Harold was deeply troubled. The previous night, he'd impulsively made a bold decision—he was going to build a new "home" for the poor Voldemort fragment, one that would shield it from wind and rain. Official source ıs 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹✦𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖✦𝓷𝓮𝓽
In other words, he was planning to turn the Voldemort fragment into a wand core.
He knew this was an incredibly risky idea—one wrong move and he'd be Dementor chow. But then again… what if it worked?
Harold had actually entertained thoughts before. He was seven when he first discovered he could make wand cores out of materials no one thought possible. That had eventually led him to wonder: if Voldemort wasn't truly alive yet, did he still count as a wizard… or a magical creature?
It had been a purely hypothetical thought experiment to pass time while sunbathing. He never expected he'd actually get the chance to test the theory.
But now… here it was. A fragment of Voldemort. In his hand.
Who could resist that?
Besides, Harold had a couple of key advantages. Not only was he skilled in wandmaking—he was also a Hogwarts student.
That seemingly ordinary status gave him major backup. If something went horribly wrong, he could always run straight to the Headmaster. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't let a first-year be hauled off to Azkaban by Aurors?
Sure, it was a little shameless… but it worked. And getting expelled still beat spending eternity as a Dementor's bunkmate.
Plus, if he succeeded, it could mean discovering a whole new way to deal with Voldemort. A contribution to wizardkind. That sounded noble enough.
So after about a third of a second's hesitation, Harold got to work choosing a compatible wand wood.
That's when the real trouble began.
He suspended the fragment midair using a unicorn tail-hair net and laid out various wand woods around it.
By the next morning, everything had been destroyed—including his last bit of Whomping Willow. Some woods had frozen solid; others had withered and rotted under the fragment's influence.
Harold was gutted. That Whomping Willow piece wasn't even full wand-length, but it was precious. Fred and George had nearly died retrieving it.
Meanwhile, the rest of Hogwarts was still buzzing about Harry's battle with Quirrell. Somehow, the entire fight had leaked overnight, and now it was all anyone could talk about—even during the Quidditch final.
No one remembered Harry's recent 200-point penalty. Students were lining up to bring him sweets and gifts.
Even Ron was basking in the attention. He was retelling his chess match heroics at least eight times a day and loving every second of it.
"I just don't get what's so special," Fred muttered as Ron held court in the common room.
"I've heard five different versions already. In one of them, the chess pieces were thirty feet tall."
"Mm-hmm…" Harold barely responded.
Maybe I should try the serpentine wood, he thought. But even he couldn't commit to that yet.
Voldemort claimed to be Slytherin's heir, and Slytherin's wand was made of serpentwood. It was a fitting match in theory.
But serpentwood was rare—far rarer than Whomping Willow. The piece Harold had was only twelve inches. Even testing a half-inch would require painful deliberation.
And even then, could it handle the fragment's aura? Could anything?
"Maybe I should ask a ghost how they deal with the cold," Harold mumbled aloud.
"What was that?" Fred blinked. "Did you say you're going to ask a ghost something?"
"Ah, it's nothing." Harold waved it off. "Just thinking how ghosts give you that freezing feeling when you walk through them. I was wondering if there's a way to block it."
Both twins shuddered.
They remembered the sensation all too well—like plunging into the Black Lake on a snowy day. It was awful. They'd even invented a Cold Cloak to simulate the feeling, though sales had been… dismal.
"Nothing works," George said. "Not even Warming Charms. The only way is to stick a fireplace on 'em."
"To warm them up?" Harold asked.
"No, to make them really obvious," Fred grinned. "So you can see them coming and run."
Visible… fireplace… Wait a second.
Harold suddenly bolted upright, darting past the twins and racing upstairs to his trunk.
He did have something like that—a "fireplace" of sorts, one that could be used on ghosts.
Five minutes later, he unearthed a carefully wrapped, special piece of wand wood: dragonblood wood, aged 1,300 years. A pre-term gift from his grandfather, Garrick Ollivander.
He'd never dared use it—until now.
There was no way to find a wand wood that shared the fragment's dark nature. So why not choose its opposite?
Dragonblood wood was grown in dragon nests, bathed in flame. Ghosts hated it.
That was why Harold had never carried it before—Hogwarts was full of ghosts. Carrying this would turn him into a ghost magnet. Or worse, a ghost enemy.
But right now, he couldn't care less.
He snapped off a small piece and placed it near the floating fragment, then hesitated.
After a long sigh, he broke off half an inch of his serpentwood and placed it on the other side.
If this didn't work, he'd have to ask the unicorn to "charge" the fragment again—to weaken its Voldemort content.
This was getting dangerous.