"I finally understand why Minerva is so fond of her new wand."
In an empty classroom on the second floor of Hogwarts, Professor Flitwick stared at the wand in his hand as if it were a priceless treasure.
In the magical world, most witches and wizards don't easily change wands—not just out of sentimentality, but because of the habits and techniques they've built up over years of casting spells. Switching wands means dismantling all those habits and recalibrating the magical flow of every incantation.
For someone who hadn't changed wands in decades, it was like asking a right-hander to suddenly start writing with their left.
But if the wand was exceptional enough… that was a different story. Just like how Flitwick was feeling right now.
He truly loved his original wand—the one he'd bonded with at Ollivanders, the one that had helped him win two consecutive dueling championships. That's why, years ago, when McGonagall showed off her custom wand, he hadn't immediately gone to Harold.
Because he already had a great wand.
But now? Flitwick realized he may have underestimated just how transformative a truly perfect wand could be.
This wand didn't feel like a tool—it felt like a part of his body. As natural and instinctive as moving an arm or a leg. It was as if the wand wasn't even there—just pure magic, flowing exactly where he wanted it.
More than that, it made spellcasting feel… relaxed.
He couldn't quite explain it, but when he used this wand, it felt like he didn't need to focus as hard on tracking an opponent's movement. He just needed to cast. The wand did the rest.
"Oh, this is Whomping Willow, isn't it?" Flitwick said, running his fingers over the wand's texture and quickly identifying the wood. "If I'm not mistaken, this came from the one on the school grounds?"
"Yes," Harold nodded. "I collected some smaller branches. I made sure not to damage the main trunk, but they were just right for wandmaking."
"Of course, of course," Flitwick murmured. "Still… if Pomona finds out, she'll probably come after me first."
"Sorry, what was that?" Harold asked.
"Nothing," Flitwick said quickly. "But if this wand shaft really is Whomping Willow, then I got a bargain. The Galleons I paid wouldn't even cover the branch itself."
"It's fine," Harold said, pretending to be indifferent even though it stung a little. "It's not like I bought those branches."
Flitwick chuckled and tapped a vase on his desk with the wand. It floated into the air, twirling and swaying like a dancer.
"I think Garrick can start considering retirement," he said with genuine admiration. "Harold, you're more than capable of taking over the family shop right now."
"I doubt Professor Dumbledore would approve of me dropping out to run a wand shop," Harold shrugged.
"Don't forget Minerva," Flitwick teased. "If she knew I was encouraging a Gryffindor to abandon his education, she'd challenge me to a duel. And honestly, I'm not sure I'd win against her Transfiguration skills."
They chatted a while longer before Harold glanced at the time and rushed off toward the dungeons, making it to class just before the bell rang.
Snape, clearly annoyed he hadn't found an excuse to deduct points, gave him a long look.
"Our very busy Mr. Ollivander has finally arrived," Snape drawled. "May we begin class now?"
The Slytherins burst into laughter.
"Potter! Why are you wearing a hat in class?" Snape suddenly barked. "Five points from Gryffindor. Take that ridiculous thing off—or it'll be ten!"
Harry, scowling, yanked off his woolen pointed hat while Snape, finally satisfied, turned to the board.
"Today's lesson—Awakening Potion," he announced. "Its effect is to prevent the drinker from falling asleep. I imagine it's not unfamiliar to some of you."
His gaze swept the Gryffindors. "I hear some of you go crawling to the hospital wing the day before term starts, begging for Awakening Potion."
Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan quickly ducked their heads.
Snape, unfortunately, didn't see the one student he most hoped to catch.
"No need to bother Madam Pomfrey next time," he sneered. "Assuming, of course, you dare drink your own concoctions."
"Well? Why are you all still standing there? Don't make me tell you to fetch your ingredients!"
Everyone scrambled for the supply cabinet.
"Moonstone, peppermint leaves, lemongrass, dew, unicorn hair…" Harold murmured, checking the ingredients he'd grabbed against the board. Everything was in order.
As he began grinding the moonstone, Harry slid over.
"I thought for sure you were going to be late."
"Almost," Harold said. "Bit of a rush."
"Not that it'd matter for you," Harry added. "You were with Professor Flitwick. He'd vouch for you, wouldn't he?"
"You think Snape would care?"
"…Fair point," Harry admitted with a wry smile. Snape's favorite pastime was deducting points from Gryffindor. Even Flitwick probably couldn't change that.
"They still haven't made up?" Harold asked, glancing at the others.
Ron was sitting with Seamus and Dean. Hermione was far off at another table with Parvati Patil.
"They did," Harry sighed, "but then last night Crookshanks suddenly attacked Scabbers again. Now it's all blown up."
"When exactly?"
"Right after dinner. Ron and I were talking in the common room—Scabbers was in his jacket pocket. Crookshanks came in, and the moment he saw Scabbers, he leapt."
"The whole common room descended into chaos. Took ten minutes to pin that cat down."
Harold hadn't noticed. He'd spent the entire evening in the dorm working on the final stages of Flitwick's wand. He hadn't heard any of the commotion.
That was odd, though. Crookshanks was usually with Tom these days. Those two were inseparable—if you saw one, the other wasn't far.
But Harold was certain Tom hadn't come back to the dorm last night. Only Crookshanks had.
And why was the cat suddenly so interested in Scabbers again?
…
(End of Chapter)