America.
The very air felt different.
As I stood upon the grounds of Ilvermorny, hidden beneath layers of concealment magic so refined that even the most paranoid ward-master would miss me, I could feel it—the faint pulse of something ancient, something mine.
Mount Greylock loomed around me, silent and watchful, as if the land itself remembered.
Good.
Because I did too.
I walked slowly, deliberately, my boots pressing into the earth as my senses expanded outward. Ancient Magic flickered faintly at the edges of my perception, but what I was searching for was deeper than that—older.
Blood calls to blood.
And then I found it.
The tree.
At first glance, it appeared ordinary—if one ignored the unnatural resilience of its bark, the faint shimmer in its leaves, and the way the magic around it bent ever so slightly toward it. But I knew better.
I stepped closer, placing a hand lightly against its trunk.
Cold.
Alive.
Waiting.
A small smile formed on my lips.
"Sah-vel mor'thira… sssah veneth…"
Parseltongue flowed from my lips like silk, ancient and commanding.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The tree shuddered.
The bark began to twist, unraveling like a living thing shedding its skin. Branches curled inward, leaves dissolving into strands of raw magic as the entire structure collapsed in on itself, condensing, refining—
Until it was no longer a tree.
But a wand.
It dropped into my waiting hand.
The moment my fingers wrapped around it—
Power.
Not just magical power.
Recognition.
The wand pulsed, almost like a heartbeat syncing with my own. I could feel its awareness, its acceptance. Not reluctant. Not hesitant.
Eager.
I exhaled slowly, studying it.
Snakewood.
Dense. Dark. Patterned like scales.
And within it—I could feel the core.
Basilisk horn.
A dangerous core. Volatile. Powerful. Perfect.
A wand that did not simply channel magic… but amplified intent. Especially darker intent.
Of course it did.
Salazar Slytherin crafted this himself.
I raised the wand slightly, flicking it with the barest hint of intent.
A silent spell.
No incantation.
No movement beyond the flick.
And yet the air in front of me warped, space bending under the sheer force of controlled magic.
My eyes narrowed slightly.
"…Better."
Much better.
This wand… it wasn't just powerful.
It was aligned.
My previous yew wand had been excellent—flexible, deadly, responsive.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
It didn't just obey me.
It understood me.
I could feel how it fed on intent, how negative emotion—focus, ambition, even controlled malice—enhanced its output. But unlike lesser dark artefacts, it didn't corrupt.
It refined.
And then there was its most important feature.
"Dormire."
The wand instantly went still in my hand. The magic within it dimmed, as if it had fallen asleep.
I smirked.
"Evocare."
It flared back to life instantly.
A wand that could only be fully awakened through Parseltongue.
A wand that ensured only Slytherin's true heir could wield it at its peak.
A wand that had waited.
For me.
"This…" I murmured softly, turning it in my fingers, "…is what a true wand feels like."
I could already sense the difference in my casting.
Spells required less effort.
Less energy.
More output.
Even silent casting—something I had mastered through months of discipline—felt smoother, more natural.
This wand didn't resist.
It accelerated.
I tested another spell—this time something more complex.
A layered transfiguration.
The ground before me shifted instantly, reshaping into a perfect construct with almost no conscious effort required.
I paused.
Then laughed quietly.
"…Dumbledore."
For the first time in a long while—
I felt confident.
Not just in my skill.
But in my tools.
The Elder Wand was still a problem. Of course it was.
Elder wood. Thestral core. Absolute dominance in dueling.
But this…
This was something different.
Not a wand that dominated through raw superiority—
But one that perfectly matched its master.
And I was no ordinary wizard.
I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the connection deepen.
The wand responded, almost like a living extension of my will.
Salazar's legacy.
His magic.
His design.
Now fully in my hands.
"…I've surpassed you," I whispered quietly—not with arrogance, but with certainty. "But I'll make your legacy even greater."
I opened my eyes again, gaze sharpening.
America still had more to offer me.
Ilvermorny was just the beginning.
There were magical creatures here I could study.
Wandlore traditions different from Britain.
Alchemy methods influenced by native magic.
And perhaps most importantly—
Opportunities.
Always opportunities.
I turned, my cloak shifting behind me as I began to walk away from the site.
The wand rested comfortably in my hand.
No.
Not rested.
Belonged.
For the first time since beginning my journey toward true power—
I felt complete.
But not finished.
Never finished.
Because now…
Now I could truly begin.