Chapter 41: Are You Planning to Play Baseball?

Harry was getting restless.

If that wand isn’t in Silven’s hands, what will Ron’s Christmas gift be? There’s no time to prepare anything else now.

“Can you make another one?” Harry asked cautiously.

“I could, and the materials are all ready,” Silven said. “But are you sure? A wand isn’t parchment—another one won’t necessarily suit Ron.”

“Then what do we do…”

“Don’t rush. We can try. It’s the day after tomorrow—Christmas. My grandfather won’t have gone far.” Silven glanced out the window.

“If everything goes well, we’ll make it in time.” He stood up. “Come on, let’s first head to the owlery and see if there’s a stronger messenger.”

“Use Hedwig,” Harry said.

“Huh?”

“My owl. Hedwig.” Harry said. “She’s a snowy owl!”

“Oh, perfect.” Silven slapped his forehead.

Harry had an owl—he’d forgotten that. And snowy owls cost twenty Galleons; they’re the most expensive pets in the shop, with far superior flight speed and endurance over ordinary owls.

Silven wrote a letter, then went with Harry to the owlery to find the beautiful snowy owl.

True to its twenty-Galleon status, it stood out in the owlery like a spotlight—impossible to miss.

The moment it saw Harry, Hedwig flew straight over and nipped his fingers affectionately, making Silven envious.

He thought of his own owl, always wandering off, never around, obsessed with eating his colleague Tom’s pets.

Damn, he shouldn’t have been cheap.

…

Silven and Harry arrived at the Great Hall only ten minutes after dinner had started. It was late, but at least they wouldn’t go hungry.

Ron found it strange: Harry had said he had something to do—why was he back with Silven?

During dinner, he kept probing indirectly, trying to find out what Harry had been up to, but got no answer.

Harry refused to engage, pretending not to understand; when pressed, he scrambled to invent an excuse about homework and brushed it off.

Ron still looked skeptical, but he stopped pressing.

Afterward, the two joined Hermione, whispering about something else.

Silven sat nearby. Even though he wasn’t eavesdropping, he caught the gist.

In short, Hermione wanted Ron and Harry to go to the library during the holidays to look for someone named Nicolas Flamel.

But asking Harry and Ron to go to the library during the holidays… well, Hermione’s idea was admirable.

To celebrate the upcoming holidays, Gryffindor students held a small gathering in the common room.

Food came from the school kitchen, brought by the Weasley twins: pies, whole roasted chickens, juicy steaks, pumpkin juice, pea cookies… far more lavish than dinner.

There was also butterbeer from Hogsmeade.

But only a few had it—more accurately, Fred and George had brought only one bottle for Silven.

Of course, this wasn’t because they were closer to Silven; they wanted to know his secret to using multiple wands.

A wizard can use only one wand—that’s universally accepted in the magical world.

Of course, some had tried buying a second wand. Many had. But they soon discovered the so-called second wand was nearly useless.

The wand that worked perfectly in the shop became sluggish when held—spells formed slowly, their power drastically weakened. Not useful in battle, not even a simple cleaning charm could fully erase the grime; bits always remained.

Only after they abandoned their first wand did this change. Otherwise, they’d just waste over a dozen Galleons.

No one knew why. Even asking at Ollivander’s Wand Shop yielded only the vague reply: “The wand chooses the wizard.”

Silven’s remarks that afternoon had opened a whole new door of magic for Fred and George.

They were desperate to learn. Even if they couldn’t use three at once, just one wand per hand was tempting enough.

Silven wasn’t stingy. Since he’d drunk their butterbeer, he’d help answer their questions.

So he told Fred and George: it’s simple—just learn to make wands.

That night, they actually went straight to the library to find books on wandmaking… though no one knew how long they’d stick with it.

Early the next morning, students going home for the holidays left the castle for the station, and the once-bustling Gryffindor common room grew suddenly empty.

Silven rose early and now sat in an armchair by the fireplace, fiddling with a baseball bat split down the middle.

When Harry and Ron arrived, Silven was drawing on it with a crimson feather quill.

“Good morning, Silven,” Harry greeted, sitting beside Ron in another armchair.

These usually coveted seats were free for the taking today.

Ron found leftover bread and buns from last night, skewered them on a toasting fork, and held them over the fire.

Harry frowned, scanning the room for something.

“What’s wrong?” Ron handed him a charred lump of bread.

“Have you smelled anything?”

“Ah, seems a bit burnt,” Ron said sheepishly.

“No, not that.” Harry shook his head, hesitated, then said, “I think I smell blood.”

“Now that you mention it… I think I do too,” Ron said, looking around.

“No need to look—it’s this.” Silven held up the red feather quill.

“You’re using blood as ink?” Ron stared, voice thick with disbelief.

“Not ink. It’s… well, think of it as some kind of medium,” Silven explained.

“I wanted to ask this earlier,” Harry said, looking at Silven. “Are you planning to play baseball?”

“What’s baseball?” Ron asked.

“A Muggle sport,” Harry explained. “They use a wooden bat to hit a ball.”

“Batter?” Ron immediately thought of his two brothers, who swung bats in Quidditch to knock Bludgers away.

“Sort of,” Harry thought. “But the bat’s much longer, and they’re not hitting Bludgers.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “My cousin Dudley bought a baseball bat, but he never played baseball—not once. I think he just liked the stick.”

“I’ve never played baseball either,” Silven said. “Actually, this is the wand I’m about to make.”

(End of chapter)