Chapter 1
“Are you a devil?"
"I am a man," answered Father Brown gravely; "and therefore have all devils in my heart.”
― Chesterton, G. K. (Gilbert Keith)
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Wandmaking, although not glamorous, glorious, or particularly lucrative, is a necessary sector of the wizarding world. It provides an imperative service that every single witch and wizard will utilize at least once in their lives. Receiving their first and often only wand is a momentous occasion for every child- it is the key that grants them access and participation in society.
The wand chooses the wizard, and then burrows itself into the fabric of their life until they can no longer function without it. It’s a conduit, a funnel, an aid, we are taught by our elders from the first moment we sit in the classroom. We trust our professors because we are told to by our parents, so we never question this fundamental fact. A wizard is nothing without his wand.
Most wizards, anyways.
It is not the concept of wands that I so despise, but the current design and application. It is an unnecessary step, a learning device that becomes a crutch and limits potential, a nasty habit that is exceedingly difficult to overcome. You grow used to the ease. But why settle for something that limits you, instead of redesigning it to push your limits even farther?
Now, I'm no expert at wandless magic. It is difficult. For most it is impossible.
I first felt my magic simmering under my skin when I was four.
I had felt it there, something foreign and unknown but so incredibly enticing for years before arriving at Hogwarts. At first it felt like a small itch that I was unable to reach- a lingering sensation inside of me that was faint but ever present. As the months dragged past this sensation continued to grow until the itch turned to a simmering, and eventually a boil. It wasn’t unpleasant in any way, quite the opposite, but the inability to access it almost drove me mad.
My first (entirely intentional) ‘incident’ as my parents called it was the tender age of five.
My father was a strange man. Always on the outskirts, yearning to be let into the true pureblood society that he felt was being unrightfully denied to him (it was, in a way- we were part of the sacred 28, as pure as the white blooded malfoys and dark-hearted blacks). We weren’t shunned and ignored like those with muddied blood, but we were never truly a part of it. My father went to the main events, the balls, the social calls, the weddings and the political meetings, but he was never brought in to their inner circle- the social calls, the private balls, the more… elicit business deals, the even smaller ring that he was sure existed inside of the already ** highly selective ** elites (a conspiracy theory, and one of the many reasons that he never quite fit in).
The Blacks had stopped in to our deteriorating mansion house to invite our family to a ball. The entire family came- the pinched Walburga Black, with her lips pursed in barely concealed disgust, the stern Orion Black who held himself with the same air of superiority as the rest of the 28, and their two sons, born exactly nine months apart, Alphard and Cygnus Black.
I had always disliked Alphard. He was the opposite of not only me, but everything that purebloods strived to be. Perhaps the dislike was born of jealousy, but at the time I did not think so deeply in the roots of my feelings and opinions. He was loud, brash, funny, and free, and most importantly he was all these things at the same time as being the heir to one of the oldest and purest houses in the world, a position which he clearly held no regard for. A position that I would kill for.
I disliked Cygnus too- he was nothing like his brother and everything like what I wanted to be and far too much like I actually was. A perfect son, the second heir, disciplined and intelligent and worshiped by his parents. Only three of which I also was, which meant he was two steps ahead of me and I so hated being second. But we shared the unfortunate reality of being born second, although at least he was born a man. Neither of us would succeed the throne of our houses, even though both of us were much better fit to.
They stayed for dinner that night. The elves transfigured our (still ridiculously fancy and exceedingly expensive) glassware into copies of the most sought-after and luxurious plates made of horned-serpent tusks and painted with motifs of Thunderbirds with their own blood. They looked impeccable, truly, if not far too gaudy for my tastes, and would have fooled any who weren’t born of wealth, but the Blacks weren’t so easily deceived. We could see it in Walburga and Orion’s faces the moment the food appeared and my father drew attention to the glassware that they knew. They always knew when we tried to fake our way through society. That was another one of the father’s problems- he peacocked too hard. True wealth didn’t need to be announced to others of true wealth, but they recognized their own kind. And we were not their kind, not anymore.
I do not remember how the dinner went; what was spoken of, how many belittling comments the blacks made, how many glares were sent to the young brothers. What I do remember was after, when our guests had departed and the house fell into its eerie silence once again. I snuck back through the halls, past my father’s study and my mother’s drawing room, right back down to the empty kitchens that my parents had likely never stepped foot in, and right to the transfigured plates that sat neatly stacked on the counter. The transfiguration had yet to wear off, and I was admiring the slightly moving artwork circling them. Our elves were talented, that much I could see- the magic itself wasn't particularly difficult, but the beauty of the artwork told that the elf who created it was passionate. My father could transfigure these plates without a second thought- but that thoughtlessness would show in the lack of depth and skill in the artwork.
I had never seen a real Thunderbird before, and I decided then that I was going to. I willed the Thunderbird from the drawing into existence. One moment it was a moving picture on porcelain, and the next the feathered creature was sitting atop a pile of broken plates, staring back at me with as much curiosity as I was staring at it. Whether it was truly sentient- at least as sentient as a natural Thunderbird, that is- i have no idea. But I decided then and there that this Thunderbird would be mine- that I would care for and nurture it.
The elves found me the next morning curled up on the floor on the chest of the Thunderbird. That was the first and only time my parents ever set foot in the kitchens. They were furious, my father’s face as red as the fake blood of this very creature on those transfigured plates that had pierced parts of its flesh when they broke. My mother was disgusted that I was in the kitchens. That I slept on the floor. Angry that I used my magic at such a young age (I had thought they would be proud- such feats of magic so young are almost unheard of. Why weren’t they treating me like a prodigy? Why weren't they proud that their child was clearly powerful?)
My father screamed, my mother stood with discontented scowl on her manicured face (an expression which she otherwise staunchly refused to make, lest it age her faster), and my brother stood by the doorway with barely concealed glee at my mistake. I clutched the feathers of my Thunderbird in my fingers, calming her as she tried to protect me from the wrath of my parents.
They made me kill her.
I remember my brother laughing. He was more similar to Alphard than Cygnus, though in a much less ostentatious way (he would never disobey them), but my parents still worshiped him. Their first child and only male. Of course he was put on a pedestal while I was put on the ground. He would never have done something as terrible as this- but if he had, they would have loved him even more for it. He could do no wrong in their eyes- another reason my father didn’t fit in.
They couldn’t see it, they never could, the things that truly set them apart from the society they wanted so desperately to be in. The rest of the families could see that their favorite son Virrion was nothing like them, that he simply didn’t fit and that he never would, but my parents couldn’t. They believed that he would be their ticket in.
They made me do it with my hands, at the very edge of our property.
Her blood coated my fingertips.
She didn’t turn back into the drawing she was transfigured from, she didn’t disappear. She died as a real, natural, flesh-and-blood creature would. Her body would lay there and rot like one too.
I screamed and cried and my magic boiled under my skin for months to come. No more magic until you attend Hogwarts, Girl. I tried to listen, I did. That’s what a good heir would do, and although I wasn't their heir, I wanted to be, and I knew I had to act like it.
I lasted two months.
Two months of feeling my bones, my blood, my skin fill with unused potential.
I was more careful after that. They still caught me, sometimes, but each time I grew more confident. Most of the time what I was trying to do didn't even work- lighting the fireplace in my room took years- but each success filled me with a sense of power that was intoxicating.
That feeling is dulled with a wand.
Getting my first wand was exciting, of course. It meant that I could finally begin. But that first class at Hogwarts, that first transfiguration class when Professor Dumbledore allowed us our first taste at magic, it left me… wanting. It wasn't what I had imagined, what I had already experienced. The wand felt like an anchor. It felt wrong, and no one around me seemed to feel the same.
I sought him out after my first full day was complete. I waited outside his classroom for an hour, I watched a group of my seniors stream out, laughing and joking and twirling their wands between their fingers like it was second nature. He welcomed me in, offering me tea and sweets, his eyes alight with jovial life. I couldn’t tell at the time, but looking back now I can see clearly that the twinkle was dull in comparison to when he looked at the Gryffindor seniors who had came just before me.
“How can I help you, Miss Valyrian? Are you finding your classes to be adequate?”
Adequate. He asked as though he already knew the answer. Once again, I didn't see this at the time.
“Yes sir, they’re incredible!” It was both a lie and the truth at once. Never disrespect your superiors, never question their judgment, never step too far out of line.
“I just… I was just wondering about the wands, you see.” His twinkle dulled. My head ached.
“It just feels a little bit… unnatural, professor. A little bit dulled when I use it. Is it meant to be like that, professor?” A half-truth. I didn’t care if it was meant to be like that. I cared that it was like that, and I hated it.
“Dulled, you say? How so?”
“It just feels more… natural without one, sir.”
“Did it not make using your magic easier?” I hadn’t thought of that before, but it did. What would have taken weeks, perhaps months of practice for those spells at home had me performing them in the hour.
“I… I suppose so, professor. It was a lot easier. But… it didn't feel the same, sir. It felt… weaker, I guess?”
“Most witches and wizards never perform a drop of magic without a wand, Miss Valyrian. It is quite… astonishing that you have, young as you are. You are very talented, did you know this?" I nodded. I shouldn’t have. People don’t like when you know your worth.
“But magic without a wand is very limited- there’s only so much you can do with it. It may feel right now, intoxicating, even, but this is a trap that will cripple you in life once you reach that ceiling. It has its uses, Valyrian, but wands open, truly open up the world to you.” He paused, looking over those infuriating glasses once more. “Do you… prefer magic without your wand?”
“I… Yes, professor. It’s easier with my wand, but it… it just doesn’t feel as good? Like putting too much water in my lemonade. I don’t like using one.” Stupid. Stupid little girl trusting in the first adult she encountered in an unfamiliar place. Stupid little girl with big eyes, big questions, and a big headache the more she confided in the innocent, trustworthy looking elder in silly robes in front of her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Valyrian, but that won’t be possible. You’re too young to understand now, so you’ll need to trust me, okay? Sometimes what feels good can be the worst thing for you.etter right now will actually be worse for you in the future. You’re used to the feelings you get using magic without a wand, but that will not only limit you progress, but can be incredibly dangerous- a wand is a funnel, a sightline, for your magic. It helps you control and direct it. Without it, your magic has no target, and things can go wrong very fast, do you understand? We have been using wands for hundreds of years for a reason, young Valyrian.”
I believed him. We all have our flaws- I’ve spoken to a degree about my father’s already, but this was one of mine. I was too trusting. My parents were never the role models I was yearning to have in my life, so to have who the world regarded as the greatest wizard in centuries sat across from you telling you his wisdom, well, I give that young girl grace for placing her trust in him.
Unlike my father I recognize and correct my mistakes. That one took three years to correct. I won’t let them go unchecked for so long again.
I won’t let anyone- not my parents, my teachers, my peers, myself, a wand, limit my potential again.