A wand. She needed a wand. The thought pressed at Raven's mind, a constant hum beneath the surface of her other plans. Combat without one felt like fighting with one hand tied behind her back, even with her advanced firearms. Yesterday’s meeting with Ragnok solidified their alliance. The goblins were efficient, their loyalty bought with the promise of future power and the lure of new, potent weaponry. But a wizard, even a Peverell, still needed a wand. Walking through the bustling main hall of Gringotts, Raven approached a different teller, one she hadn't seen before. His eyes, sharp and assessing, met hers. “Greetings, Peverell heir,” the goblin rasped, a thin smile on his lips. “How may Gringotts assist you today?” “I require a wand,” Raven stated, her voice even. “Something powerful, untraceable. Not from Ollivanders.” His smile widened, a flicker of understanding in his gaze. “A wise choice. Ollivanders’ records are… comprehensive. And too new for ancient power. Good luck, Heir Peverell. You may find what you seek where your ancestors did.” Good luck? The phrase hung in the air, laden with a meaning Raven couldn't quite grasp. His emphasis on ‘where your ancestors did’ was a clear pointer. Not just a generic wand, but a Peverell wand. The goblins knew more than they let on, a common thread in their dealings. She nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the hidden message. An untraceable wand, a Peverell wand. Her mind immediately shifted gears. This wasn't a trip to Diagon Alley. This was a deeper dive into her own heritage. Returning to Ragnok’s office, Raven outlined her new requirement. “The teller mentioned my ancestors. Are there Peverell wands within the vaults? Or a method to acquire one that predates modern traceability?” Ragnok steepled his fingers, a rare glint of amusement in his eyes. “Indeed. Many ancient families kept their wands, or the materials for them, within their deepest vaults. Ollivander’s monopoly is relatively recent, a convenience for those less… discerning.” “The Peverell vaults are vast,” he continued. “They span deeper than many believe, beyond the common access points. We have located some of the truly ancient ones, untouched for centuries. You requested access to all your vaults. Now you shall see the extent of your family’s legacy.” Minutes later, Raven descended on a specialized cart, deeper and faster than before. The air grew colder, heavier, charged with static energy. Magical pressure built, a tangible weight on her skin. The gold, silver, and jewels of the upper vaults gave way to rough-hewn stone, pulsating with raw, unrefined magic. Finally, the cart shuddered to a halt before an enormous, unadorned stone door. No intricate carvings, no shimmering enchantments. Just raw power emanating from its ancient surface. Runes, almost invisible, pulsed faintly, barely catching the torchlight. Ragnok’s voice echoed in the cavern. “This is the heart of it, Heir Peverell. The Peverell family magic. Only blood can open it. And only blood that is truly ready.” She stepped forward, a strange tremor running through her. Her hand reached out, drawn by an invisible current. As her palm pressed against the cold stone, a wave of energy washed over her, not painful, but profoundly intimate. It was a recognition. A deep, resonant hum that vibrated in her bones, in her very core. This wasn’t just *magic*; this was *her* magic, filtered through generations of Peverells. It was raw, untamed, focused in a way that felt intrinsically linked to her own being. Knowledge downloaded by Death was one thing. This was an awakening. A spark ignited, not a gentle warmth, but a fierce, controlled fire. Her focus sharpened, a clarity she hadn't known before. This Peverell magic, its specific resonance, felt like an extension of her own will, even without a wand. The stone door groaned, grinding open with a sound that echoed through the vast space. Inside, not piles of gold, but an ethereal glow. Ancient artifacts floated in the air, humming with dormant power. Dust motes danced in the magical light. Among them, several wooden objects. Dark, gnarled staves and sleek, polished wands, all radiating distinct magical signatures. They weren’t uniform. Each seemed to call out, a silent whisper in her mind. One, slender and dark, thrummed with a particularly strong pull. She reached for it. The moment her fingers closed around the polished wood, magic surged, not *through* her, but *from* her, meeting the wand's inherent power. It felt like a missing piece clicking into place. The air crackled. The wand didn't choose her; it simply recognized its master, a reunion of long-separated parts. “This is… potent,” she murmured, feeling the ancient magic settle within her grip. It was unlike anything she'd read about, a true Peverell relic. Its core felt less like a creature part and more like a condensed lineage, a channel to the very source of her family's power. Practice. The word resonated in her mind. Death had granted her knowledge, spells, and understanding. But the physical act of casting, the muscle memory, the precise control of intent through a wand – that was still nascent. Her body needed to catch up to her mind. Over the next two days, Raven dedicated herself to this physical training, a demanding regimen directed by the goblins. Apparition, in particular, became her obsession. Death’s instantaneous translocation was one thing; replicating the precise, targeted, *wizarding* Apparition was another. Goblins, naturally, were adept at their own forms of sudden movement, but they understood the nuances of wizarding magic. Griphook, a stern-faced goblin with an intimidating sneer, became her primary instructor. He offered no gentle encouragement, only sharp, critical observations. “Focus your will, Peverell!” he snapped, watching her fail to Splinch herself for the tenth time. “It is not just about the destination, but the *intent*. See the space. Feel the air, the pressure, the *absence* of your current position. Disregard the fear of tearing yourself apart.” Her muscles ached. Her mind strained. She spun, twisted, felt the sickening lurch of partial Apparition. She focused on the feeling of being somewhere else, not just seeing it. She remembered the precise sensation of Death’s travel, and tried to break it down into wizarding components. Hours blurred into a grueling cycle of attempts. Each partial shift, each uncomfortable pop, was a step closer. The magic in the new wand hummed, eager, responsive, but also demanding. It amplified her intent, meaning any misstep felt more pronounced. Finally, on the second day, a perfect, silent pop. She stood five feet from her starting point, completely intact, the familiar disorienting pressure gone almost immediately. A small, almost imperceptible nod from Griphook was her only praise. “Again,” he ordered, his eyes still narrowed. “Faster. More precise. You are not teleporting, Peverell. You are forcing the world to bend to your will. Feel its resistance. Overcome it.” Slowly, her body began to remember, to integrate the movements, the precise shifts in magical energy. The knowledge Death instilled wasn't just theoretical; it was becoming instinctual, flowing through her veins, guided by the new wand. Her casting practice, too, improved. Simple charms became effortless. Defensive spells snapped into place. The familiar feeling of raw power, now finely tuned, felt exhilarating. Now, with her body catching up to her mind, with a formidable, untraceable wand at her side, it was time. Time for the next critical step. Regulus Black. His time was running out. The date, October 3rd, 1981, loomed. Darkness fell over a secluded patch of coast. Waves crashed against jagged rocks, their roar a constant, mournful sound. The air was thick with salt and a chilling dampness. Raven Apparated to a vantage point above the hidden cave entrance, her movements silent, honed by two days of relentless practice. She saw him. A young man, barely out of his teens, his shoulders hunched, his face pale in the faint moonlight. Regulus Arcturus Black. Alone. He clutched a locket, his gaze fixed on the churning water. He looked terrified, yet resolute. A sacrificial lamb, about to walk into a slaughter. Dropping down from her perch, Raven landed softly behind him. The crunch of her boot on gravel made him jump, spinning around, his wand already in his hand, pointed at her chest. His eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and defiance. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice trembling, but holding firm. “How did you find me?” Her voice was low, devoid of inflection. “Regulus Black. I know why you are here. I know what waits inside that cave.” His face drained of color, his wand hand shaking noticeably. He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. “What… what do you know?” “Inside, there is a Horcrux. A piece of Voldemort’s soul, hidden by dark magic. To reach it, you will need to sacrifice. To retrieve it, you will face an army of Inferi. And to escape, you will need a strength you do not possess, alone.” She held his gaze, her own eyes unwavering. He was a brave, foolish boy, ready to throw his life away. “You will die in there, Regulus. A slow, agonizing death by thirst, by poison, by the cold grasp of the dead.” I warn the young man what waits him inside leaving the choice up to him knowing I would make sure he would survive the night no matter what he chooses.

Chapter 4: Ancient Vaults