Chapter 36: A Wand for Giants

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

The destined battle between Gryffindor and Slytherin — students from both houses had been facing off since breakfast, the air thick with gunpowder.

Especially the players on both teams — almost every one of them had at least five older students trailing them, to keep them from being ambushed by the other side.

This sort of thing had happened many times before; both sides were well experienced.

"You don't have to eat that fast." Seamus Finnigan watched Silven stuffing bread into his mouth and kindly reminded him, "It's only nine o'clock. There are still two hours until the match starts."

Silven said nothing — his mouth was too full.

He casually took the large bottle of pumpkin juice Neville handed him, gulped down several mouthfuls, and only then managed to swallow what was in his mouth.

"I'm not here to watch the match." Silven glanced at the time, stood up, and ran straight outside.

"Want me to save you a seat?" Seamus shouted after him. "It's the first match today — there'll definitely be a crowd."

Silven didn't slow his steps, didn't speak — just waved a hand, and then his figure vanished outside the Great Hall doors.

"Is he using one or not?" Seamus frowned, unable to figure out what that wave had meant.

"Probably not, right?" Hermione thought for a moment, then said, "I feel like Silven isn't interested in Quidditch. He's never discussed anything like that with us."

"Impossible." Ron said it with absolute certainty. "No wizard could be uninterested in Quidditch — it's the most popular sport, right, Harry?"

Harry said nothing.

The moment he thought about having to take the field soon, his mind went completely blank — he hadn't even noticed what Ron had just said to him.

"Why aren't you eating breakfast?" Hermione noticed that the sausages and bread on Harry's plate hadn't been touched at all.

"Not to your taste?"

"I don't want to eat anything." Harry said. He was too nervous — his stomach felt like it was about to flip over; he simply couldn't eat a thing.

"You can't go on like this." Hermione frowned. "I've read that a Quidditch match can go on for a very long time — even a day or two is possible. You have to make sure you have enough stamina."

"But I'm really not hungry."

"You still have to eat. The Seeker is always the one the other side focuses on defending." Seamus Finnigan said, and he even took the initiative to spread a thick layer of ketchup on Harry's sausages.

"Thanks, Seamus."

Everyone in the Great Hall was cheering Harry on.

Meanwhile, outside the castle, Silven had already arrived in front of Hagrid's hut and reached out to knock on the door.

The door opened quickly.

Hagrid looked at Silven outside, his expression complicated.

"I really shouldn't have agreed to it yesterday."

"But you already did." Silven said. "Hagrid, you're going to be a professor someday — you can't go back on your word."

"How could I possibly become a professor." Hagrid slapped his forehead in frustration.

Last night, Silven had used exactly that line to flatter him until he was floating on air, and in a daze he'd handed the thing over.

By the time he came to his senses, he realized he'd apparently been taken in.

He had a record at the Ministry of Magic — a man who couldn't even openly carry a wand, how could he possibly become a professor?

But the words were already out, and it wouldn't do to go back on them... after all, Silven really did seem to like the thing.

"Come in." Hagrid opened the door just a crack — just wide enough for Silven to squeeze through.

"Don't let anyone see."

"Don't worry, I'm being careful." Silven couldn't wait to get inside the hut, and blurted out, "Where's the thing?"

"Over there." Hagrid pointed. "As you asked, I put it near the fireplace... Fang nearly went mad last night — I had to settle him somewhere else."

Actually, he didn't need to point — the moment Silven came in, he saw it at a glance: the complete troll spine he'd been longing for all night.

After that, Silven's eyes never strayed.

"But Silven, how could you like something like this?" Hagrid walked over, his expression complicated, and said, "I thought only... only that kind of wizard would have a use for it." He wrestled with it for a moment, but still didn't say the word "Dark wizard."

"You don't understand, Hagrid — you don't understand what this thing means to a wandmaker." There was an undisguisable tremor of excitement in Silven's voice. "In the sixth century BC, the invincible Andros tried to craft a special wand for his Patronus, and the core of that wand was the spinal nerve of a mountain troll."

"The invincible Andros?" Hagrid scratched his head, the name feeling completely unfamiliar to him.

"Sixth century BC — the strongest wizard of ancient Greece, and the first wizard to break free from the wand, ushering in the era of wandless casting." Silven explained. "He also created the Patronus Charm — able to summon a Patronus as big as a giant, something unique in all of history."

"Oh..." Hagrid nodded, not really caring about a wizard from two thousand years ago — but he quickly noticed something odd.

"Wait — you just said a wand for a Patronus... can a Patronus use a wand?"

"Of course not, so he failed." Silven shrugged. "But that wand was real — the only wand a giant could ever use."

Hagrid instinctively glanced at a cabinet in the corner of the wall — the bottle holding his wand was kept in there.

"So you want to make a wand for a giant too?" Hagrid seemed to have guessed it. "Using a troll's spinal nerve?"

"No — what I want to use is this entire spine." Silven drew a deep breath and gave an answer that Hagrid felt was utterly impossible.

That bone was five feet long and as thick as a bowl — how could something like that possibly serve as a wand core!

Silven also thought it would be very difficult, but the opportunity was too rare — he wanted to try.

And he had a premonition: if this wand succeeded, his ability as a wandmaker would likely leap forward by a great step.

Just as his grandfather, Garrick Ollivander, had done the first time he crafted a phoenix-tail-feather wand.

Right — that tail feather had been provided by Fawkes, and at the time Garrick Ollivander was already twenty-nine years old.

"Alright, if you insist." Although he didn't really understand, Hagrid still chose to respect Silven's idea.

"Need any help?"

"No need." Silven shook his head. "Snape already processed this thing — clean and perfect."

"Then is there anything else you need?"

"I'm short a wand shaft that can match it..." Silven said. "Hagrid, what about the troll's club?"

"That useless stick?" Hagrid thought for a moment. "I think I threw it into the Forbidden Forest yesterday. I'll go look now — I should still be able to find it."

(End of this chapter)