Harold had always wondered: were bodiless spirits—ghosts—considered wizards, or a special kind of magical creature?
Or, more specifically... could they be used as wand cores?
"Maybe I could try it someday," Harold thought. The only problem was finding a ghost willing to cooperate.
With that curiosity lingering in his mind, Harold quickly finished lunch in the Great Hall and headed down to the dungeons with the others.
Snape's Potions class.
This time, Harold wasn't late and managed to witness the iconic moment he remembered.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stop death—if you aren't the bunch of dunderheads I usually have to teach."
Snape swept through the classroom like a great black bat, and no one dared meet his eyes, let alone breathe too loudly.
"Potter, what do you get if I add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
As expected, Snape went straight for Harry.
Of course, Harry had no idea.
Naturally—Harold had read One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, and the questions Snape was asking were from around page 150—third-year material.
You expected a brand-new first-year to know third-year content?
Nobody in the room—including the absent Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs—could have answered, except for Hermione, the memorization maniac.
Just as Harold was internally roasting Snape's sadistic quiz routine, someone bumped into his arm. He turned to see Neville trembling like a quail, and then the cold, narrowed eyes of Snape fixed on him.
"It seems someone thinks they already know everything and doesn't need to waste time listening to my lessons. Isn't that right, Mr. Ollivander?"
"Of course not, Professor." Harold forced a smile.
Crap. Got too into watching the drama and forgot that Snape hated anyone zoning out in his class.
"Is that so?" Snape's voice was icy. "Then perhaps you'd care to tell Mr. Potter the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"Uh... Monkshood is a smoked herb, often combined with pine needles, spikewort, clover blossoms, and beetle shells for roasting. The fumes can make certain wand woods more flexible—most commonly willow."
"Wolfsbane is the same thing. They're two names for the same plant."
Harold rattled it off smoothly, and a few students instinctively pulled out parchment and quills to take notes.
Clearly, their pre-class prep had been lacking—they hadn't even heard of it.
"Stop! Don't bother writing that down!" Snape barked.
Snape's eye twitched as he looked back at Harold.
To be fair... Harold wasn't wrong.
What he'd said came from Volume III of The Book of Potions by Zygmunt Budge—The Curious Pairing of Potions and Wands.
Technically, it wasn't a formal potions text. Budge had written it in his youth as a love letter to a girl obsessed with wandlore.
The thing had no scientific value in potion-making whatsoever—but Budge was too famous. He was the most renowned potion master of the Middle Ages and founder of the Extraordinary Potioneers' Guild.
So even his half-baked scribbles were eventually compiled into The Book of Potions, the most authoritative work in the field.
Still, none of it was practical for potioneers...
Except Harold was an Ollivander. He could actually use that nonsense!
Snape was so irritated it almost hurt—more painful than handing Gryffindor fifty points.
He wished he'd never read The Book of Potions, so he could've deducted points without guilt.
But a potion master who hadn't read The Book of Potions? That was like a house-elf who didn't know how to sweep, or Dumbledore not liking sweets. A joke colder than the Arctic.
"Sit down!" Snape muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Monkshood—one of the rarest ingredients, more expensive by weight than dragon blood—and they were burning it to smoke wand wood.
These wandmakers were all out of their minds!
Harold blinked, confused why Snape suddenly looked like he wanted to murder someone.
Monkshood and wolfsbane were the same thing. He hadn't gotten it wrong. He'd even added the use case as a bonus.
Harold remembered reading about it clearly when he was nine years old. It was in The Book of Potions. No way he was mistaken.
Unable to make sense of it, Harold chalked it up to being Harry's bad luck rubbing off on him.
Still, there was a silver lining: for the rest of the lesson, Snape completely ignored him—even during homework checks, he just gave a quick glance and moved on.
"What the hell, at least give me a point," Harold muttered, looking down at the shimmering pink potion in his cauldron.
A textbook-perfect boil-cure potion—zero mistakes.
Harold was confident in his potion-making. As a wandmaker, he often had to brew soaking solutions tailored to different wand woods.
That wasn't easy work. Even the general-use batch he kept in the dorm took six hours to make.
By comparison, a boil cure potion was child's play.
And yet Snape didn't even look.
Harold muttered darkly as he left the dungeon.
It wasn't about the points—it was just the blatant bias. Even an adult would want to clock Snape for being that unreasonable.
Harold was no exception.
"Snape's always like that. Totally unfair," Ron said, falling into step beside Harold. "Fred told me he never gives Gryffindor any points."
"That's not right!" Hermione caught up with them, clearly fired up. "Harold was the only one who successfully brewed the potion! He can't just pretend not to notice—we should tell Professor McGonagall!"
"He can, actually," Ron shrugged.
"Oh, can I come with you to see Hagrid?" he added, turning to Harry.
At lunch, Harry had gotten a note inviting him to tea with Hagrid at three.
It was nearly three now.
"Sure, no problem," Harry said, then turned to Harold. "You coming too? I think you said something before about fixing something for him?"
"Oh, right," Harold nodded. "But I've got other stuff to do later—so I'll pass for now." For origınal chapters go to 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝※𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖※𝕟𝕖𝕥
"Alright, no worries," Harry said, and headed off with Ron toward Hagrid's hut.