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A young man slowly walked down a dimly lit street.
It was late. Much too late for any muggle to be out wandering about at this time of night. But still, Antares has to be cautious.
Glancing down at his watch-covered wrist, he sighed in exhaustion, the gold dial slowly ticking by with every passing second. He was silent as he walked, clad in black like a shadow. His hair helped to conceal parts of his face, but not enough to make him look unkempt or dangerous. The last thing he needed was to be thought of as some vagabond. Antares kept his left hand folded inside the pocket of his long cashmere trench coat, crumpling and flattening a small note with an address written on it in ink. The original letter the note was once a part of had long since been burnt. Secrecy was of the utmost importance; he knew that. Nonetheless, the risk remained.
His right hand, never idle, had found its way comfortably around his wand, a sleek-looking thing he had acquired the day before he walked through Hogwarts for the first time. It was a joyous occasion for the Kelly heir, he remembered. He'd waited so long; to finally have a wand of his own, to be like his mother. When he stepped into Ollivander's Wand Shop, it was more than a dream come true.
The Kelly family strode through the tightly packed street filled with puttering wizards and witches. The shops that lined the Alley were a sight to see. Signs moved without machines or wires. Children pressed their faces against shop windows, in awe of products just out of reach. The overall hustle and bustle of the people made Antares feel welcome. It was, for lack of a better term, unusual. He never did well with large crowds.
Marissa Anne, the Kelly matriarch, led her bright-eyed son down through the hordes of passersby and to a building on their left. The faded gold lettering of the shop's name engraved itself into the young Kelly's memories.
OLLIVANDER'S. Makers of Fine Wands. Since 382 B.C
The heir-Kelly was exhausted. Antares remembered hearing about this place on the way over from Darwin. Though he couldn't recall the small details, he knew this was a hallmark for every English witch and wizard.
As he pushed open the door to the shop, a bell chimed his entrance. Antares scanned the high walls of the wand shop, lined with thin rectangular boxes- he could only assume they were wands. It was slightly darker than he expected. He could not see the back of the shop, just the fuzzy blur of low light. He strode up to the front desk, eyes flittering at the cluster that took space in and around the shop. In the corner of his vision, he noticed something shift in the dark backdrop.
"Is anyone ther-"
"Ah!"
Antares recoiled at the sudden sound. Flicking his head up toward the desk, he noticed an elderly man standing before him. Where he had popped up from, Antares hadn't a clue. However, this man had an ecstatic look, almost deranged even. Antares could see it in his eyes and smile. This had to be Garrick Ollivander, the wandmaker his mother had told him about.
Ollivander rested his hands on the wooden edge of the desk, peering down at Antares. "Mr. Kelly, I've been wondering when your mother would bring you to me," he greeted the ivory-skinned boy.
Antares looked up to meet the older man's eyes. It seemed odd that he was being expected. Unless Ollivander possessed the gift of foresight, he couldn't have known. Alas, his mother always told him it was dreadfully rude to keep others waiting.
"I guess that would be today, then," Antares quipped.
Ollivander gave a hum in agreement. "Oh yes, although I cannot say I helped her find her first wand. She seemed rather excited when she came to me for her second," the man assured the boy. "But now, it seems that we must find a wand for you, Mr. Kelly."
His eyes crinkled into a squint as if he was trying to solve a puzzle before he raced off to one of the shelves and plucked out a box. As he returned, he opened the long container, revealing a rather rustic-looking wand. "Black walnut, unicorn hair, 13 1/2 inches, reasonably supple."
Antares' gripped the wand in his right hand, where he held it there for a moment, assessing the feeling of it in his hand before flicking it upwards. To his surprise, one of the lights hanging above them shattered, raining almost microscopic glass shards to the ground. He quickly dropped the wand back onto the desk, a quick apology flying from his lips.
"None needed, Mr. Kelly. We'll simply have to try again."
Without another word, he was off to another part of the store. It took more than a few tries before Ollivander finally returned with a different coloured box. A heavy layer of dust coated the lid, signifying its long disuse. "I should have realized it before, but if you are anything like your mother, then I would believe that we have found a match," he surmised. "Silver lime wood, dragon heartstring, 12 3/4 inches with unbending flexibility."
At first, there wasn't anything that indicated that this was the perfect wand for Antares. There was no immediate rush of warmth, nor was there any show of magic that claimed it so. Still, he gave the wand a quick swish. That was when he felt it: the rush. A silvery light exuded from the end of the pale wand, swirling up to the ceiling and slowly fading away into nothing. It felt powerful. It felt right. It was enough to bring a smile to Antares' face.
"Just as I thought!" Ollivander began with his hearty smile. "No doubt you carry more than just the Kelly name, dear boy."
Antares blinked up at him once more.
Antares blinked again. It had been a long time ago when he bought this wand, and it has yet to fail him. He didn't see a reason that it should. Could you imagine? If trouble were to arise in the next few seconds and his wand decided to throw a temper tantrum?
Making his way under a flickering street lamp, Antares paused. During his walk, he counted the house numbers so he wouldn't miss his destination. It seems he did regardless. Confusion filled him. He didn't believe he was stupid enough to miscount, but he glanced at the golden numbers on the stone walls for a second time. Eleven sat next to thirteen.
His note read twelve.
Antares realized that this must be why the letter had to be destroyed. Following the instructions he had been given, the young Kelly pulled out the note from his pocket. Reading the address almost silently, he let it fall to the ground, destroying it with a quick flick of his wrist.
A sound made Antares' head snap up. Before his very eyes, the walls between houses eleven and thirteen separated and gave way to what was almost an identical-looking house. The blatant difference was that this new house didn't look nearly as pristine, making it look like a haunted house. This must be what his mother used to talk about.
This was 12 Grimmauld Place.
It was unsettling for Antares. This place had an aura to it- one that he couldn't quite explain. It seemed to call to him. It may have been because he knew this house held a secret so desperately hidden from the death eaters and the Dark Lord. Or it may have been the fact that it was, by name, the home of a supposed mass killer.
It was necessary, he told himself. He wouldn't have come otherwise. Then again, one doesn't simply ignore a personal invitation from Albus Dumbledore.
There were days when, despite the hysteria of being a Kelly, Antares failed to see why he was needed in the first place. He was perfectly content to reside at his estate, attending to the restoration of the once magnificent manor that now belongs to him. He supposed Grimmauld Place was the same as the Kelly Manor: abandoned and left to rot with memories that were at one point unsullied. He'd take the lush forests and sheer cliffs that encompassed his manor over this sad excuse of a pure-blood residence. Antares wondered if anyone dared to step inside and face the remnants of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black before this summer. He doubted it. Even in death, reputations stand.
Pushing his concern aside, the Antares strode up to the door, not bothering to knock, and stepped inside what was now headquarters and, dare he say, temporary home. An inkling wedged itself into the back of Antares' mind, setting waves of dread coursing through his body. Ollivander had been right, he was his mother's son, but he failed to see how that was of use now.
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OKAY, y'all lovelies have been waiting patiently for me to continue writing, and I'm thankful for your support. If you've liked the writing so far, just wait till you realize that I've improved.
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~Hircines