RP: Voldemort, Moody. Cass Who: Lord Voldemort, Madeye Moody, Cass Vaisey Where: Leistung's (Wandmaker in Germany) When: January 15, 2025, night Rating/Warnings: Character death, NPC death, horcrux creation - just another day in the life of Voldie Summary: Voldemort gets a new wand.
The information from the retired (and very recently deceased) wandlore expert was most helpful, and it changed everything. Now he knew that not only was the Golden Cage not a result of the Elder Wand but that Potter wasn't even using the Elder Wand at the time. The boy had given away his one last protection against Lord Voldemort.
He had spent most of the day making his way from the isolated mountains of Romania (where the expert's body now lain slain) to the wand shop in the heart of Wizarding Germany. Everything he had read and found pointed to this wandmaker as the best in the world. It was a shame Ollivander was dead. He so very would have liked to repay the traitor.
Voldemort had waited until the shop had closed before forcing the door open and sealing it behind him. He stared into the face of the renowned wandmaker.
"You're all alike," he sneered. "All of you wandmakers are weak-willed."
As the wand selection process waned on, he grew increasingly impatient and paranoid. He had to take a round-about-way from Romania to bypass the increased security. And he was sure the Germanic Ministry was keeping an eye on Leistung. No doubt Dumbledore's hand. The old arse just had to meddle in everything.
He heard faint hissing sounds as a box wrapped in black was removed from the shelf. Voldemort swore there was a parseltongue whisper coming from the box and that it called out for him.
"14.5 inches, Cypress, with a basilisk fang core," the wandmaker's thoughts traveled to Voldemort's mind. "It is said to have been made by my ancestor many years ago and that no one has ever been able to master it."
The Dark Lord's eyes went red and wide as the wand was lifted from the box. He wrapped his long, bony fingers around its shaft as black fame seeped from the wand tip and the hissing intensified. Voldemort moved his arm in erratic movements. The wand did not want to be tamed. It did not want to cede. By the time the contest of wills ended, half the shelves had been reduced to coarse dust. The wand had waited all of these years for its true master.
Voldemort basked in the wand's glory, wearing a smile of exultation and triumph. "And now, to give you your payment. You should be honored Leistung. Only three others have shared this honor."
Cocooned in utter darkness from which no light or sound could escape, he withdrew the phoenix-core wand from his robes. This would be a fitting end for such a good wand. In a fluid motion, he cast the killing curse on the wandmaker before turning the new wand on his own chest. He seethed the incantation - Contanima - and endured the ensuing torment.
As the darkness lifted, Voldemort climbed to his feet. Turning he saw the arrival of two aurors, wearing the robes he knew too well.
"Albus' cronies," he scoffed hurtling fiendy fire at the men. "If you and your ilk didn't die so easily, I might get some satisfaction out of this."