As one of the most prestigious academic journals in the wizarding world, Transfiguration Today didn't boast the same circulation numbers as The Daily Prophet, but it catered to a completely different audience.
It could be said that nearly every truly powerful witch or wizard—Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, most Aurors—had at some point subscribed to Transfiguration Today.
To Harold, this was a perfect opportunity… a chance to expand his customer base and let more people discover his wands.
That's why he was determined to write this paper—and make it compelling. Wizards of great power often pursued magical strength with an almost obsessive fervor. Harold was confident they'd be interested in a brand-new kind of wand.
After all, who wouldn't want to try a wand made from their own hair?
And if he could get Professor McGonagall to publicly endorse it—well, that would be even better.
It wouldn't be easy, of course, but it wasn't impossible either… assuming he could actually get his paper published in Transfiguration Today.
That part was up to him. All he had to do was write—no, craft—a convincing, well-reasoned paper.
Professor McGonagall didn't fully understand his decision. Sure, she agreed that wands were crucial to Transfiguration—but weren't they just as important to every other type of magic? What was there to write about?
Still, out of respect for Harold, she didn't say any of that aloud. She decided to wait and see what he came up with. After all, he was only a third-year. If it didn't work out, he'd still have time to change his direction.
After leaving Transfiguration class, Harold found Fred and George in the Great Hall and asked them for some advice.
"You want to boost sales of the hair-core wands?" Fred frowned slightly.
"That's right," Harold nodded. "Do you have any ideas?"
"Not really," George said. "Most wizards don't buy a second wand. The Hogwarts wand market's already saturated."
"And seven Galleons isn't exactly pocket change."
"Unless you're willing to lower the price."
"Not a chance," Harold shook his head immediately.
Seven Galleons was the minimum. Any lower, and it would undermine the value of wands across the entire market.
Harold wasn't about to sabotage the family business.
Besides, even if he did bite the bullet and slash prices, people wouldn't treat the wands seriously. They'd just see them as cheap novelties.
What Harold needed was genuine recognition—not just a bigger market share.
And this was Britain. Everyone knew the name Ollivander. As long as he was patient, he'd eventually inherit the shop. Then everything would get a lot easier.
Wait a second… Britain…
Could he expand his wand sales to other countries?
The idea was tempting. But Harold quickly shook his head.
He didn't know any foreign witches or wizards. His grandfather Garrick did—but he'd never agree to help him with something .
Other countries had their own wandmakers. If Garrick started promoting Harold's work overseas, he'd be making enemies out of every established wandmaker out there.
No—this was something Harold would have to do on his own.
They might be annoyed, but surely they wouldn't go after a third-year student… right?
Still, that brought him right back to square one.
He didn't know any foreign witches or wizards.
Lunch ended, and everyone returned to their common rooms.
Fred and George promised to try pushing Harold's wands a bit more, but they wouldn't be able to do much until next week—and even then, there were no guarantees.
Seven Galleons was a steep ask for students. For most of them, that was their entire year's pocket money. This wasn't a problem clever tricks could solve.
As for why they had to wait—Quidditch.
Even though the upcoming match didn't involve Gryffindor (it was Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin), they still needed to keep an eye on the score and adjust their strategy accordingly.
Oliver Wood had been dragging the Gryffindor team off daily to plan tactics, and the twins were also busy developing "Tongue-Inflating Toffees" to help them skip class. They were running on fumes.
Harold understood. He was busy too.
To make the most of his captured Dementor, Harold had been sneaking off to the Shrieking Shack after dinner every night to practice the Patronus Charm.
After a few days, the poor Dementor had noticeably shrunk. Harold felt a bit bad for it.
But the good news was—his Patronus was almost fully formed now.
According to Sirius, it looked like the world through the eyes of someone mildly nearsighted without their glasses. Technically, it was passable.
Harold didn't take the comment to heart.
Sirius never stayed to watch when Harold practiced. He always made some excuse and left—said he didn't want to be anywhere near a Dementor.
If he didn't watch, how would he know anything?
He probably didn't even know what his own Patronus looked like.
With that thought, Harold opened the box that held the Dementor.
At first, it didn't want to come out. But as Harold began cycling through joyful memories, it finally gave in, drifting out of the box with a slow, hungry breath.
"Expecto Patronum!" Harold shouted.
A silver cat burst from the tip of his wand.
After days of practice, the Patronus was clearer than ever. This time, it shone with brilliant, dazzling light.
Harold felt a surge of triumph.
But then—something changed.
A new kind of magic surged through the air. The Patronus dissolved instantly into mist, as though snuffed out by a gust of wind.
The strange magic traveled along the path the Patronus had taken—straight into the wand.
The wand trembled violently in Harold's hand.
The wand shattered, splinters flying everywhere.
Before Harold could even process what had happened, a new problem emerged—the Dementor.
With the Patronus gone, it broke free, rushing toward him.
It was so close now that Harold could see the shadow of its face beneath the hood.
Thankfully, his hand found Silvermane.
A unicorn erupted into the air, charging in circles around the Dementor. Fınd the newest release on novel•fire.net
The creature immediately recoiled, retreating back into the box.
But Harold didn't move.
He was staring at the unicorn in shock.
He hadn't cast a spell—he'd only touched Silvermane.
More importantly… this unicorn wasn't the usual blue he was used to.