Chapter 36: The Wand for a Giant

The next day, Saturday, was the day the Quidditch match began.

The fated clash between Gryffindor and Slytherin had turned the students of both houses hostile from breakfast, the air thick with tension.

Especially the team members—each was surrounded by at least five senior students, guarding against sabotage from the other side.

Such things had happened many times before; both sides were well experienced.

“You don’t have to eat so fast,” Seamus Finnigan said, watching Silven cram bread into his mouth. “It’s only nine o’clock—two hours until the match.”

Silven said nothing; his mouth was too full.

He grabbed the large bottle of pumpkin juice Neville handed him, gulped it down, then swallowed the food.

“I’m not here to watch the match,” Silven said, glancing at the time, then turned and ran out.

“Need me to save you a seat?” Seamus called after him. “It’s the first match today—there’ll be crowds.”

Silven didn’t stop or answer, only waved his hand, and his figure vanished beyond the Great Hall’s door.

“Is he going or not?” Seamus frowned, unsure what the wave meant.

“Probably not,” Hermione said after thinking a moment. “I think Silven isn’t interested in Quidditch—he’s never joined our discussions about it.”

“Impossible,” Ron declared firmly. “No wizard could be uninterested in Quidditch—it’s the most popular sport, right, Harry?”

Harry said nothing.

The thought of stepping onto the pitch made his mind go blank—he hadn’t even heard what Ron had just said.

“Why aren’t you eating breakfast?” Hermione noticed Harry’s sausage and bread untouched.

“Not hungry?”

“I don’t want anything,” Harry said. He was too nervous—his stomach churned; he couldn’t swallow a bite.

“That won’t do,” Hermione frowned. “I read that a Quidditch match can last hours—even a day or two. You need to keep your strength up.”

“But I really am not hungry.”

“Still, you must eat. The Seeker’s always the target,” Seamus Finnigan said, and he volunteered to spread a thick layer of tomato sauce over Harry’s sausage.

“Thanks, Seamus.”

Everyone in the Great Hall was cheering Harry on.

Outside the castle, Silven stood before Hagrid’s hut and knocked on the door.

The door opened quickly.

Hagrid looked at Silven outside, his expression complicated.

“I shouldn’t have agreed to you yesterday.”

“But you did,” Silven said. “Hagrid, you’re going to be a professor—you can’t go back on your word.”

“How could I ever become a professor?” Hagrid groaned, slapping his forehead.

Last night, Silven had flattered him with those very words, making him giddy and careless enough to hand over the thing.

Only when he woke up did he realize he’d been tricked.

He had a record with the Ministry—a man who couldn’t even openly use a wand—how could he possibly be a professor?

But the words were spoken; he couldn’t take them back… especially since Silven had seemed so genuinely fond of the thing.

“Come in,” Hagrid opened the door just wide enough for Silven to squeeze through.

“Don’t let anyone see you.”

“Don’t worry—I’m careful,” Silven rushed inside, blurted out: “Where is it?”

“There,” Hagrid pointed. “As you asked, I placed it near the fireplace… Fang went mad last night—I had to move him elsewhere.”

He didn’t need to point—Silven saw it instantly the moment he entered: the complete spine of a troll, the very thing he’d dreamed of all night.

After that, Silven’s eyes never left it.

“But Silven, why would you like something like this?” Hagrid came over, his tone uneasy. “I thought only… only those wizards would use it.” He hesitated, unable to say the word “Dark wizard.”

“You don’t understand, Hagrid. You don’t know what this means to a wandmaker.” Silven’s voice trembled with barely concealed excitement. “In the sixth century BC, the invincible Andros tried to craft a special wand for his Patronus—its core was the spinal nerve of a mountain troll.”

“Invincible Andros?” Hagrid scratched his head, unfamiliar with the name.

“The strongest wizard of ancient Greece in the sixth century BC—the first to cast spells without a wand, ushering in the era of wandless magic,” Silven explained. “He also invented the Patronus Charm—able to summon a Patronus as large as a giant. No one else in history has done that.”

“Oh…” Hagrid nodded, uninterested in a wizard from two thousand years ago—but then he noticed something odd.

“Wait—you just said the Patronus used a wand… can a Patronus even use a wand?”

“Of course not—that’s why he failed,” Silven shrugged. “But that wand itself was real—the only wand ever made for a giant to use.”

Hagrid instinctively glanced at a cabinet in the corner, where his own wand rested in a bottle.

“So you want to make a wand for a giant?” Hagrid seemed to guess. “Using troll spinal nerve?”

“No,” Silven took a deep breath and gave an answer Hagrid thought impossible. “I want to use the entire spine.”

The bone was five feet long, as thick as a bowl—how could it ever serve as a wand core?

Silven knew it was difficult—but the chance was rare, and he wanted to try.

And he had a feeling: if he succeeded, his skill in wandmaking would leap forward dramatically.

Just like when his grandfather, Garrick Ollivander, first crafted a wand with phoenix feather.

That feather came from Fawkes—Garrick Ollivander was twenty-nine then.

“Alright, if you insist,” Hagrid said, though he didn’t understand. He chose to respect Silven’s wish.

“Need help?”

“No,” Silven shook his head. “Snape has already prepared it—clean, perfect.”

“Then what else do you need?”

“I need a wand shaft to match it…” Silven said. “Hagrid, where’s the troll’s club?”

“That useless stick?” Hagrid thought back. “I think I threw it into the Forbidden Forest yesterday. I’ll go check—should still be there.”

(End of chapter)