Chapter 114: The Gift for Hagrid

Silven hadn’t expected Hagrid to have prepared something for him too.

The bag contained all the magical creature materials he’d recently collected—hair, scales, feathers, even unnamed bones—plenty of them, heavy to carry.

At the same time, Silven took out his own gift… a two-foot-long oak wand.

The moment it was pulled from the lizard-skin pouch, it thudded onto the floor and dented it.

“This is…” Hagrid initially thought it was a Beater’s bat, but the weight felt wrong—he’d never seen a bat that could dent the floor.

“Wand,” Silven said, flexing his wrist slightly. “The core—you’ve seen it. That complete troll spine.”

“Troll… Merlin’s beard, you actually turned that into a wand?” Hagrid stared at Silven, stepping forward in disbelief.

Hagrid knew Silven intended to make the bone into a core, but he never thought he could succeed.

He remembered the thing was still nearly three feet long—how could it possibly be shaped like unicorn hair?

And now Silven was saying he’d done it?

Hagrid couldn’t help walking over to examine the “bat.”

Though its length matched, he still found it hard to believe.

“Is this really a wand?” Hagrid asked.

“Authentic,” Silven said. “But unlike traditional wands—this one only casts the Shield Charm. Still, it has advantages.”

Silven explained the wand’s features in under a minute—really, just one sentence.

As long as you channel magic, it automatically casts the Shield Charm on you—but nothing else.

Such a peculiar wand left Hagrid astounded—he’d never seen a wand that could cast only one spell, yet the fact it required no incantation or gesture was deeply tempting.

“This is my gift,” Silven said. “I planned to give it to you at Christmas, but an owl couldn’t carry this weight.”

“Ah? No, I can’t accept it,” Hagrid hurriedly shook his head. “You know, I already have a wand.”

He glanced instinctively at the corner cabinet—Silven’s repaired wand from last year still sat inside, now far easier to use than before.

“Different,” Silven said, watching him. “You can use the other one daily. This one’s best for combat. Didn’t you ever use a wand when you fought Death Eaters ten years ago?”

“That’s true… wait, how do you know that?” Hagrid froze.

He’d fought Death Eaters before Voldemort fell—Silven was barely a few months old then.

“Headmaster Dumbledore told me.”

Oh, that explained it—he really hadn’t used a wand when fighting Death Eaters.

It was too much trouble: find the enemy, locate them, cast the spell, aim, flick your wrist—he wasn’t good at it, always messed up when flustered.

Better to just charge through their curses and punch them into the wall.

“You’re a wizard, Hagrid, not a true giant,” Silven hefted the troll wand onto his shoulder. “Magic is your greatest strength—why not try using it?”

“The Shield Charm enhances your body, and this heavy wand can double as a weapon—perfect for you.”

“Still no,” Hagrid kept shaking his head. “Too valuable. In Knockturn Alley, untreated troll spines go for thirty Galleons each.”

“But that spine was yours to begin with,” Silven adjusted his stance. “...Help me hold this, it’s incredibly heavy.”

“Ah, sure,” Hagrid took the wand from Silven’s shoulder as easily as if it were a feather quill.

“How does it feel?” Silven asked.

“It’s… it’s fine,” Hagrid said, surprised.

The wand looked small, but its weight matched his six-foot stone bow—lighter as a weapon, yet still comfortable.

Hagrid swung it again—the air screamed as it cut through, like a roaring troll.

“This wand truly suits you,” Silven nodded approvingly. “Others struggle just to hold it—you handle it effortlessly.”

“Try casting the Engorgement Charm,” Silven continued. “You know it, right? Normal pumpkins don’t grow to the size of carriages.”

A spell flashed in Hagrid’s mind—before he could speak it, a pale gray light flared along the wand.

It started at the tip, then shot faster to the butt, finally sinking into Hagrid’s palm.

“Hum…”

Before Hagrid, a faint, pale gray barrier appeared.

“This is…”

“The Shield Charm,” Silven said. He’d never seen one so visibly pronounced—Hagrid’s body nearly glowed.

Feeling the change, Hagrid stood dumbfounded—if not for the magic flowing from the wand, he’d swear Silven had cast it.

No incantation needed… no aiming… Hagrid’s eyes flickered with longing.

Even if it could cast only one spell, it was enough for him—he’d always fought with his fists before.

“It seems to have chosen you,” Silven smiled, recalling the speed of the Shield Charm. “If you think the wand lacks offensive power, you could turn it into an axe—or another weapon—as long as you don’t damage the shaft.”

Hearing this, Hagrid instantly forgot his intention to refuse.

“Turn it into another weapon… what do you mean?”

“Literally,” Silven said, pointing his wand at a tea towel on the table.

The towel transformed into a gleaming axe blade, which Silven guided to land atop the troll wand.

Instantly, the wand became an axe—similar to those held by stone statues in the castle, just shorter.

“Something like that,” Silven said. “I thickened the oak shaft to match the troll spine—reduced flexibility and stealth, but greatly increased durability. Perfect as a haft.”

“Professor Dumbledore could probably attach a blade without harming the shaft. Of course, you can choose another weapon if you prefer.”

“Goodbye, Hagrid. I’ll visit again when I have time.”

Before Hagrid could recover from the absurd suggestion, Silven had returned to the castle and was already eating lunch.

He’d long wanted to give Hagrid the troll wand. Though its property could shield him from explosions during dragonwood wand crafting, it would also make him dependent.

Silven suspected his high failure rate with dragonwood wands came from never fearing explosion damage.

If you’re never at risk, how could you take it seriously?

Giving it to Hagrid was, in a way, a trade-off.

…

In the afternoon, Harry returned, bringing news of the house-elf Dobby.

“So Malfoy’s house-elf did all this?” Ron’s voice rose, as if hearing the biggest joke ever.

“It blocked the platform entrance to stop you from boarding the train, and made the Bludgers hit your head—all to save you?”

“That’s what it said…”

“Do you believe it?”

Harry said nothing. He found it incomprehensible, yet deep down, he felt Dobby hadn’t lied.

Seeing Harry’s silence, Ron instantly understood.

“It’s Malfoy’s house-elf,” he emphasized. “This might be Malfoy’s scheme. Don’t forget—the Bludger nearly crushed your skull. Is that saving you?”

“Dobby said it was an accident—he only meant to break my arm,” Harry whispered, sounding unconvincing. “When he explained, he kept banging his head against the wall. He didn’t look like he was lying.”

“Classic Malfoy tactic,” Ron sneered.

Harry grew even more uncertain.

He wanted to believe Dobby—but the moment he remembered Dobby belonged to Malfoy, his trust began crumbling.

“By the way, how did you know it… Dobby… was Malfoy’s house-elf?”

“I saw him,” Harry said. “When Malfoy’s father came to the hospital wing to pick him up, Dobby was right beside him. They thought I was asleep, but I was awake the whole time.”

“Later, Dobby came to me at night—I recognized him by that filthy tea towel he wore,” Harry frowned. “But Ron, what’s a house-elf? Like a goblin?”

“Of course not,” Ron said. “House-elves are the best servants in a wizarding family—they can do countless tasks. My mum’s always wanted one.”

“Goblins? Useless. They just steal potatoes and cabbages from the garden.”

Like a servant?

Harry nodded, half-understanding.

Just then, Silven and Hermione returned from the library.

Seeing Silven, Harry suddenly remembered other things Dobby had said…

“Something terrible is happening at Hogwarts—perhaps already happened. History is repeating itself. The Chamber has opened again…”

What did “history repeating” and “the Chamber” mean?

And what was the “terrible thing” that had already happened? Was it connected to Silven’s attack? The only major event at Hogwarts recently had been that.

But Silven was perfectly fine—attending classes, going to the library, no sign of trauma.

None of the other professors mentioned it—only Lockhart kept bragging.

Harry had too many questions, but Dobby always smashed his head with a jug before he could ask more.

…

(End of Chapter)