When July first rolled around and the holidays had just begun, the wand shop remained closed. Not only was Garrick Ollivander too busy to manage the shop, but new students hadn't even received their Hogwarts letters yet.
It would likely be another month before the owls delivered their acceptance letters, and only then would the shop truly open for business.
Garrick Ollivander stayed in his room for a week straight, and during that time, Harold spent most of his days flipping through those dry, dense wandcraft books.
Only after entering Hogwarts had Harold realized how lacking he was in theoretical knowledge—now that he had the time, it was only natural to start making up for it.
Still, he wasn't stuck reading all the time. Whenever boredom struck, he would head to the Leaky Cauldron for a bit of relaxation, order a mug of butterbeer, and listen to the drunks boast about riding Swedish Short-Snout dragons into battle during the giant wars.
Whether they were actually capable of getting near a Swedish Short-Snout—or whether they'd be scared stiff by a real giant—didn't matter. Everyone around was having a good time.
"I knew you lot wouldn't believe me, but that's fine..." slurred a middle-aged wizard in a cowboy hat, swaying against the bar after taking a deep swig.
"When I crushed that giant underfoot—hic—you lot were still quivering in fear of the Death Eaters... I won't hold it against you..."
As his boasting grew increasingly outrageous, even casting shade across the entire room, a wizard in a purple robe couldn't take it anymore. He shouted:
"John, which giant did you stomp? Gurg or Golruk?"
"Uh... Gurg!" the cowboy-hatted wizard, John, stammered.
"Really?" The purple-robed wizard looked shocked—then quickly dropped the act. "I don't buy it. That giant definitely wasn't named Gurg!"
"You think I'm lying?" John flushed, slamming his fist on the bar. "His name was Gurg—I remember it clear as day!"
After a brief silence, the entire Leaky Cauldron burst into raucous laughter. Even the flames from the floating candles on the ceiling flickered with amusement.
Patrons clutched their stomachs, roaring with laughter. Only John sat there, baffled by what was so funny.
Eventually, Tom—the pub owner (not the one who lurked in the Forbidden Forest)—took pity and whispered to John that "Gurg" wasn't a name but a title: the equivalent of Hogwarts Headmaster or Minister for Magic among giants.
John's ears instantly turned bright red—like they'd been licked by a fire-dwelling salamander. He tried to stand and defend himself, but nearly tripped over his own cloak.
"What do you all know!" he bellowed drunkenly. "Back then... back then…"
"You were probably cowering at home too scared to leave!" someone helpfully finished the sentence for him.
Ten years ago, the Dark Lord had recruited giants to attack the wizarding world, causing widespread panic and destruction. Anyone who had actually been involved back then would definitely know what "Gurg" meant.
"I'll bet he can't even tell a giant from a troll—unless the troll was wearing a cowboy hat!" That earned another round of laughter so loud it nearly shook the Leaky Cauldron's old sign off its hinges.
Harold watched as John slumped over like a defeated Diricawl and knew the show was over. He downed the rest of his butterbeer and slipped out the back door into Diagon Alley.
As he passed a certain side alley, Harold paused instinctively.
This was the entrance to Knockturn Alley. He'd visited it a few times earlier that week, hoping to spot some good-quality, reasonably priced wand-core materials.
Harold had lived in Diagon Alley for several years. Even in Knockturn Alley, there were a few who recognized him.
Of course, most of them only knew him because of Garrick Ollivander, and were generally willing to give the old wandmaker's grandson some face—so long as Harold didn't wander too deep.
The folks who lived in the darker parts of Knockturn Alley didn't respect anyone—not even Dumbledore's name carried much weight, let alone Garrick Ollivander's.
Harold knew that well. So even when he came to Knockturn Alley, he rarely strayed beyond Borgin and Burkes.
But lately, something felt off—there were more and more unfamiliar faces in Knockturn Alley.
Last time he came by, the stall that used to sell dark creature hearts and toes had vanished, replaced by an old witch whose teeth were covered in green moss.
"Forget it, maybe next time," Harold muttered for safety's sake. He turned around and headed back to the wand shop.
And to his surprise, found Garrick Ollivander behind the counter.
"You're actually out here?" Harold blinked. "That quick—you've already figured it all out?"
"Then what brought you out?" Harold asked. "It's only the first week of break. New students won't get their letters for a while."
"No, it's something else." Garrick looked at him seriously. "Would you be interested in a bit of a trip?"
"Holiday travel?" Harold shook his head. "No thanks. I'd rather sit in the Leaky Cauldron and listen to half-true tales of goblin rebellions and giant wars."
"No, not a normal trip." Garrick paused, then continued, "I'm talking about taking you to some very special places. Haven't you always wondered where we get our dragon heartstrings, unicorn tail hairs, and all those wand woods?"
"Huh?" Harold, who had just been about to head upstairs, froze and turned around. "Didn't you say that, traditionally, I'd have to wait until after graduation?"
"Under normal circumstances, yes," Garrick nodded. "It's about not wasting precious resources. I wasn't taken to Romania until after I finished Hogwarts. But I don't think you need to wait that long..."
Something—perhaps the memory of that unicorn wand—flickered across Garrick's expression. It was... complicated.
How did he even manage that... No, forget it. Best not to think about it.
Harold stared as his grandfather began smacking himself in the forehead, muttering under his breath.
"Are you okay?" he asked, genuinely unsure whether something had gone wrong.
"I'm fine," Garrick said quickly, having read Harold's mind. "So, about this trip to Romania…"
"Still not interested," Harold shrugged. New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝✦𝘧𝙞𝙧𝙚✦𝕟𝕖𝕥
If it were any other destination, maybe even a year ago, he would've been eager to tag along. But Romania?
Unlike Garrick, Harold wasn't interested in just heartstrings or nerve fibers—he wanted entire dragon hearts.
And the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary wasn't going to hand those out, no matter who asked.
Not with how valuable dragon hearts were for potions and alchemy—they were one of the rarest magical materials in existence.
He'd never get what he wanted there. Better not to bother going at all. If he ever needed dragon nerves, he could always ask Garrick.