It had been a dark night, one so black that the hooded figures that broke into the shop were perfectly shielded from any eyes that may have been watching, not that anyone would have had the nerve to intervene. Diagon Alley had always been the most sceptical about the rumours of Lord Voldemort’s return; business owners are always reticent to accept that the good times had come to an end after 15 years of peace. The target of the attackers on the other hand had been expecting them; he had been around too long not to notice the signs of the impending darkness, but what could an old man do against the might of the Death Eaters?
The attack went exactly as planned. They apparated into the middle of the street and immediately focussed on their objective. The door of the old, dingy shop was instantly reduced to splinters and moments later the little flat above the shop, which had been full of trinkets and memories only moments before was full of flashes of red light, then reduced to rubble. Crashing through the remains of the building came the Death Eaters, hooded and masked. They were not expecting resistance from the Order, much less from their target so all four of them were very relaxed, able to cause as much mayhem and destruction as they liked. When they finally arrived at the bedroom they found the old man sat up in his bed waiting for them. At first glance he seemed quite unperturbed but his eyes told a different story. They were watery, tense with fright and worry but when he spoke, his voice was unwavering and unbroken.
“You could have knocked,” he said simply.
The lead Death Eater strode towards the bed. “Quiet blood-traitor!” she exclaimed before sweeping his wand towards the old man, whose head snapped back into the bed post knocking him unconscious. The assailant, after checking that the old man was still alive and content that she and her companions had made a sufficient wreck of the building around him, nodded towards the tallest man in the group who moved towards the windows that looked out onto Diagon Alley. The sky outside was still black, and there was no movement on the streets. In the building opposite, a light flickered on and the curtain of an old battered window quivered.
“Reducto!” shouted the Death Eater. The tip of his wand let forth a burst of red light which shot towards the building opposite, smashing glass and breaking brick apart. Satisfied, he then shouted “Morsmordre!” releasing the Dark Mark into the night sky. He then joined the other Death Eaters who were gathered in a semi-circle around the bed, each with a hand on the old man. The leader nodded her head, and with an almighty crack they disappeared, leaving the ruined building behind.
When they reappeared it was before a great manor house, fronted by great wrought-iron fence. The building was vast, with four large square towers, an imposing stone edifice with gargoyles staring menacingly from the battlements and large grounds that were still shrouded in darkness. The windows were several metres high on each floor, though the windows and curtains were firmly closed shut. The gravel path between the gates and the great front door was flanked by tall, neatly cut hedgerows which were briefly illuminated as the moon peeped out from behind the thick grey clouds. The Death Eaters cast a spell on their captive so he floated prone in front of them as they approached the gates. These gates were enchanted so that they would admit anyone carrying the Dark Mark on their arms, but as they had a prisoner, they needed to call the house. The Death Eater at the lead of the group swept off her mask and hood and pressed her wand against the bars of the iron gates.
“‘Cissy, we’re back,” Bellatrix Lestrange crooned, her voice characteristically sing-song; her hair straggled across her heavily lined eyes.
The central bars of the gate spun very quickly and formed themselves into the visage of Narcissa Malfoy. “Have you got him?”
“Old man nearly wet himself when we knocked his door down,” Bellatrix cackled.
At those words the immense gates dissolved admitting the raiding party. Bellatrix led the way, striding ahead of her companions, her black robes dragging across the gravel. She brushed the more unruly hairs away from her face, smudging the thick eyeliner that she had slapped on earlier that night. By the time she had reached the door, the rest of the party was far behind. She looked behind impatiently for the rest to catch up, shook her head and waved her wand towards the captive who shot forwards towards her, finishing bolt-upright by her side. Though she had already announced her presence, the front doors remained resolutely unopened and there was no door knocker in sight. Turning to the still-unconscious man, she pointed her wand at him and the swung it at the door forcing his head into the thick oak producing a crack that snapped through the night sky, causing all of the men below to jump with surprise.
“What are you doing you mad woman, the Dark Lord needs his mind!” one of the Death Eaters cried out, rushing to join Bellatrix on the porch.
“He’ll be alright, it’s only a bang on the head, and I wanted to get in” she said, as if addressing a small child twisting her head so that she was face-to-face with the masked Death Eater. He did not press the point, partly due to the fear that Lord Voldemort’s lieutenant inspired, but also because at that moment the doors swung open revealing a tiny house-elf. The elf was dressed in what looked like the remains of an old set of brown curtains, her arm broken and in a sling. She quivered and shook at the sight of Bellatrix Lestrange and when she spoke, her voice was hoarse and broken.
“Mistress will see you in the master drawing room Madam Lestrange.”
Bellatrix looked disdainfully at the pitiful creature at her feet and swept past her, her wake knocking the house elf to the floor. The elf, landing on her broken arm cried out in pain but none of the Death Eaters paid the slightest attention to her, as they strode through the house with their captive, parallel to the floor again between the main group and Bellatrix ahead. The corridor was long and narrow, decorated in the emerald green of Slytherin house. The light came from great brass chandeliers, twisted into the shape of four serpects with light emanating from their fangs. The floor was of the same oak as the front door and their footsteps echoed loudly through the corridor. Quite sharply the party turned right though a set of glass double doors into the drawing room.
The master drawing room of Malfoy Manor was a magnificent room, covered with portraits of Malfoys from ages past. Above the room hung a vast chandelier, crystal and ornate carrying hundreds of dimly lit candles. The centre of the room was bare apart from a huge rug in the shape of a pouncing serpent, its fangs bared at the entrance to the room. At the rear of the room was a great gilded fireplace burned the embers of the evening’s fire and above it hung a sombre portrait of the three Malfoys: Lucius, Narcissa and Draco. They were dressed all in black, Lucius sat in a great chair in the centre of the painting, flanked by his wife and son. Together they stared down at the vast room before them, and the sight of Narcissa Malfoy rising from her armchair to greet the raiding party.
“‘Cissy!” Bellatrix swept across to her sister and clasped her in a warm embrace.
“Is that him?” Narcissa asked, moving away from Bellatrix and towards the old man who was still floating three feet in the air. She stopped at his head, and brushed her hand over his temple. “What’s this?” She wheeled around to face her sister. “You were supposed to bring him here unharmed.”
“It’s only a bump on the head,” she said using a childish voice that never failed to send a shiver down the spine of everyone around.
“The Dark Lord needs his mind. He needs him for a special task, the most important task that we have. He still hasn’t forgiven you for your failure in the Department...”
“Don’t talk to me about that place!” Bellatrix interrupted, coming face-to-face with her sister. “It was your husband that led us to disaster there, your husband that let that Potter boy and his little friends escape. I killed my cousin, the blood traitor that he was, that day. That was the first step towards my redemption. This, this is the final step and if he happened to get a little bang on his head, it doesn’t matter because he is the key to our victory, and I delivered him.”
“How dare you talk about my husband that way!” Narcissa’s normally pale demeanour turned pink with fury as she stared Bellatrix straight in the eyes. Silence enveloped the room as the two women faced each other down. Eventually one of the Death Eaters advanced towards them, pulling off his mask to reveal tall, thick-set balding man with a deep voice.
“So what should we do with the prisoner then? Put him in the cellar as we agreed?”
Narcissa tore her eyes from her sister to stare at Yaxley. “Yes, put him in the cellar. The Dark Lord can interrogate him later.” She turned back to her sister. “You’d better hope you haven’t damaged his mind! The Dark Lord needs him to get him a wand, a wand that will enable him to defeat Harry Potter. A wand that can help him rise to even greater power than he did before. Only this man knows enough about wandlore to help him. This man, Ollivander, holds the key. You had better not have broken him.”
A/N Phew its been a long time for me away from writing fan fiction. I have been planning this story for some time now and its great to be back writing it. This prologue will lead into a series of chapters detailing Ollivander's memories of the various witches and wizards who he sold wands to. Each chapter will start with the overarching narrative of Ollivander's imprisonment but will then go on to deal with a different memory in turn. I hope to have the next chapter finished by the end of the week.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope you like the rest of the story to come. Reviews, positive or negative are always appreciated, its the way we authors learn and improve.
Write a Review It's the Wand that Chooses the Wizard: Prologue