand will take. A form of magic that can extinguish the eternal flames of a phoenix and yet be channelled through another magical instrument… this is an unprecedented case, even for me."

Harry was beginning to panic now. Voldemort was back, and the freaking Ministry was treating him like a ticking bomb, while digging their heads into the sand and singing La-la. His dear old wand had died on him and now this demented non-blinking wandmaker was saying what?

"Mr. Ollivander," He tried, "I think I heard you wrong. Surely you have some wand in there that'll work for me?"

"I remember every wand I've ever crafted, Mr. Potter. None of my creations will suit you well. I shall have to create a new wand for you, based on your… shall we say, unique magical constitution."

"What's so unprecedented about it?" Sirius asked, curious. "Every wand you keep was made at some point. Wasn't it?"

Ollivander gave him a mysterious smile. "The mysteries of wandlore are intricate, Mr. Black. Like every Ollivander before me, I have crafted all the wands I will ever sell during the first seven years of my studies in our Family Magic. We believe that Mother Magic will make us craft all possible wands that we will ever sell in our lifetime. And behold, never has it happened that a customer has left my shop without a suitable wand."

Harry narrowed his eyes. He had always been rather intimidated by the casual way the eerie wandmaker could instantly tell the attributes of a person's wand by a casual look. It was like he remembered people not by their names and achievements, but by the wands they held. At the same time, the information was in absolutes, never wavering, and pasted in the man's impossibly perfect memory.

Was this because of this Family Magic?

"I forgot that Ollivander is a Noble Family like yours." Sirius muttered.

"Few remember," said the wandmaker, "and with due reason. My family has, after all, never been one for Wizengamot politics. But let us not digress. We have a wand to make."

He pulled a familiar tape measure with silver markings on it. "Now, let's get started, shall we?"

After an elaborate measurement session, with the man making notes, he came up to Harry, a vial in hand.

"This is the part you cannot see, Mr. Potter. A wand's birth is a closely guarded secret for every wandmaker. I will require three drops of your blood, willingly given."

Absolute terror flashed across Harry's face, his mind fighting down memories of the last time someone had taken his blood for the ritual. He closed his eyes and schooled his features,and by the time he had opened them,his face was a mask of ironclad control.

"...Blood?"

"Why yes. A wand this personalised would only work with the wielder's blood tied to it. It strengthens the bond between the two. You of all people must realise the importance of that."

But Harry wasn't listening. He was mentally reliving the memory of Pettigrew raking through his flesh and forcibly drawing blood. And now, Ollivander was asking him for the same thing, only this time, he had to freely offer it to craft his own wand. Two situations, very similar, and yet, so drastically different.

Had this been the previous Harry Potter, he'd have kept his thoughts to himself. But as Harry had found out, his mouth had decidedly had enough of his brain's miser attitude when it came to thoughts.

"I've got a problem with that, Mr. Ollivander," he said, "I'm not sure if you've heard, but Voldemort is back."

There was no sudden flinching, no looks of fear or even worse, scepticism. Instead, the old man merely tilted his head to one side.

"So I've heard."

Huh! Well, that was a first.

"He was resurrected, from a ugly snake baby to an ugly snake man, using my blood. Peter Pettigrew took it out of me, forcibly."

The old wandmaker's eyes flashed. "Did he now?"

Nod.

The man adjusted his glasses. "I see… Yes, your fears are not unwarranted. If the Dark Lord is tied to you by blood, and so is your wand, you're afraid it might result in a connection between the two of you, not unlike that scar."

Almost instinctively, Harry touched the scar,dragging his fingers across the lighting-shaped aberration on his face. Truth be told, it looked less and less like a curse scar, and more like an old, half-faded wound these days. When Voldemort had touched it, the scar had almost split his head apart in agony, but now, it was but a memory. There was no pain, no sensation— just plain nothing.

Almost like an ordinary scar.

"However, you do not need to fear that, Mr. Potter. It is true that blood, especially magical blood, is a very potent ingredient in rituals, but the manner of extraction supersedes everything else. Unicorn blood, for instance, when willingly given, can heal a person from the grievest of injuries, while when forcibly taken, can afflict a curse far more diabolical than the darkest of curses. Wizard blood is no different."

That mollified him a bit.

"I require three drops of your blood, willingly given. Any hesitation would interfere with the ritual, in which case, I'd rather not attempt to craft such a wand."

"Harry?" Sirius asked, glancing at him. "Everything alright?"

Harry gave him his practised fake smile. The nifty little thing allowed him to get past Hermione's questioning more than once in the past.

"I'm fine, really."

Apparently, it didn't fool Sirius one bit.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath again. When he opened them, he had made up his mind.

"Take it," he said, extending his right arm out, "I offer my blood for this wand. Freely."

That brought a smile to the old wandmaker's face. "That's the spirit, my boy. The next step is something I cannot show you. Unfortunately, wandcrafting is an intricate and time consuming art. If you have some business around, I suggest you come back to me after you're done."

Harry and Sirius looked at each other. "We'll do that."

Harry was not unused to shopping. In fact, Petunia often delegated the grocery purchase and other menial jobs to him in the name of 'character development'. Even after joining Hogwarts, he had been to Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione. But this…

This… whatever Sirius had just done— Harry didn't want to call it shopping. For someone like him who had literally grown up living on scraps, it was a culture shock to see Sirius embodying the ideal of 'prodigal son' to a tee. Whatever caught Harry's attention, Sirius bought it. If Harry so much as looked at something twice, he bought it. Hell, there was stuff that he'd never need in his entire life, but just a random question out of morbid curiosity and it was now his.

If this was how Lucius Malfoy raised Draco, Harry could almost sympathise with how the fellow turned out. No wonder he thought his father could solve everything.

And now, it was his turn.

After a spending spree that lasted over four hours, Harry and Sirius left the alley, with Sirius's wallet feeling a lot lighter. Apparently the House of Black was an Ancient family, like the Malfoys— older, if he understood correctly —and with that came old money.

Enough to make his very significant vault look like pocket change.

"How much did all of this cost you?" He asked, while sipping butterbeer at the Leaky Cauldron. Tom the barman had given them a table close to the walls, and Sirius had cast a notice-me-not charm around them, just to avoid interlopers.

"Four hundred and seventy galleons and change," Sirius said, "but why do you ask?"

"Just wondering…" Harry mumbled. Frowning, he looked at the pouch he had tied to his belt. It had a powerful undetectable extension charm on it, allowing it to hold enough stuff that could fill an entire room and then some. Given how it weighed practically nothing, there was some kind of anti-weight charm on it too.

Magic was useful like that.

Still, four hundred and seventy galleons. It was a large sum of money, doubly so when spent on frivolities, but he had enough in his vault to pay for that. It probably said something that his Gringotts vault was his one solace in this world.

"So I have this home. A big, dull, grey home in London." Sirius began.

"Where I'd be living?" Harry's heart skipped a beat.

"Yeah. Well, living and then some."

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I mean, I can clean and cook the meals, but you'll have to give me some time to get used to London if you want me doing groceries and—"

He paused, seeing the blank look on his godfather's face.

"What?"

"Clean and do meals?" Sirius all but exploded. "You're my godson, Harry, not a bloody elf!"

"Don't let Hermione hear you say that," he warned, instinctively looking around for his bushy-haired friend. He didn't understand why Sirius reacted like that. He'd worked for the Dursleys his entire life, and even made his own bed and kept things in order at Hogwarts. Thanks to the school elves, he never had to deal with cooking or laundry, but that was because his parents paid all his tuition in advance.

Or something like that. Hagrid hadn't exactly been clear about it, just that his name had been registered at Hogwarts after his birth.

But what about muggleborns like Hermione? Surely her parents would have to agree to send her to the school and such. And living arrangements for an entire year in a distant school in Scotland plus Hermione's personal expenses and books wasn't exactly cheap.

Come to think of it, he'd never really bothered asking about such expenses.

Probably because Uncle Vernon never liked to discuss the subject of money during meals and the habit just stuck. Not that he had any meals with them in the first place. And the grumpy, bloated whale of a man constantly made it a point to remind him how much of a burden he was on their finances.

Some things, he just never discussed. Not even with his best friends.

"Hey Sirius," he found himself asking, "how much is Hogwarts's tuition?"

"Huh?

"How much is Hogwarts's tuition?"

"One hundred and thirty three galleons per year, so that makes it roughly around…"

"Nine hundred and thirty one galleons," Harry calculated in his head. "That's a lot."

"Not really," Sirius replied, shrugging. "My father once showed me the amount of money Hogwarts spends on a single student, and the annual tuition doesn't cover even half of it."

"Then... why?" Harry asked. It made no sense for Hogwarts to spend more than they earned. Unless… An errant thought popped into his head.

"The Board of Governors pays for it?"

Sirius chuckled. "Nope."

"The Ministry of Magic?"

Sirius shook his head.

Harry arched an eyebrow. He was running out of options.

"The Wizengamot?"

"I was wondering when you'd say that," Sirius smiled. "But no. The Board of Governors make substantial donations, but it's actually Hogwarts that provides for most of it."

Harry blinked. "Alright, you've lost me," he admitted.

"Not a fan of History of Magic, are we?"

"Have you seen Binns?"

The dog animagus chuckled. "Point taken. But seriously—"

Harry rolled his eyes at the obvious pun.

"—That subject gets loads more interesting in your OWL year and above."

"Sure," he replied, with all the sincerity that statement deserved.

Sirius grinned knowingly at him. "Tell me, Harry. Do you know who the most paid professor at Hogwarts is?"

"Umm… Professor Dumbledore?"

"Nope. Pomona Sprout. Double the Headmaster's salary, actually."

"Huh? Why?"

"Put that thing between your ears to use and tell me."

Harry did. And there was only one answer that seemed remotely plausible. "The greenhouses?"

His godfather beamed. "Exactly. Hogwarts boasts one of the largest greenhouse plantations in all of Magical Europe, not to mention it's also the largest supplier of mandragora, shrivel figs, and bubotuber. In fact, Hogwarts has a freeholding licence in the ICW as a business enterprise."

"This is all going over my head."

The Black scion laughed. "It means the ICW registers Hogwarts as a business."

"Not as a school?"

"Nope."

"But—"

"Have you ever wondered why you have four Herbology sessions every week, Harry? That's more than Transfiguration and DADA, right?"

Harry opened his mouth but then quietly shut it.

"It's 'cause Pomona Sprout uses the students' aid to keep the greenhouses fully running. And it's not just that. Every single thing at Hogwarts— from the contract with the mermen in the Black Lake to the centaur herd in the forest —all of that exists for a reason, and it's not always just magic and camaraderie."

"Okay, that all sounds very interesting, and I promise to look up 'camaraderie' in the dictionary later. But what's that got to do with less tuition?"

"Simple," Sirius smiled. "When you're a student, you work for Hogwarts as an apprentice. Standard contracts. Back in the early days, apprentices did all the housework for their masters. People like you and me, who have their tuition paid for by wealthy parents, aren't really expected to do anything, which is why most purebloods drop Herbology right after OWLs. For muggleborns, it stays on as a compulsory subject with extra work."

Harry suddenly became very conscious of the money pouch in his pocket, the one that held a thousand galleons of prize money. The Minister had declared him as the Winner by default, since both Krum and Delacour had been incapacitated and Cedric was well… dead.

Frankly, Harry had a sneaking suspicion that the money was just another arrow in the Minister's quiver to paint him as Cedric's murderer.

Which he wasn't. Unexplainable magic be damned.

Still. He had known he was loaded, especially with the recent information about the Order of Merlin business. Just three galleons had been enough to purchase the entire contents of the trolley cart back in his first year. In all his time in the Wizarding World, he'd come to spend roughly sixty galleons and change.

Compared to that, a thousand galleons was more money than he knew what to do with.

"Some other time," Harry muttered under his breath, shaking his head. All this talk about finances was making his mind foggy. Why didn't Hogwarts ever teach anything about it, like a class or something? Maybe he'd ask Sirius later.

Ask Sirius.

The very thought felt nice, in a strange way. Was this what it felt like to have a parent? To be able to go to someone and ask them when he didn't know something. To ask for food when he was hungry without ducking frying pains aimed at his head?

"—Harry."

His godfather's words jolted him out of his thoughts. "Uh, sorry, I was just—"

"Nonsense," Sirius waved it away. "Anyway, why are you wondering about all this now?"

"Uhm, well, I do have to pay you back and—"

The words died in his throat as Sirius gripped his shoulder.

Tightly.

"Harry," the man replied, his tone as serious as he'd ever seen, "I'm not Petunia Dursley, I'm your godfather. That means I stand in place of your parents to take care of you, to give you a home to call your own, to protect you from all the harm that comes your way. If I hadn't been so stupid back then, you'd have grown up with me, as your mum and dad would've wanted."

His voice broke a little.

"But what's past is past, let's focus on the present. My house is your house, and you have as much right to it as I do. Never forget, you're Harry James Potter, heir of House Potter and if I have any say in it, a son of House Black. More than that, if I have my way."

"What do you mean?"

"Later," Sirius glibly replied, finishing off the last of his butterbeer and getting up from his chair. "It's getting late. Let's get moving. We still have to get your wand before we get to your new home."

After his sentimental words, Harry couldn't find it in his heart to deny his godfather. No matter how much he was gripped with fear inside. Softly, his lips twitched.

"Okay."

"Oh don't be like that," Sirius admonished. "For all you know, it's gonna be another holly wand."

"Ash and thunderbird feather. Eleven inches. Very good for charms," said Ollivander, offering it to Harry who held it gingerly. The wand had a grainy white texture, with a length similar to his original one. Harry held it, feeling nothing but a tiny flicker of something flow through the wand.

Come on, give it a wave."

Blinking, he flicked it towards the table.

And nothing happened. Ollivander snatched it away almost at once.

"Try this. Mahogany and rougarou hair. Twelve inches. Quite whippy. Try—"

Harry did try, but he hardly raised the wand, when it too, was snatched back by Ollivander.

"No, no, that wouldn't do. Even with the blood, this is an outrage. Here, try this—Ebony, basilisk horn. Ten inches. Very unyielding."

Harry held the wand and paused, feeling something for once. An energy, dark and foreboding, challenging almost. He was quite sure it was going to react, when Ollivander snatched it off his fingers, looking exceedingly excited.

"I had thought that one would work, given your previous experiences, but… let's see," he pulled out another box, andpaused, giving him a searching look. Finally, he held it up for him.

"Try this."

The wood inside was a deep, rich caramel, almost like liquid fire. Length-wise, it seemed closer to the holly wand, and seemed to taper slightly towards the tip, giving it a dagger-like appearance.

Harry pulled it out. Unlike his holly wand, there was no sudden warmth, no tingling sensation at feeling the wand with his fingers. There was none of that bone-deep excitement, or the raw, bubbling, infectious energy, kind of like a quidditch match.

Instead it was cold. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck rose up stiffly and… maybe he was wrong, and it was just a trick of the light, but the store got darker. No, the lights didn't go out, just everything became… darker. There was this low, trembling sensation that seemed to make his eyeballs jiggle a little, and the shadows simply expanded up out of the corners and dim areas of the wand store, bringing a nasty, greasy coldness with them.

This wasn't excitement, this was hunger. A cold, empty, voracious hunger. It was power wholly different from the burning flame of life and magic the holly wand boasted. This power belonged to the empty void between the stars, silently waiting for them to grow cold and burn out.

And it was strong.

"As expected," Ollivander muttered in a dark whisper, "this wand has suited you perfectly."

"What…" Sirius croaked, "... was that?"

Harry looked up, first at Sirius, and then at the wandmaker. He knew the power thrumming within the wand, and he knew that his soul sang to it, in that dark, haunted tone that had no right to exist. He didn't quite understand it, but he knew that the power was just as great, if not greater than the wand he had called his own.

"That," said Ollivander, "was the wand bonding with its wielder. Given that interaction, I can only imagine the bond between it and its wielder."

"What… is it made of?" Harry asked.

"Yew, extracted from the heartwood of a five-hundred year-old tree. Eleven and a third inches, nice and flexible. A rather rare wand wood if I may say so, and its ideal matches are likewise unusual, and occasionally notorious." The man's eyes flashed towards Harry's scar. "Incidentally, the wizard that gave you that scar also uses a wand of yew."

Harry didn't know what to think of that.

"Very notorious, a yew wand is reputed to endow its possessor with the power of life and death, and is more likely to be attuned to curses and the Dark Arts than any other wood."

Harry's eyes twitched. "You're saying this wand suits a dark wizard."

"Define dark wizard, Mr. Potter," the wandmaker challenged. "If you refer to a caster of the Dark Arts, then yes, this wand will fit very well in the hands of a dark witch or wizard. But it doesn't have to mean evil, since the wielder might equally prove to be a fierce protector of others, using the darkest of magics to slay the darkest of men."

Harry had never quite thought about it that way.

"But it'll be best suited for the dark arts."

"Outrageously, I might say."

He could only wonder about Ron's expression from that. The redhead would probably stop listening at 'dark arts'.

"And the core?" Sirius asked.

"Thestral hair," said Ollivander, "Very tricky, very unstable. Unyielding to the very end. And yet, it seems to react naturally to your blood, Mr. Potter."

Harry had read about thestrals in the Care of Magical Creatures textbook, but he had never seen one. They looked like large, skinny, black horses with scaly wings and draconian features. Most importantly, the only ones that could see thestrals were those that had seen death before their very own eyes. Hogwarts was supposed to contain a thestral herd, but he had never quite seen any of them before.

Maybe now that I've seen Cedric die….

The thought perished in his head, as the wandmaker began to speak again.

"I admit I cannot be sure of the effects of thestral hair core on your wand, Mr. Potter. Thestrals are the anomalies of the magical world— a creature that can only be seen through the eyes of one that has seen death. They are rule-breakers, an exception to the law. They alter the rules, sometimes even writing their own. This wand will be no different."

Ollivander's eyes met Harry's.

Inhuman met anomaly.

"That wand in your hand has the potential to be extremely powerful, so take heed of this last bit of advice, Mr. Potter. The wand chooses the witch or wizard, and both learn from each other. Your wand will learn many things from you… many things indeed. Be sure to know fully what it is it has learned so well. The information may save your life one day."

Harry stared, eyes wide at the man's enigmatic words. He had come to purchase a new wand and had gotten… this. Had this happened last year, he'd have rejected it. He'd have called it a dark thing and be repulsed by its very nature.

But that Harry Potter was gone. The Harry Potter that stood in the wand shop had faced the Dark Lord. Inside a graveyard, surrounded by Death Eaters. Trying to survive a mockery of a battle.

Regardless of wishes. Ignorant of miracles.

The current Harry Potter was also the kind that had felt within him, the power and the desire to cast the killing curse. His soul sang to Death, and Death in turn, sang to him. Somewhere in that darkness and shadows, Harry found his indomitable spirit.

His courage. His power.

One cannot stain the shadows.

Ollivander had admitted that it was a very powerful wand. An anomaly to the rules of the world, much like himself. He wielded a power that extinguished the flames of a phoenix. Was it not natural to wield a wand that drank power out of an area, making it less?

He had felt that power. The darkness calling to the yew wood, the tree of death. The power thrumming in the thestral hair core, a creature seen through the eyes of Death. Bonded by his blood. This power— it came for a price. But that was fine. For what was light without darkness? How could you know sweetness without tasting bitterness? As if sensing his emotions, the wand let out a soft, misty, black fumes out of it.

"So?" Sirius prodded. "What do you think?"

"What do I think?" Harry said, a thin smile forming on his face. "I think I like it."