On Christmas morning, Garrick finally returned, weary and travel-worn. Dew and fallen leaves still clung to his robes—it was obvious he'd come straight from some forest.
"Merry Christmas," he said with a smile, handing Harold a round brown stone.
"This is your gift—an amber formed from the resin of a Huajiu tree. I thought you might like it."
The amber was no bigger than a Knut, brown in color, but when held under sunlight, it glowed with a dazzling golden light, shimmering like a starlit sky.
But what really caught Harold's attention was something else Garrick said. Official source ıs novelFɪre.net
"Resin from a Huajiu tree… So you actually found the Huajiu Forest?"
"On Halloween, actually," Garrick said, smiling. "I must say, that journey was truly eye-opening. We never imagined a forest could be so magical."
Harold's curiosity only deepened. What kind of forest could make even Garrick and Gregorovitch—two of the most experienced wandmakers alive—spend over a year searching and still call it wondrous?
But then Garrick displayed a very frustrating trait common to adult wizards.
"Oh, Harold, a place like that—well, it's something you must see for yourself," he said with a wink, clearly not planning to elaborate.
Harold suddenly felt like he was six again—back when Garrick had convinced him that Hogwarts sorting required negotiating with four Bowtruckles, each representing a different house.
Then when he was eight, the story changed—now you had to extract a dragon heartstring to get sorted.
At ten, it became a requirement to identify a hundred different types of wood.
Each version sounded more sincere than the last—and all of it was nonsense. Now Garrick wasn't even bothering to lie creatively.
Harold was dying to see this so-called legendary Huajiu Forest—but there was no way he could spend over a year tracking it down. Even if he were willing, Hogwarts would never allow it. Once the holiday ended, he'd have to return to school.
"Fine," Harold said with a sigh. "I'll go see it myself someday. But for now, hand it over."
"I already gave you your gift," Garrick said, puzzled.
"I mean the Huajiu wood," Harold clarified. "Don't tell me you didn't bring any back."
"You probably won't believe me, but I really didn't," Garrick said, holding up his hands. Before Harold could question him, he explained, "There were no Bowtruckles there."
The Ollivander family had always followed one rule when gathering wand wood—it must be exchanged with Bowtruckles. Only wood that had been willingly offered by Bowtruckles was worthy of becoming a wand.
No Bowtruckles meant no trade. And Garrick, being who he was, likely took nothing at all.
Now it made sense—why he'd returned from that famed Huajiu Forest with only a bit of amber.
Sure, the amber was beautiful, but Garrick had never given Harold a decorative gift before.
"If I'd known, I wouldn't have come home for Christmas this year," Harold muttered.
"Oh, don't say that," Garrick said with a chuckle. "Hope is a beautiful thing. And I swear, once you see that place, you won't be disappointed."
"But I'm only in third year. Even if I used every holiday, I still wouldn't have time to find it," Harold said. "And you're obviously not going to tell me where it is, are you?"
Garrick only gave a kind smile. "It doesn't really have an address. You'll have to find it yourself."
"Right," Harold sighed. "Anyway, in your letter, you mentioned something strange had happened to you. Maybe I can help figure it out?"
Garrick clearly wanted to change the subject, and Harold knew it—but he had no choice but to let it go.
So instead, he told Garrick about how his wand inscription speed had drastically increased.
"That sounds like a good thing," Garrick said at first, echoing exactly what Ron had said—until Harold demonstrated.
As Harold quickly inscribed rune after rune, Garrick's smile faded. His expression grew increasingly serious.
In just fifteen minutes, the wand shaft was complete—a speed nearly matching Garrick's own.
"Could it be related to your Ancient Runes class?" Garrick asked. "Didn't you choose that this year?"
"I don't think so," Harold shook his head. "We've barely gotten past identifying basic runes. It's had almost no effect."
Ancient Runes was just the formal name for magical script.
Harold had already mastered all the basic ones by the age of ten. Honestly, he would've dropped the class already if there weren't so few students in it.
Garrick crossed his arms and began pacing around the narrow wand shop.
Then suddenly he stopped.
"Did this new skill come on suddenly?" he asked. "One day, you just found yourself able to inscribe perfectly?"
"Not exactly," Harold replied. "But I did feel like I've been becoming more and more familiar with the runes lately."
"And in other areas? Like… your magical power?" Garrick asked next.
"My magic? I don't think that's changed."
Without saying a word, Garrick handed Harold a wand and asked him to cast the Knockback Jinx—at full strength.
"Don't hold back," Garrick said, drawing his own wand. "Pretend we're testing your wand."
Hearing that, Harold didn't hesitate. He raised Silvermane and cast:
Garrick deflected it with a quick flick, but still stumbled back a step.
"You okay?" Harold hurried over.
"I'm fine," Garrick said, waving him off. Then he looked Harold in the eye and said, "I think I know what's going on."
"It's an ancient legend," Garrick said slowly, guiding Harold into the storeroom and pulling out a book so old it had lost all color. Based on what Harold knew of this place, the book had to be at least a thousand years old.
"I should've realized earlier—especially after seeing your exceptional talent," Garrick said, flipping to a specific page.
"There's a legend that Merlin, in gratitude for a wand Ollivander made for him, once made a special prophecy."
"Merlin could make prophecies?" Harold blurted out—then immediately realized how dumb that sounded.
"Right, right… What did the prophecy say?"
"No one knows the full prophecy anymore," Garrick said. "But one part of it was passed down through the generations."
He pointed to a line on the page and read:
'The wand he makes shall be its own everlasting kindling; the recognition of others shall make his magic stronger.'
"What does that mean?" Harold frowned.
"It means," Garrick said, meeting Harold's gaze, "if someone truly accepts and uses a wand you made, that recognition can make you stronger."
"Their recognition… makes me stronger?" Harold blinked. "That can't be right. I don't feel any stronger. My magic's the same—I just carve runes faster."
"Inscribing runes requires magic too," Garrick said.
"Maybe think about it this way," Garrick said, closing the book. "How did Harry Potter defeat the Dark Lord? Maybe that will help you understand."