Tonight's adventure had been thrilling for Harold—maybe a little too thrilling. He wasn't sure if he'd actually heard someone shouting back in the castle, or if it was just the wind… or something else.
Fortunately, he hadn't run into Filch or Professor Sprout. He made it back to the Gryffindor common room in one piece.
"If you sneak out again, I'll tell the professors!" the Fat Lady snapped as she swung open the portrait hole.
Harold pretended not to hear her.
Fred and George had already warned him: the Fat Lady only threatened to snitch—she never actually did it. That'd just create problems for herself.
What Harold didn't expect was to find the common room still lit up this late. Or rather, this early. It was already well past midnight.
The light came from Fred and George, lounging in armchairs, fiddling with a pile of junk they'd scrounged up from who-knows-where.
They didn't seem surprised to see him.
"We were just saying you should be back about now," Fred said, glancing over.
"What's that you've got?"
"A branch," Harold said.
"You broke curfew, snuck out of the castle… for a branch?" George looked baffled.
The stuff's everywhere—was it really worth the risk?
"It's from the Whomping Willow," Harold said pointedly, settling into the armchair across from them.
"...And that's supposed to be different?"
"Goes for three Galleons per ounce. That's twice the price of dragon's blood."
"How much?" both twins stood up so fast they nearly knocked the table over.
"You sure you didn't mean three Knuts?"
"Galleons," Harold said with a nod. "And even then, good luck finding someone willing to sell you any."
He'd asked his grandfather, Garrick Ollivander. Apparently, there was only one Whomping Willow in all of Britain—and fewer than ten in the entire magical world. Its rarity rivaled that of a phoenix.
And there was only one known phoenix in Britain—Fawkes.
So yes, it was expensive. So expensive that even Harold couldn't afford it. That's why he took the risk himself.
Asking the Headmaster for permission? Not a chance. Even Garrick Ollivander hadn't managed that. Sprout had full veto power over the tree. Not even Dumbledore could override her.
Across from him, Fred and George stared at each other with eyes practically shaped like Galleons.
"Oh…" Fred groaned. "What did we just miss out on…"
They knew there was a Whomping Willow on campus. They just never gave it much thought. But now, it might as well be a literal money tree.
Actually, at that price, gold would be a downgrade.
Without another word, the twins bolted for the portrait hole.
Harold blinked, stunned. By the time he jumped up to chase them, they'd already vanished into the corridor.
So much for waiting to hear the whole explanation.
He trudged back to his chair, hoping they didn't get themselves hurt.
On the table in front of him was their pile of junk: chipped plates, faded tapestries, moldy parchment… no clue where they'd found this stuff.
Sighing, Harold changed seats and finally gave his prize some proper attention.
The leaves had shriveled the moment they touched the ground. All that was left was a short, gray-brown branch. The bark was rough and hard, but it didn't feel as heavy as it looked—about the same heft as oak.
He measured it by hand. Roughly twenty inches. Plenty for one wand. Maybe barely enough for two if he pushed it.
After inspecting it for a moment, Harold decided not to wait. He had no urge to sleep, so he began processing the branch right then and there.
Step one: strip away the outer bark. This time, Harold skipped the slicing charm. He had better tools.
"Impurities, be gone!"
Warm yellow light glowed at his wand's tip. A breeze twisted around the branch like a serpent, brushing off dust, stones, and tiny splinters wherever it passed.
A silver light followed. The rough bark compressed inward, smoothing over like stone polished by a century of wind and water.
Gregorovitch, the famous Eastern European wandmaker, never left bark on his wands. He claimed it disrupted magical flow.
Ollivander, and by extension Harold, disagreed. For them, integrity and balance mattered more than isolated strength.
The fusion spell was slow and tedious—but necessary.
After half an hour, the branch had shrunk noticeably. Its surface now smooth and glossy like polished marble.
Before Harold could begin step two, he heard shuffling at the portrait hole.
Fred and George crawled in—literally crawling. Covered in dirt, gasping for breath, they looked like they'd just fought a mountain troll.
George's robe had a gaping tear, revealing a filthy blue sweater underneath.
They both collapsed on the floor, panting.
"It's got a real temper, doesn't it…" Fred wheezed, staring up at Harold. "You really should've warned us."
"I tried," Harold said with a shrug. "You bolted before I could get the words out."
"Can you blame us?" George groaned. "That thing's worse than a dragon…"
"You're lucky," Harold said. "This one's been pampered by Professor Sprout for a decade. It's way tamer than wild Willows. If it hadn't mellowed out, you'd be fertilizer by now." ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦•𝘯𝘦𝘵
"Ugh, don't remind me," George muttered, visibly pale at the thought.
"But I saw branches break off when it thrashed around," Fred said, still lying on the floor. "Could've grabbed them…"
"But Hagrid woke up. Then Sprout showed up. We had to bail."
"Wait—Professor Sprout saw you?"
"She didn't see us," George said quickly. "Maybe she thought it was an animal riling the tree up."
"I hope so," Harold said—but even so, he quickly packed everything off the table and made for the dorms, the wand wood tucked safely under his arm.
If Sprout did get suspicious, the ghosts would start checking dormitories next.
Better safe than sorry.