HP: Dragon's Coffin

The morning sun bore down on Diagon Alley, but Ladon was perfectly comfortable in his impeccably tailored three-piece suit. The cooling rune discreetly etched into his vest worked wonders against the heat. His expression remained as stoic as ever, betraying none of the awe or curiosity most first-year students displayed on their first visit. He handed Asclepius the shopping list without a word, his dragon-like eyes scanning the bustling street with quiet intensity.

Asclepius glanced at the parchment, his silver eyes flickering with faint amusement. "Well, this is quite the list," he remarked. "First, we'll head to Gringotts. You'll need funds for all this." Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking, his long coat sweeping the ground behind him.

Ladon followed closely, his posture rigid and formal. Though he said nothing, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of curiosity as the towering white building of Gringotts Wizarding Bank came into view. The goblins at the entrance eyed them warily but said nothing as Asclepius strode through the doors, exuding an aura of authority that discouraged any questions.

Inside, the marble hall gleamed under the light of countless chandeliers. Ladon watched as Asclepius approached a goblin seated at an ornate desk, his movements precise and deliberate.

"We'll need access to the Ophiuchus vault," Asclepius said, his tone polite but firm. The goblin looked up, his sharp features betraying a flicker of surprise before he nodded and summoned a key.

"The Ophiuchus vault," Ladon repeated quietly as they were led down into the depths of the bank. He cast a sidelong glance at Asclepius. "How much is in it?"

Asclepius smirked faintly, a rare expression on his usually stoic face. "You'll see soon enough."

When the cart came to a screeching halt and the massive iron doors of the vault swung open, Ladon froze. Inside was a staggering hoard of gold, silver, and jewels, piled high and glittering in the dim torchlight. Ancient artifacts and chests lay scattered among the riches, their magical auras faint but undeniable.

"The Ophiuchus family has accumulated quite the wealth over the centuries," Asclepius explained, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "Generations of careful planning, investments, and the occasional… strategic acquisition have ensured this legacy."

Ladon stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking against the stone floor. He picked up a gold galleon, turning it over in his fingers before placing it back on the pile. "This… is ours?"

"Yours," Asclepius corrected. "You are the last of the Ophiuchus line, Ladon. This wealth, this legacy—it all belongs to you now."

Ladon said nothing, his expression unreadable. He simply nodded, his mind already turning over the possibilities this newfound wealth could offer.

After withdrawing a sufficient amount of galleons, sickles, and knuts, the two made their way back into the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. Ladon carried a small, enchanted pouch that held the coins, his grip firm but casual.

Their first stop was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Ladon stood on the fitting platform as the seamstress measured him for his school robes, his stoic demeanor unshaken even as the enchanted measuring tape zipped around him. When she offered to embroider his initials on the inside of his robes, he shook his head. "No need," he said flatly.

From there, they moved to Flourish and Blotts. Ladon's gaze lingered briefly on The Standard Book of Spells and The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, his eyes narrowing as he picked up the latter. "This one," he said simply, placing it atop the growing pile of books.

At the apothecary, he selected his potions ingredients with meticulous care, inspecting each item before adding it to his basket. His movements were precise and deliberate, every choice calculated.

The shop was dim and quiet, the faint scent of aged wood and parchment lingering in the air as Ladon stepped through the door of Ollivanders. The wandmaker, a wiry man with bright, inquisitive eyes, greeted them with a subtle mix of curiosity and skepticism. He paused mid-step as his gaze landed on Ladon, his expression unreadable for a moment before his lips curved into a faint smile.

"Ah, a unique customer, I see," Ollivander murmured, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the boy's cold, stoic demeanor. "Yes… quite unique indeed."

Ladon said nothing, his concealed dragon-like eyes meeting the wandmaker's gaze without flinching. Asclepius stood silently behind him, his imposing presence a quiet but undeniable force in the room.

"Well then," Ollivander said, clapping his hands together. "Let's see what we can find for you." He moved with practiced precision, pulling wand boxes from the towering shelves and setting them before Ladon one by one. "Try this—ash wood, twelve inches, phoenix feather core. Flexible."

Ladon took the wand, his movements careful and deliberate. The moment his fingers curled around the wood, a faint spark fizzled, then died. Ollivander hummed thoughtfully, taking the wand back and setting it aside.

Another wand, and another. Holly. Yew. Rowan. Each one rejected Ladon with a quiet but firm refusal—sparks sputtering or faint vibrations of dissonance that made Ollivander's frown deepen.

After what felt like an eternity, Ollivander paused, his hand hovering over a box that seemed almost hidden among the others. His fingers brushed the dust from its lid as he carefully brought it down. The box itself was darker, the wood aged and polished to a faint sheen.

"This wand…" Ollivander hesitated, glancing between the box and Ladon with a hint of skepticism. "This wand has never chosen a wielder. It has sat here for centuries, waiting. Elder wood, thirteen inches, with a core… well, an unusual one." He opened the box slowly, revealing a wand of deep, dark wood with faint, sinuous patterns etched along its length, as if it carried the shadows of ancient secrets.

"Elder wood?" Ladon asked, his monotone voice cutting through the silence. His gaze shifted to the wand, his interest piqued despite himself. "What makes it unusual?"

Ollivander took a deep breath, his fingers brushing over the wand reverently. "Its core. It contains a single strand from the heart of a black hydra."

Ladon reached for the wand, but Ollivander hesitated, his expression conflicted. "Black hydras… they're rumored, not proven. Their existence has never been confirmed. I've often wondered if my great grandfather who created this was simply weaving tales."

"Hydras are real," Asclepius said, his tone as calm and nonchalant as if he were commenting on the weather. His silver eyes glinted faintly as he continued, "They simply prefer discretion. They are intelligent enough to stay far from both the magical and mundane worlds. Rare, yes—but very real."

Ollivander blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in Asclepius's voice. "I… I see. Well, this wand has been waiting for centuries. Perhaps…" He handed it to Ladon carefully, almost reluctantly. "Let us see if it has found its match."

The moment Ladon's fingers wrapped around the wand, the air in the shop shifted. A low hum resonated through the room, deep and steady, like the growl of an ancient, slumbering beast. The wand glowed faintly, its dark surface shimmering as if reflecting unseen light. Sparks erupted at the tip, dark and smoky, before coalescing into a soft, steady flame that danced in the air.

Ollivander took a step back, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "Extraordinary," he murmured. "This wand… it has found its wielder at last."

Ladon stared at the wand in his hand, his expression unreadable. The power thrumming beneath his fingers felt natural, like an extension of himself. "It's perfect," he said quietly.

"Indeed," Ollivander replied, though his tone remained cautious. "But be warned, young man. Elder wood wands are powerful, but they demand respect. Paired with a core like this… well, let us just say this wand will not tolerate weakness or hesitation."

Ladon met the wandmaker's gaze with his own unflinching stare. "Good," he said simply, his voice flat. "Neither will I."

Asclepius allowed himself the faintest of smirks, his arms crossed as he watched the exchange. "It seems the wand and its wielder understand each other," he said. "Now, if we are finished here…"

Ollivander nodded, his gaze lingering on the wand in Ladon's hand. "Yes, of course. That will be seven galleons. Though, I daresay, this wand may be worth far more than any price."

Ladon paid without hesitation, slipping the wand into its case and turning to leave. As they stepped back into the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, Asclepius placed a hand on Ladon's shoulder. "That wand, Ladon, will be your greatest ally—and your greatest test. Use it wisely."

"I will," Ladon replied, his tone unwavering. His dragon-like eyes glinted faintly in the sunlight as he tightened his grip on the wand case.

As the door to Ollivanders closed behind Ladon and Asclepius, the faint chime of the bell overhead seemed to echo unnaturally in the now-quiet shop. Ollivander stood frozen for a moment, his sharp eyes lingering on the door through which the pair had just exited. His fingers trembled slightly as they brushed against the counter, the lingering hum of magic still crackling faintly in the air.

The wandmaker exhaled slowly, a shiver running down his spine. He glanced at the shelves around him, their towering presence somehow feeling more oppressive than usual. The ancient, dormant power that had surged through the shop just moments ago was unlike anything he had felt in decades—perhaps centuries.

"That wand…" he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands, so accustomed to the weight of countless wands, still tingled as though they had been near the very core of magic itself. "Elder wood, hydra core...that boy. They resonated."

Ollivander shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I've sold wands to many extraordinary wizards," he muttered, his mind flickering to the likes of Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle. "But this is… this is different. This is the second time this month," remembering the black hair boy with glasses and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

He turned to the spot where the wand had rested undisturbed for centuries, the faint imprint of its case still visible in the dust. A part of him had always wondered if that wand would ever find its true wielder—or if it was too dangerous, too unpredictable, to ever leave his shelves.

Now, he wasn't sure if the world was ready for what it had just unleashed.

As he moved to the back of his shop, the old wandmaker shivered again, his thoughts lingering on the young boy with the black eyes and the cold, unyielding presence. "That boy," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "He'll change the world—or burn it to the ground."