Late that night, Harold returned to the wand shop. The moment he relaxed, exhaustion hit him like a tidal wave. His head was pounding and everything felt heavy, but he forced himself to stay awake. Instead of collapsing straight into bed, he first pulled the curtains tightly shut, then slowly opened his left hand.
A small pile of grayish-white ash slipped from his palm, crumbling like the remains of burnt charcoal. Just hours ago, it had been a complete wand, about two inches long—his best piece of work yet. And it was because of that wand that Harold had so recklessly charged into Knockturn Alley without a second thought for the dangers.
Thinking back on it, it made perfect sense. A wand capable of casting the Killing Curse without any chant or gesture would make anyone feel invincible. How could Harold have feared a few thugs who barely knew how to hold a wand properly?
And the wand hadn't disappointed. One surge of magic, and an enhanced Killing Curse wiped out the attackers in an instant. He hadn't even needed to summon the unicorn as backup like he'd planned.
The price, however, had been steep. As the green light faded from Borgin and Burkes, the wand crumbled to nothing in his hand, leaving only this handful of scorching hot ash.
A thousand-year-old piece of Dragonblood wood, a fragment of serpentwood, even a sliver of Voldemort's soul... all reduced to dust.
Still, Harold couldn't help but admit—grudgingly—that it had been worth it. That kind of power, raw and unstoppable, was something he had never even dared to dream of holding.
He found a small box, brushed the ash carefully into it, and closed the lid with a snap. A keepsake, he thought grimly. A souvenir from the night he truly danced on the edge of death.
It was absurd, really. He was just a wandmaker, yet his life seemed more dangerous than Harry Potter's.
Were there more enemies waiting for him?Probably not.
According to old Borgin, six Death Eaters had come from North America using Polyjuice Potion to sneak into Diagon Alley. All six had been there that night—along with their master's soul fragment—and all six had perished.
In a way, Harold mused, he had even done them a favor. Dying alongside the Dark Lord's soul was surely an honor in their eyes. What a generous soul he was, helping them fulfill their dreams so thoroughly.
The thought made him snort, though it didn't chase away the unease lingering at the back of his mind. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
What if there were others?What if another group arrived from South America next time? Or Europe?
And then there was Borgin himself. Harold couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed in the old man's attitude.
At first, Borgin had been aggressive, greedy, defiant. But after Harold mentioned Quirinus Quirrell, everything changed. Borgin had practically bowed to him on the way out, speaking with a reverence that had been almost ridiculous.
It wasn't just fear. There had been something more. Respect? Awe?
Even stranger, Borgin had acted like Harold's devastating wand was something typical of the Ollivander family—as if such destruction were normal for them.
Harold thought about it until he finally drifted into a restless sleep, clutching his unicorn-core wand for comfort. It was only near dawn that he managed to get a few hours' sleep.
When he stumbled downstairs, the shop was already open for business. His grandfather, Garrick Ollivander, was standing behind the counter, his silver eyes sharp as ever.
"School letter came," Garrick said, handing Harold an envelope and a small bag of Galleons.
Harold tore open the envelope and skimmed the familiar yellow parchment. Nothing new: he was to board the Hogwarts Express from Platform 9¾ on September 1st.
Then he glanced at the supply list—and immediately felt his head start to ache.
Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2, by Miranda Goshawk. Fine, expected, and cheap at five Sickles. But after that…
Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart.Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart.Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart.…and four more, all authored by Lockhart.
Each book cost at least five Galleons!
Harold groaned and ran a hand through his hair. How could he have forgotten about Gilderoy bloody Lockhart?
No wonder Garrick had slipped him extra Galleons. This year's book list was daylight robbery.
Honestly, how had Dumbledore allowed this? Was he getting a cut of the profits?
Muttering to himself, Harold finally looked up. "Grandfather," he said, "I'm going to put an advertisement outside today—promoting the wand dye sprays, the stickers, and the maintenance kits."
Garrick frowned, just as Harold expected. "You always said those things were scams."
"They are," Harold said without hesitation. "But I need money."
He wasn't thinking about the Lockhart books anymore.
His mind was back on Knockturn Alley, on that night's desperate battle, and the frightening power he had tasted.He needed protection. He needed a new weapon.
And for that, he needed Dragonblood wood.
Harold's fists clenched at his sides. Reputation? Pride?
To hell with all of it.
He was going to make money.He was going to buy Dragonblood wood.And next time, he would be ready.