For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Ten: Wistman's Wood

1948 – DARTMOOR, UNITED KINGDOM

Elphias thought her to be paranoid, but she needed somewhere remote. Somewhere no one would see her. Somewhere she couldn't hurt anyone.

Wistman's Wood wasn't far from the cottage. She'd get some exercise walking. And she'd be alone.

Many locals thought this part of the ancient English forest to be haunted. Tales of Druids, ghosts, the Devil and a host of other supernatural creatures abounded, some dating back to the long-lost ages before man could write. Some described the wood as being "the most haunted place on Dartmoor", others warned that every rocky crevice was filled with writhing adders who liked to spawn their young amidst the moss and leaf strewn tree roots. Locals would never venture near once the sun began its slow descent over the nearby granite outcrops. After all, it was when the dark mantle of night drew tight that the heinous denizens of the wood stalked the moor in search of their human victims.

Elphias had once humored her curiosity and informed her that, yes, ancient pagan rituals had been hosted there. Some magical historians thought such practices were the source of most magic in the United Kingdom—that the old ones generated the fabric that coated the land in enchantment and chaos—the same element that gave fantastical beasts their power and muggle-borns access to sorcery.

Others, who were more prone to believing campfire tales, whispered that the wood was also said to be the kennels where the diabolical Wisht Hounds of the Wild Hunt were kept. Gwen had to ask Elphias for clarification on what exactly a Wisht Hound was, and he cited some lengthy passage from a tattered tome.

'These are a pack of fearful hell hounds who hunt across the moors at night in search of lost souls and unwary travelers. It is said that they are huge black dogs with blood red eyes, huge yellow fangs and an insatiable hunger for human flesh and souls. On dark, misty nights the hounds can be heard howling and baying for blood. The giant, spectral dogs haunt churchyards, digging up the bones of the dead for the midnight feast. The Wisht Hound, or the Grim, is a well-known omen, and has earned infamy throughout the wizarding world to considerably be one of the worst, if not the worst, omens of death.'

The description made Gwen all the more skeptical of the story and all the more certain that Wistman's Wood would be the perfect place for her experimentation.

The wood was nestled on the eastern slopes of the West Dart river. English oak, with occasional rowan, and a very few holly, hawthorn, hazel, and eared-willow grew with contorted forms with procumbent trunks, woven up and over each other in what almost resembled a Celtic knot. Once one walked into the tangled web of trees, you were transported into a mystical world of moss carpeted boulders, lichens of all descript, finger like oak branches, all engulfed in a wonderful smell of earth and age.

Much like the Forbidden Forest, Gwen could feel the hum of magic here. It was older, softer, its scent much more diluted by the mundane—as if no one had practiced magic there in a long time. Nevertheless, for millennia, the small, mystical, stunted woodland had been held in awe and for many—fear.

She had come back from Vilra, the Northern Market, a week ago. While Elphias had done his best to try to convince her to get a wand from Ollivander, Gwen was insistent. Mykew Gregorovitch must make her next wand.

In the three years since she last owned and used a wand, she had grown unaccustomed to the weight it added to her pocket, her hand, and frankly, her mind. A wand was a conduit, a tool, and tools often made one more powerful. They added a different kind of sentience to magic. A prescribed premeditation. A wand would allow her more fluidity, with an ability to directly tap into her magic, and channel it through yet another magical sieve.