Saturday. The day of the Quidditch match.
The epic rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin was about to erupt. Tension hung in the Great Hall like fog, with students from both houses glaring at each other across the breakfast tables.
Especially the players from both teams—each was flanked by at least five upperclassmen, just in case anyone tried something underhanded before the match.
These kinds of "incidents" had happened often. Everyone knew the drill by now.
"You don't have to eat so fast," Seamus Finnigan said, watching Harold stuff bread into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in days. "It's only nine o'clock. The match doesn't start for another two hours."
Harold didn't reply—his mouth was too full.
He snatched a bottle of pumpkin juice from Neville, gulped it down, and finally swallowed his food.
"I'm not going for the match." Harold checked the time and shot to his feet, dashing out of the hall.
"Should I save him a seat?" Seamus called after him. "First game of the year—it's gonna be packed!"
Harold didn't respond. He just waved a hand without slowing down, disappearing through the doors.
"What does that mean? Is he coming or not?" Seamus frowned, clearly confused by the vague gesture.
"Probably not," Hermione guessed. "I don't think Harold cares much about Quidditch. He's never joined in our conversations about it."
"No way," Ron said firmly. "No wizard is uninterested in Quidditch. It's the most popular sport there is. Right, Harry?"
His brain had gone completely blank at the thought of the upcoming match. He hadn't even registered that Ron was speaking to him.
"You're not eating?" Hermione looked at Harry's untouched plate of sausages and bread. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't want anything," Harry muttered. His stomach felt like it was trying to flip inside out from nerves.
"That won't do," Hermione frowned. "I read that Quidditch matches can last a really long time—sometimes even one or two days. You have to stay fueled."
"Eat anyway. Seekers are always the primary targets for the opposing team," Seamus said, generously slathering a sausage with ketchup and plopping it onto Harry's plate.
While the entire hall buzzed with support for Harry, outside the castle, Harold had already reached Hagrid's hut. He knocked on the door.
It opened shortly after.
Hagrid stared at Harold, face full of complicated emotion.
"I really shouldn't've agreed to this yesterday."
"But you did," Harold replied coolly. "And you're gonna be a professor someday, remember? Can't go back on your word."
"How'm I ever gonna be a professor…" Hagrid groaned, smacking a hand to his forehead.
Last night, Harold had flattered him just enough to make him agree—spinning some story about how valuable and educational the item was. Hagrid, caught up in the moment, handed it over before he even realized what was happening.
By the time he came to his senses, it was already too late.
He had a criminal record at the Ministry. He wasn't even allowed to use magic openly. Becoming a professor? That was laughable.
Still… Harold had looked genuinely excited about the thing.
"Come in, then," Hagrid grumbled, opening the door just wide enough for Harold to squeeze through.
"Make sure no one sees."
"Relax. I was careful," Harold said, slipping inside eagerly. "So… where is it?"
"Over there," Hagrid pointed toward the fireplace. "Just like you asked, I kept it close to the heat. Fang went absolutely bonkers last night—I had to move him to the back."
Not that Harold needed directions. His eyes had already locked onto the item he'd obsessed over all night—the complete spine of a mountain troll.
From that moment on, he didn't blink once.
"But Harold, why do you even want something ?" Hagrid walked over, looking baffled. "I thought only… well, certain kinds of wizards would use something ."
He didn't say "dark wizard," but the implication hung in the air.
"You don't understand, Hagrid. You can't understand what this means to a wandmaker," Harold said, barely containing his excitement. "In the sixth century BCE, Andros the Invincible tried to craft a wand for his Patronus—and the core he chose was the spinal nerve of a mountain troll."
"Andros the who?" Hagrid scratched his head, clearly lost.
"Sixth century BCE. Ancient Greece's most powerful wizard. First to cast spells without a wand, pioneer of the wandless magic era," Harold explained quickly. "He also created the Patronus Charm—and could summon a Patronus as big as a giant. No one else in history's done that."
"Oh…" Hagrid nodded vaguely. He wasn't terribly interested in wizards from 2,000 years ago. But something didn't sit right.
"Wait, you said he made a wand for a Patronus? I thought Patronuses couldn't use wands."
"They can't. That's why it failed." Harold shrugged. "But the wand itself was real—the only wand ever designed to be used by a giant."
Hagrid glanced at the cabinet in the corner where his own broken wand—now disguised as a pink umbrella—was stored.
"So you're trying to make a wand… for a giant? Using the troll's spinal nerve?"
"No. I want to use the whole spine." Harold took a deep breath and said it—an answer so absurd Hagrid had to double-take.
That bone was five feet long and thick as a bowl. How the hell was that supposed to be a wand core?
Even Harold thought it was impossible.
But this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—and he had to try.
He had a feeling that if he could actually pull this off, it might become the turning point in his wandmaking career.
Just like when Garrick Ollivander, his grandfather, first crafted a wand using a phoenix feather—d by Fawkes, no less—at age twenty-nine.
"Well… if you're really sure," Hagrid said, still deeply unconvinced, "Do you need help?"
"No, I've got it," Harold shook his head. "Snape cleaned it thoroughly—it's perfect."
"Then what else do you need?"
"A wand body to match the core…" Harold said thoughtfully. "Hagrid, what about the troll's club?"
"That useless stick?" Hagrid thought for a moment. "I tossed it into the Forbidden Forest yesterday. I can go fetch it—it should still be there."
(End of Chapter) ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹⟡𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮⟡𝙣𝙚𝙩