Chapter 23: Professor McGonagall and the Flying Broom

The progress on the hair wand was far from smooth, primarily because Silven struggled to find a shaft that matched McGonagall’s hair.

A wizard’s personal traits are too distinct—they instinctively reject anything they dislike.

Oak, grapevine, beechwood… these past few days, Silven had tested every material he carried, none of which worked, and he accidentally snapped two strands of hair in the process.

This left Silven in low spirits for several days, wondering whether he should wait until the weekend to visit Hagrid and ask him to take him into the Forbidden Forest.

As Silven, lost in thought, passed through the common room, Harry and Ron suddenly stepped forward and blocked his path.

“Hey, Silven, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been dragging around all day,” Harry finally couldn’t hold back and asked.

“Yeah,” Hermione walked over too: “You’ve been late three times already—twenty points deducted from Gryffindor…”

“Why are you saying that?” Ron shot her a glare, then turned back to Silven: “We just want to know what’s wrong—maybe we can help.”

“Ah, nothing.” Silven rubbed his face; he realized he’d been overly fixated these past two days.

Turning a wizard’s hair into a wand isn’t that simple—how could it possibly be done in just a day or two?

“Sorry.” Silven forced himself to snap out of it. “Oh, I’ll find a way to make up the lost points.”

“That doesn’t matter—even if you weren’t late, Snape would find a way to dock points anyway.” Ron glared at Hermione again; she turned her head away.

By the way, Silven was late to Potions yesterday and got fifteen points deducted.

“What’s the next class?” Silven asked.

“Flying,” Harry said, drawing a chorus of groans.

“What, you don’t like Flying class?” Silven asked.

“No, we just don’t want to take it with Slytherin,” Ron pointed to a notice pasted on the door.

【Gryffindor first-years, report to the field in front of the castle at 3:30 p.m. Thursday to learn broom flight alongside Slytherin students—Rolanda Hooch】

No wonder.

Gryffindor and Slytherin despise each other—they start arguing the moment they meet. They only endure sharing Potions class, but now they had to share Flying too.

“There’s nothing we can do—the school’s schedule can’t be changed,” Silven said. “Just pretend they don’t exist.”

“That’s all we can do,” Harry said gloomily. “But if I make a fool of myself on a broom in front of Malfoy, I’m sure he won’t pretend not to see.”

Silven said nothing.

Harry’s worry was clearly unnecessary—but he didn’t know it, and even if you told him, he wouldn’t believe it.

Silven had little interest in brooms.

Because flying requires one hand to steady the broom, leaving the other free to wield a wand—something that made him feel deeply insecure.

So normally, Silven preferred standing firmly on the ground—unless he could ride his wand through the air…

Hmm?

Wait.

Silven stared at the wand Hooch had placed beside his feet, then blinked suddenly.

This broom’s shaft… looks awfully like a giant wand.

The more he looked, the more it resembled one—the length and thickness ratio matched a wand’s standard perfectly.

Without thinking, Silven reached out, wanting to examine it more closely.

A thought flashed through his mind—and the broom on the ground leapt instantly into his hand.

“Perfect demonstration—I couldn’t have done better myself,” Hooch called out loudly. “Two points to Gryffindor. Still, next time, raise your hand before demonstrating. This time, I’ll let it slide.”

Silven didn’t hear a word Hooch said—he was entirely focused on the broom’s shaft.

Perfect… though the surface was slightly rough, there were no cracks—meaning the interior was undamaged.

Silven pulled out his wand and tapped it lightly against the shaft.

The broom handle unrolled like a rolled-up sheet of paper, peeling apart into a dozen thin wooden slivers in an instant.

Silven picked up one sliver and examined its grain closely.

Fir wood—and the finest grade, judging by its condition, roughly a hundred years old.

It had been well-maintained too; stripping away the outer rough layer revealed smooth, fine inner wood, as if meticulously polished with wax.

Honestly, Silven’s act of dismantling the broom without a word wasn’t permitted—but no one around him tried to stop him, not even Hooch, who acted as if she saw nothing.

…Well, she truly hadn’t seen.

Because everyone’s eyes were fixed on the sky.

Perhaps because Silven had reminded him to be careful before class, Neville was unusually tense—and later, he misheard Hooch’s command and shot straight up on his broom.

He crashed headfirst into the opposite wall.

Hooch had already taken him to the hospital wing; now Harry and Malfoy were fighting over the memory ball Neville had accidentally dropped.

Everyone was watching them fly—no one noticed Silven had taken his broom apart piece by piece.

Then, ten minutes later, McGonagall hurried over from the castle.

“Falling from that height… how could you… All right, Potter, come with me.”

“And, Ollivander, destroying brooms is forbidden—two points deducted from Gryffindor. If you don’t repair it before the next class, I’ll deduct twenty!”

No one answered.

“Mr. Ollivander, are you listening to me?” McGonagall’s voice grew sharp, her spectacles glinting with anger.

Hermione punched Silven hard in the arm.

“Put the broom back together—right now!” McGonagall repeated.

Though he hadn’t paid attention to what had just happened, Silven could guess enough—he nodded immediately.

McGonagall’s expression softened slightly; she led the dejected Harry away from the field.

“You’re too reckless,” Hermione couldn’t help saying. “Why destroy the school’s broom?”

“No, I didn’t destroy it,” Silven said, pulling another wand from his pocket.

After his earlier observation, he was certain this broom shaft met all requirements for a wand core—no modifications needed.

He just didn’t know whether it bore magical runes; he hadn’t had time to check closely. If it didn’t, he might truly be able to ride a “wand” through the air.

Silven stood the wand upright, preparing to repair the broom first—deal with McGonagall, then think further.

But the motion caused a strand of hair hanging from the wand to swing loose.

The hair floated midair, then drifted gently down, landing perfectly against one of the wooden slivers.

The hair McGonagall had given him—he’d carelessly tucked it into his pocket after earlier failed experiments.

Now the hair clung tightly to the cut surface of the wood, seamless and unyielding—even when Silven shook it hard, it wouldn’t budge, as if glued in place.

“This…” Silven tugged at his lip, a sense of absurdity rising in him.

He’d found the matching shaft material… no, the hair had found it itself.

McGonagall’s hair… and the broom, symbol of Quidditch…

Well, that made perfect sense!

(End of Chapter)