Chapter 18: The People Who Make Wands Are All Insane

Silven had always wondered: if a spirit has no body, is it a wizard or a special magical creature?

Or, more specifically… could it be used as a wand core?

“Perhaps I should try it first,” Silven thought, though he wasn’t sure any ghost would cooperate.

Carrying this question, Silven hastily finished lunch in the Great Hall and joined the others heading to the dungeons.

Snape’s Potions class.

This time, Silven was not late—and he saw, as he’d remembered, the famous scene.

“I can teach you how to raise your prestige, brew glory, even stave off death—but on one condition: you are not the usual fools and idiots I encounter.”

Snape glided through the classroom like a giant black bat; no one dared raise their eyes to meet his gaze, not even dare to breathe loudly.

“Potter, what would you get if you added powdered dandelion root to an infusion of wormwood?”

As expected, Snape’s target was still Harry.

Harry, of course, knew nothing.

Of course—he’d read *One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi*, and the questions Snape asked were all around page 150, third-year material.

Do you expect a first-year student to know third-year content?

Don’t be ridiculous!

Everyone in the room—even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students who weren’t present—could answer it, except for Hermione, the book-memorizing maniac.

“Ollivander!”

Silven was just mentally criticizing Snape’s malice when his arm was jolted hard—he turned to see Neville trembling like a quail, and Snape’s eyes narrowed, face dark with fury.

“It seems someone believes they’ve already mastered the material and no longer need to waste time listening to my lectures, correct, Mr. Ollivander?”

“Of course not, Professor,” Silven forced a smile.

Damn it—he’d been too absorbed in watching, forgotten that Snape hated students zoning out in his class too.

“Is that so?” Snape’s voice was icy. “Then perhaps you can tell Potter the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

“Ah… monkshood is a smoked herb; it can be roasted with pine needles, insect grass, three-leaf flowers, and beetle shells—the smoke makes certain wand shafts more elastic, most commonly used with willow.”

“Wolfsbane is the same—these two are the same thing.”

Silven answered smoothly; some students instinctively pulled out parchment and quills, ready to jot down these key points.

They’d clearly not reviewed properly—they had no recollection at all.

“Stop! You don’t need to write this down!” Snape roared.

Everyone instantly froze.

Snape turned back to Silven, his eyelid twitching.

To be honest, Silven was right.

This information came from Zigmund Barch’s *Book of Potions*, Volume Three—*Potions and the Magical Synergy with Wands*.

Strictly speaking, this wasn’t a standard potions text—it was merely a love letter Zigmund Barch had scribbled in his youth to woo a girl obsessed with wandlore.

Such material had zero reference value in potioncraft, but Zigmund Barch was too famous—he was the most renowned medieval potions master and the founder of the Extraordinary Potioneers’ Association.

Thus, even his casual scribbles were later compiled, organized, and included in *The Book of Potions*, the most authoritative potions text.

But again, this stuff was utterly useless…

No—Silven was an Ollivander; he actually needed this information!

By Merlin’s beard!

Snape was agonized—worse than giving Gryffindor fifty points.

He wished he’d never read *The Book of Potions*, so he could deduct points without hesitation.

But a potions master who hadn’t read *The Book of Potions*? That was like a house-elf unable to sweep, or Dumbledore disliking sweets—truly the coldest joke of the century.

“Sit down!” Snape gritted his teeth and conceded, shot Silven a glance, then turned and walked away.

Aconite—the rarest of materials, more expensive by weight than dragon’s blood! Why not brew it into a potion? Why burn it to smoke wood? Smoke wood!

Pfft!

The people who make wands are all insane!

Silven blinked, confused—why had Snape suddenly gotten so angry?

Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same thing—he hadn’t been wrong, he’d even added the usage.

Silven remembered clearly: at age nine, he’d read this in *The Book of Potions*. He couldn’t be mistaken.

Unable to understand, Silven could only blame Harry.

He must’ve been dragged down by him!

But there was good news: for the rest of the Potions class, Snape ignored him entirely—even when checking assignments, he barely glanced and moved on.

“What’s this? At least give me a point,” Silven muttered, staring at his cauldron’s bright pink potion.

Standard boil remedy—no errors at all.

Silven was confident in his potion skills; as a wandmaker, he often had to brew matching infusion liquids depending on the wand core material.

It wasn’t simple—even the basic version he used in his dorm took nearly six hours to brew.

Compared to that, making a boil remedy was effortless.

Yet Snape hadn’t even looked.

That petty old bat.

Silven grumbled as he left the dungeon classroom.

He didn’t care much about the house points—but Snape’s blatant favoritism was outrageous; even an adult would want to punch him.

Silven was no exception.

“That’s just Snape—he’s completely unreasonable,” Ron said, walking beside Silven. “Fred told me he never gives Gryffindor points.”

“That’s wrong!” Hermione hurried over.

“Silven was the only one who made the boil potion correctly—he can’t pretend not to see it. We should go to Professor McGonagall.”

“Actually, he can,” Ron shrugged.

“By the way, can I come with you to see Hagrid?” This was directed at Harry.

At lunch, Harry had received a note inviting him to tea at three.

It was nearly three now.

“Of course,” Harry said, then turned to Silven. “Are you coming too? I remember you said you wanted to help him fix something.”

“Ah, yes,” Silven nodded. “But I have other things to do later—I won’t go with you.”

“Alright then,” Harry didn’t press, and after leaving the dungeon, he and Ron left the castle to find Hagrid.

(End of Chapter)