Chapter 45: Silven

Silven truly felt that staying at school for the holiday was an incredibly wise decision.

It was as if the troll itself knew it was Christmas, and gave him a small surprise before nightfall.

The fusion spell had lost its effect, meaning the troll’s spine had truly become a qualified wand core.

Though it still looked a bit too large, it didn’t matter—Silven had already anticipated this and prepared a wand shaft over two feet long, perfectly matching the core.

He’d thought he’d need to adjust it again, but now he didn’t have to.

Next came the actual crafting of the wand.

But it was too late; at Hagrid’s insistence, Silven had to forcibly grip his restless hands and leave the cabin, glancing back every few steps.

Hagrid saw Silven out the door.

He didn’t mind Silven staying—after all, the sounds Silven made while crafting wands were quieter than Toots’s snores and couldn’t possibly disturb him.

But Professor McGonagall would check the dormitories at night.

There hadn’t been such a rule before; this year was special, since two Weasleys were staying behind, and Professor McGonagall had to be extra vigilant.

Still, seeing Silven’s reluctant expression, Hagrid hesitated and turned to glance inside the cabin.

A few minutes later, he pulled on his mole-skin coat and hurried out after him.

Dinner was turkey sandwiches with toasted bread and cranberry sauce—delicious, and everyone enjoyed it.

Only Silven’s mind was full of his completed wand shaft and core; he paid no attention to what he ate.

At the staff table, Dumbledore twisted a brown wand in his hands, examining it repeatedly, while Professor McGonagall chuckled happily beside him.

“I’ve tried it—it’s wonderful,” Professor McGonagall couldn’t help glancing at the dazed Silven. “Except that I can’t use it alongside my first wand, everything else is perfect—like a new hand.”

“Are hair cores really that magical?” Dumbledore murmured in amazement.

Technically, a wizard like Professor McGonagall no longer relied heavily on wands—even wandless magic was no challenge for her.

Yet she had been delighted all day, and Dumbledore noticed she’d cast spells far more frequently than usual—even minor charms she’d normally performed without a wand now used Silven’s new gift.

“It’s magical,” she said. “It feels like part of my body—even some simple spells don’t require incantations.”

“Wandless spells?” Professor Flitwick asked. “That should be easy for you.”

“It’s different,” Professor McGonagall shook her head. “It’s not about not speaking the incantation—it’s that when the thought forms in my mind, the magic is already complete.”

“Really?” Professor Flitwick’s eyes widened in astonishment.

As a dueling expert, he instantly understood what she meant.

No incantation meant instantaneous casting—if Professor McGonagall dueled, she’d gain complete initiative, leaving no chance for her opponent to react.

As for her claim that only simple spells could bypass incantations… Professor Flitwick ignored it entirely.

Even with the simplest Disarming Charm, he was confident he could overpower an opponent until the end.

“If I were to pay for one, would it offend Mr. Ollivander?” Professor Flitwick was tempted, but unsure of Silven’s feelings.

Mainly because he remembered young Garrick Ollivander and knew how stubborn the man had been—making wands only by mood and preference… until he took over the shop in Diagon Alley.

“This…” Professor McGonagall hesitated, unable to answer.

Would Silven feel offended? She didn’t know—she couldn’t say.

But then…

Professor McGonagall’s gaze dropped, unintentionally glancing at the top of Flitwick’s head.

It was common knowledge that Professor Flitwick had some goblin blood, and goblins typically had little to no hair.

Perhaps because of this, Flitwick’s hair looked… well, not exactly thick.

She wasn’t sure if it even met the core requirements, given that her own wand was nearly twelve inches long.

On the other side, Dumbledore quietly adjusted his spectacles—and happened to spot someone unexpected, peering cautiously at the entrance of the Great Hall.

“Hagrid?” Dumbledore exclaimed, walking over to bring him in.

“I’m glad you didn’t refuse my invitation to dinner—Christmas is meant to be shared,” Dumbledore smiled, gesturing to an empty seat beside him. “Have a seat.”

That seat had been Snape’s, but he hadn’t come tonight.

Hagrid felt uneasy—for reasons unknown, he’d once been expelled from Hogwarts by the Ministry for “negligent control of dangerous creatures,” his wand snapped.

Only Dumbledore believed in him—and gave him a job.

So normally, Hagrid avoided the castle entirely, let alone dining with professors—he didn’t want to cause Dumbledore trouble.

He’d come tonight only to find Silven; he had no intention of staying for dinner.

But Dumbledore was too warm-hearted; by the time Hagrid realized it, he was already seated in Snape’s chair.

“What would you like? Turkey sandwich? I must admit, the house-elves roasted far too many turkeys,” Dumbledore joked half-seriously.

Hagrid naturally had no objections.

“You should come more often—you’re part of Hogwarts too,” Dumbledore continued. “You’re entitled to dine here with everyone.”

Hagrid pretended not to hear.

Again—he didn’t want to cause Dumbledore trouble.

Besides, he didn’t like crowded places. Wizards despised giants, and their attitude toward half-giants like him wasn’t much better; most young witches and wizards stared at him strangely, making him uncomfortable.

Of course, Silven and Harry and the others were different.

Hagrid sat beside Dumbledore and barely finished a tense dinner.

The moment his plate vanished, he eagerly bid farewell to Dumbledore, rose, and as he passed Silven, shoved a brown paper bag into his arms.

“This is what you left at my place—don’t forget it again next time,” Hagrid said.

Silven didn’t react at first, then looked up—Hagrid was winking at him.

Hagrid was truly terrible at lying; that forced, over-explaining tone and awkward phrasing were obvious even to Harry sitting beside him.

But Hagrid gave them no time to ask questions—after handing over the bag, he walked straight out of the Great Hall.

Silven instinctively opened the bag—and a familiar white hue met his eyes…

“What’s inside?” Ron leaned over curiously.

“Nothing,” Silven casually closed the bag. “I asked Hagrid for some rock cakes—I forgot to take them when I left.”

“Rock cakes…” Ron wrinkled his nose, as if recalling a bad memory. “They’re harder than stones—you actually went out of your way to ask for them?”

“Ah, yes, I highly recommend trying them—they’re delicious,” Silven said absentmindedly.

“I’ll pass,” Ron covered his mouth, instantly losing all interest in the bag.

(End of Chapter)