It was hard to say what exactly Professor McGonagall was feeling right now—even she couldn't fully make sense of it.
But half an hour later, Harold walked out of her office, successfully holding five strands of her hair.
Soon after, McGonagall herself left, crossing two hallways to reach the Headmaster's office, also located on the eighth floor.
What had happened today was far too bizarre. She needed someone to help her sort it all out—and Dumbledore was the best person for the job.
A grotesque stone gargoyle blocked the entrance.
"Toad Toffees," McGonagall said.
The gargoyle stood aside, revealing the spiraling staircase behind it.
She stepped onto the moving stairway, which soon brought her to the top, where she stood before a grand oak door.
Raising a hand, she knocked.
"Come in, Minerva," came Dumbledore's voice from inside.
McGonagall opened the door. Dumbledore was standing in front of a bookshelf, dressed in pink pajamas adorned with strawberries, complete with a matching pointed cap.
"Is there something you need?" he asked.
Perhaps she had grown used to this by now, but McGonagall wasn't fazed by the cake-like ensemble. She got straight to the point and recounted the entire event from half an hour ago.
"If a wizard's wand core is made from their own hair, then they must become the most harmonious pair imaginable—one mind, one will, unstoppable…" Dumbledore pushed his glasses up his nose, clearly intrigued.
"He really said that?"
"He did," McGonagall confirmed. "But, Dumbledore… is that even possible? Using a wizard's hair as a wand core?"
"Haven't you already witnessed something just as impossible?" Dumbledore countered. "Three spells cast simultaneously—utterly unheard of."
"If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't have believed it," McGonagall sighed.
Even having seen it, she still harbored doubts—otherwise, she wouldn't be here.
"Ollivander's craft is undeniably impressive. But why have I never seen a wand like that before?"
"No, Minerva. I don't think this is about Ollivander—at least not Garrick Ollivander," Dumbledore said as he walked over to a desk covered in silver instruments, lost briefly in thought.
"I just remembered something interesting."
"A year ago, when I was searching for a suitable Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—"
"Forgive me, Headmaster," McGonagall interrupted. "Did 'suitable' include being on the Ministry's wanted list?"
"Minerva, how cruel," Dumbledore said, his expression unchanged. "You know how hard it is to find someone willing to take the job these days. Honestly, we're lucky Quirinus volunteered this year—otherwise I'd still be searching."
"I just wish you'd take the process more seriously…" McGonagall muttered. "Fine. Go on."
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore continued. "I was visiting an old friend when I happened to meet Garrick Ollivander there. My friend told me that Garrick had been helping his grandson find suitable wand core materials. Called him a maverick—a genius wandmaker who could turn the strangest things into cores."
"Strange materials?" McGonagall blinked.
"That's the fun part," Dumbledore chuckled. "I suspect you missed a very important detail. The core of that round wand—was a Quintaped's brain."
McGonagall's eyes lit up, but quickly turned puzzled.
"Looks like it's starting to dawn on you," Dumbledore smiled. "In our traditional understanding, a wand core is always something slender—like a feather—easy to slot into the center of a wand, right?"
"Exactly," McGonagall nodded reflexively.
"And that's what makes this so fascinating," Dumbledore said, moving to the window. "I studied wandlore briefly—nothing fancy, but enough to say I was at apprentice level.
"In my view, a single strand of brain tissue wouldn't yield much change. It would probably function like a normal wand. But a whole brain? That's different. That ties into alchemical theories of magical medium integrity and complexity.
"Then again, maybe it wasn't a complete brain. After all, a full Quintaped should be able to channel five spells at once—and you only saw three.
"Ah, I see. He probably got it from Knockturn Alley. The stuff sold there is rarely whole."
"One moment, Albus," McGonagall interrupted as Dumbledore's speech grew faster and his eyes brighter. "How did he… how did Harold manage to do that?"
"Minerva, I don't know everything," Dumbledore said, shaking his head. "Wandlore is an ancient and mysterious craft—just like magic itself. That question may be something only Harold can answer."
McGonagall didn't reply.
She certainly wasn't about to go and ask a student such a thing.
A few minutes later, she stood to leave.
While many questions remained unanswered, she'd still gained something useful.
Dumbledore clearly knew about Harold—and that was enough.
"Wait a moment, Minerva," Dumbledore called out suddenly. "Can I ask you a favor?"
"Of course," McGonagall replied without hesitation. She turned back. "What is it?"
"Well…" Dumbledore suddenly looked a little sheepish. "If Harold does manage to make a wand from your hair—would you mind letting me know?"
"Hmm?" McGonagall blinked.
"I'm terribly curious," Dumbledore said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps I might even ask him to make one for me."
"Forgive me for saying this, Albus…" McGonagall stared at him. "But I doubt you need a wand that feels 'as natural as one's own arm' and 'unmatched in power.'"
"Thank you for the compliment, Minerva." Dumbledore's cheeks flushed slightly. "I'm simply curious. And my current wand… well, it can be a bit moody now and then."
McGonagall continued staring at him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he was joking.
And to be honest, she couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen Dumbledore with a wand. She had long suspected that he didn't even need one.
Still, after a moment's hesitation, she nodded.
"Alright. If that day ever comes, I'll let you know."
She didn't say it too firmly—she still had serious doubts about hair being a viable wand core. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩·𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢·𝔫𝔢𝔱