The next day, the Weasley family set off for Egypt to visit their eldest son, Bill Weasley.
At the same time, Harold and Garrick left Ollivander's Wand Shop and made their way to the Leaky Cauldron.
Harold was heading out on a journey too—but not with the Weasleys, and certainly not to Egypt.
After exiting the pub into the side alley, Harold drew his wand.
"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" Garrick asked one last time. "Don't forget, underage wizards aren't allowed to use magic outside of school. If I'm with you, you won't have to worry about the Ministry chasing you down."
"No worries," Harold said. "Where I'm going, there aren't any Muggles. The Ministry won't be keeping such a close eye."
Not every wizard was Harry Potter—worthy of constant surveillance by the Ministry.
In reality, the Trace had to be reviewed manually. It wasn't as efficient as people assumed. Most kids who got caught using magic did so near their own homes—like Harry in Little Whinging, where he was the only wizard around. If magic happened there, the Ministry knew who to blame.
But Harold wasn't going anywhere residential this time. It wouldn't be so easy to trace him.
"Besides, I've still got the Portkey you gave me, don't I?"
He pulled out a cloth-wrapped metal clasp from his pocket. "With how slow Hit Wizards are, I'll probably be long gone before they even show up."
This particular Portkey had been made by Garrick himself—touching it would instantly transport Harold back to the Leaky Cauldron's back courtyard.
Seeing Garrick still hesitant, Harold added, "Besides, the new students' Hogwarts letters are going out soon. Can you really close up the shop at a time ?"
At the mention of this year's first-years, Garrick finally relented.
He was right. As soon as new students got their letters, they'd flock to Diagon Alley for their wands. He couldn't afford to be closed.
"But… are you really going to meet the Bloody Baron alone?" Garrick frowned. "That name alone gives me the creeps."
"Relax. He's just a ghost. Can't even touch me," Harold replied.
Just then, a triple-decker purple bus screeched into view at the alley's end and came to a sudden stop before them.
The door swung open, and a conductor in a purple uniform hopped out.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus! Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard… I'm Stan Shunpike, your conductor this evening."
"Hi," Harold greeted him.
"How much to Wiltshire?"
"Thirteen Sickles," Stan replied. "Seventeen gets you a cup of hot chocolate, and eighteen comes with a hot water bottle and a toothbrush—pick any colour you like."
"Hot chocolate, then." Harold handed over a Galleon.
"Perfect." Stan grinned, accepting the coin and gesturing toward the open door.
"Be careful," Garrick called after him. "Portkeys aren't foolproof."
Harold nodded and boarded the bus.
With a deafening BANG, the Knight Bus leapt out of the alley and vanished.
This trip was far longer than the ride to King's Cross Station. When Harold entered, instead of seats, he saw six or seven brass-framed beds—probably the second or third deck.
"You'll be in this one." Stan led him to a middle bed and returned shortly with his hot chocolate.
"Thanks." Harold took a sip.
It was a bit more bitter than the Leaky Cauldron's, but not bad. And with the ghost he'd soon be meeting, a warm drink might actually help.
The Knight Bus hurtled through the countryside at breakneck speed, but despite the wild jolting, Harold never fell out of bed—apparently, the bed was enchanted to keep him firmly in place.
Realising this, Harold relaxed, letting the swaying lull him as he focused on the task ahead.
Yesterday, thanks to a throwaway comment from Fred and George, Harold had finally realized why the serpentwood wand had failed—because the basilisk eye's curse had "killed" the wand wood's magic. The two components had clashed, resulting in magical instability.
Well… "killed" wasn't quite right. Magic wasn't technically alive. Maybe "paralyzed" was more accurate.
Either way, the wand's wood had lost its effectiveness. The core had overpowered it.
Once they identified the problem, Garrick Ollivander quickly proposed a solution: insert a buffer layer between the wood and the core to dampen the curse.
His first thought had been phoenix tail feathers. After all, phoenixes were immune to the basilisk's curse—surely their feathers would be too.
But how to insert them?
No way. That would just make the wand explode—this wasn't Silvermane, and the basilisk eye wasn't a unicorn's soul.
Wrap the feather around the basilisk's eye and treat it as a composite core?
That… might work. Garrick couldn't do it, but Harold probably could—his innate ability made him uniquely suited to such delicate work.
But there was another problem: phoenixes and basilisks were mortal enemies. Combining their essences would likely result in mutual destruction.
Unicorn hair? Also incompatible—unicorns were also the basilisk's natural enemy.
Dragon heartstring? That wouldn't help—it couldn't block the curse.
From morning until night, the two of them brainstormed, but nothing worked.
Until late that night…
Maybe it was all the recent soul business with Voldemort, but Harold suddenly thought of him.
What if he filled the gap between the wood and core with a fragment of Voldemort's soul?
That would work perfectly—if only it were even remotely possible.
But that was absurd. Voldemort's soul fragments weren't exactly easy to come by. The diadem was still missing. The cup was locked in Gringotts. And he definitely wasn't going to destroy the Horcrux Codex just for a wand.
So he had to settle for a substitute… like a ghost. Thɪs chapter is updated by 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩⁂𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢⁂𝔫𝔢𝔱
Ghosts froze when they looked at the basilisk—just like magic did.
So what if a ghost stood between the wand's wood and the basilisk eye?
Would the curse pass through unhindered?
That question excited Harold so much he couldn't sleep all night.
Normal ghosts couldn't be used for wandcraft—they were intangible. But there were other types…
Last Halloween, Harold had deliberately attended Sir Nicholas's Deathday Party and gotten an address from a few of the other ghosts.
A location where a "Black Ghost" was kept imprisoned—one so steeped in dark magic that even in death, it still tried to kill Muggles… and other wizards.
Most people couldn't handle something like that. But Harold could.
His fingers brushed the hilt of Silvermane—the wand imbued with the soul of a unicorn.
And if anything could counter an evil ghost, it was the spirit of a unicorn.
So Harold had packed up and set out.