Garrick and Harold spent an entire week buried in the wandlore archive—surrounded by books and berated endlessly by the enchanted portraits within—yet they still couldn't find the reason the wand had failed.
Apparently, none of the previous Ollivanders had ever used a basilisk to craft a wand core.
There were records of using Runespoors and Horned Serpents—quite a few, in fact—but not a single documented attempt involving a basilisk. The closest they found was a tenth-century Ollivander who once crafted a wand using the tail feather of a rooster… one that had supposedly laid a basilisk egg.
And after that, the trail went cold.
In the following days, Harold seemed to lose all spirit, dragging through everything he did with a lack of motivation.
"Maybe the curse magic in the basilisk's eye is simply too strong, and the serpentwood itself wasn't long enough to balance it out," Garrick offered, trying to comfort him.
While unlikely, the theory that the wood was too short to support the basilisk's overwhelming magic was the most plausible explanation they'd come up with so far.
Another two weeks passed. With no new leads in sight, Harold was finally forced to accept that possibility.
Still, every time he thought about how such rare serpentwood and an actual basilisk's eye had been reduced to a defective wand, it felt like his heart was bleeding.
To take his mind off it, Garrick suggested a change of scenery—perhaps a trip abroad. The Black Forest of Germany, the glacial forests of Norway, or the primeval wilds of Albania.
Each location was one of the world's most famous magical woodlands, rich in both beauty and rare magical creatures. A worthy adventure.
But Harold didn't feel up to it and declined, choosing instead to bury himself in schoolwork to drown out his frustration.
While Hogwarts homework wasn't particularly difficult, it came in bulk—and this summer's load was nearly as hefty as their spring term revision sets.
Harold forced himself to focus on textbooks, quills, and parchment. As long as his hands and mind were occupied, he wouldn't think about that failed wand.
It took him three days, but he finally finished his potion essay on the Shrinking Solution—after combing through the entire textbook to find all the obscure details he needed.
And of course, it was Snape. It was always Snape. His assignments were the hardest, the longest, and always the most complicated.
But for the first time, Harold almost appreciated it.
At least when he was researching for Potions, he was too busy to think about serpentwood. He was more focused on mentally cursing Snape instead.
Time ticked by, both slowly and quickly, until the end of July.
The Hogwarts letter arrived while Harold was writing his final History of Magic essay. The topic: "The Fourteenth-Century Witch Burnings Were Complete Nonsense."
"A real witch need only cast a basic Flame-Freezing Charm to neutralize the heat of the flames…"
He was mid-sentence when a letter suddenly thunked down in front of him, startling him into jerking his quill—and leaving a large ink blot on the parchment.
"Merlin, that scared me…" Harold muttered, waving his wand to clean the ink stain.
He glanced up at the owl on the windowsill and glared. "You keep that up and I will file a complaint."
The owl tilted its head, clearly saying, "Owl knows nothing. Owl wants nuts."
Harold didn't give it any. He rudely shooed the bird away. Listening to its indignant hoots as it flew off, Harold suddenly felt better.
"I really am a horrible person," he mumbled to himself. "But that's okay. I'm a Gryffindor, after all…"
He opened the envelope. Expecting the usual book list for next term, he was surprised to find a short message instead:
"There may be a thunderstorm in a month. Please be prepared."
A thunderstorm—in a month?
Harold's eyes lit up. Finally, something that actually excited him.
He couldn't wait to see what his Animagus form would be.
Maybe a sleek feline? That would be cool. Or even better, something with wings…
Grinning, Harold headed downstairs.
Garrick saw the Hogwarts seal on the envelope and assumed it was the usual school letter.
"That came early this year," he said, flipping the "Closed" sign on the shop door and putting last year's advertising board back at the alley entrance.
Just as the shop reopened, their first customers arrived—or rather, weren't customers.
It was Fred and George.
"Hey, we've got news!" Fred said, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically. "You'll never guess what we're here to tell you."
"Let me try…" Harold looked at him. "Mr. Weasley won the Daily Prophet Grand Prize Draw, and your whole family's going to Egypt. Right?"
"…How did you know?" George gaped.
"Because I'm a Seer," Harold said. "Didn't you read it? It's printed on Lockhart's books."
"Oh, come off it," Fred waved dismissively. "You saw it in The Prophet."
"Dad won the big draw—seven hundred Galleons!" George said proudly.
"Mum's putting all of it toward the trip," Fred added.
"Came to pick up a few essentials—"
"And check in on you!"
The two were practically bouncing with excitement.
"Don't worry—we'll bring you back a souvenir."
"How about a mummy?" Fred grinned.
"I'm fine with that," Harold said, "if you can get it past customs."
"Tricky, but worth a shot," George said seriously.
"Of course, they say mummies are cursed," he added, suddenly thoughtful. "And that the curses seep into the wrappings… we'll need a plan."
"Yeah, something to neutralize the curse first. Then it'll be easier to sneak back."
The twins kept chatting animatedly, not noticing that Harold's face had changed—or Garrick's.
Both of them seemed to realize something at the same time.
"…It's the basilisk's curse!"
A spark lit in Harold's mind. He finally understood why the wand had failed.
The basilisk's curse didn't just kill living things—it could erode magic itself.
Just like how ghosts—untouchable by even the Killing Curse—still froze under its gaze. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢•𝓷𝓮𝓽
The wand core had "killed" the wand wood's magic.
That explained the magical imbalance. With the wand's magic "dead," of course it wouldn't resonate properly.
"Yes. That has to be it," Harold shouted excitedly, then dashed up the stairs without looking back.
Garrick followed him, leaving Fred and George standing bewildered at the counter.
"…What was that about?" Fred asked. "And what did he say just now?"
"No idea," George replied. Then, cautiously, "Maybe it's how we should handle the mummy?"
"…Wait, you don't think he seriously wants us to bring one back, do you?"
"…Let's get out of here before he makes us promise."
The twins exchanged a glance—and bolted out the door.