Chapter 46: Midnight Howls and the Weakened Silven

Many things happened on Christmas Eve.

First, Hagrid ate dinner with everyone in the castle hall for the first time, and Silven received a special gift because of it.

Second, the castle was unusually lively that night; it was said someone had broken into the Restricted Section of the library, causing piercing, chilling screams to echo there through the late hours.

Filch ran frantic through the castle searching for the culprit, but after a whole night of searching, he saw not a single soul—as if the intruder didn’t exist at all.

Even the ghosts, ever-present throughout the castle, had no clue.

By the next day, the incident had become one of the ghosts’ favorite topics for idle chatter.

Nearly Headless Nick sat with the Fat Friar and Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, gathered before a rotting, foul-smelling cheese pudding, speculating on the identity of the mysterious intruder.

After all, evading Filch wasn’t impressive—only someone who could slip past both ghosts and portraits was truly skilled.

“It’s definitely those two Weasley boys. They’re always breaking rules; maybe they’ve found another secret passage no one else knows about.” Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore pushed his head through the cheese, as if that counted as eating.

Nick had envied Sir Patrick’s ability to remove his entire head for centuries.

Hearing this, Nick’s eyes lit up.

“It’s not the Weasley brothers,” he said. “Patrick, want to know why? Just promise me you’ll let me join the Headless Hunt, and I’ll tell you.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world to find the truth, Nick,” Sir Patrick said, adjusting his head’s angle with his hand and smiling. “And I’ve told you many times already—the Headless Hunt only accepts ghosts whose heads are completely detached.”

“Don’t be like that,” Nearly Headless Nick pleaded. “My neck was chopped forty-five times—just half an inch from being fully severed… I’ve dreamed of joining the Headless Hunt my whole afterlife.”

“I must correct you, Nick—ghosts don’t dream!”

“…”

The conversation ended in acrimony; Nearly Headless Nick and Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore stormed off, leaving only the Fat Friar still seated.

He seemed to have expected this outcome and showed no surprise at all.

They always argued over half an inch, and they loved it—when they met again, they’d surely start quarreling once more. The ghosts were long used to it.

Yet from those fragments of conversation, the Fat Friar had found a new clue.

First, the Weasley brothers could be ruled out—Nick had already verified this. As Gryffindor’s representative ghost, his word was reliable.

But according to the portrait of Fat Lady, someone had passed before her last night, so Gryffindor remained the prime suspect.

Moreover, Nick had mentioned earlier that lights in Gryffindor’s dormitory had stayed lit until dawn, accompanied by occasional strange noises.

It might be connected to this incident.

The next night, the ghosts assumed the library screamer would strike again and gathered near the library.

Filch thought the same.

But sadly, after a full night of waiting, they saw no one at all—the library remained utterly silent.

Then came the third night.

That night, they did get a lead: someone appeared on the second floor—but it was Headmaster Dumbledore, accompanied by an unknown object floating beside him.

It was large, resembling a mirror or wooden panel, covered entirely in a velvet cloth, revealing nothing.

Filch was bitterly disappointed, but he dared not arrest the Headmaster and lock him in detention—he could only sulk away.

For the remainder of the Christmas holiday, no one approached the second-floor library again; the castle seemed to have returned to its usual calm, everything appearing as normal as ever.

No, that wasn’t quite true.

Fred and George suddenly realized they were missing someone.

Silven hadn’t appeared in days—not in the halls, not on the Quidditch pitch, not even in the common room. He had vanished entirely.

Or perhaps he’d secretly left Hogwarts through a hidden passage.

Fortunately, George eventually discovered that Silven still appeared in the hall for ten minutes every night, clearing him of suspicion for sneaking out of school.

One more night, Fred and George timed it perfectly and caught Silven as he hurried toward the hall entrance.

“We finally found you!”

“Tell us—what have you been up to all this time, so secretive?”

They flanked him on either side. Fred was about to say more, but then he looked up—and saw Silven’s deep dark circles and pale, dry lips.

“Merlin’s beard!” Fred yelped, forgetting all curiosity, and together with George, he helped Silven stagger into the hall.

After eating five slices of toast, three sausages, a whole roasted chicken, two sandwiches, and a large bottle of pumpkin juice, Silven’s complexion finally improved.

The dark circles remained, but at least he no longer looked utterly drained.

“What’s wrong with you?” George couldn’t hold back. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a day.”

“It’s not like…” Silven shook his head. “I really haven’t eaten in a day.”

“Has Hogwarts banned you from the hall during the day?” Fred asked, confused.

“No,” Silven shook his head. “I’ve just been doing homework so intensely, I keep losing track of time.”

“Save that for Quirrell,” Fred sneered. “Maybe he’ll be so moved he’ll give Gryffindor two more points.”

“And you can only fool Quirrell—no one else wraps their head in a stupid scarf,” George said.

“Alright, I’m making a wand,” Silven said.

“Great. Now we can add Filch to the list,” Fred glanced at him. “You don’t think we know nothing, do you?”

“The book ‘Wandmaking and Usage’ is in the school library,” George said. “We calculated—excluding necessary prep work, making one wand takes no more than an hour.”

“You couldn’t possibly need longer than that.”

“For a normal wand, maybe ten minutes?” Silven thought and replied.

“Exactly,” Fred leaned in. “You say you’re making a wand, yet you’ve been locked in your dorm all day—that’s contradictory.”

Silven scratched his head. He was telling the truth this time.

And he hadn’t been in his dorm all day—he’d been at it for ten days, ever since Christmas, struggling with that wand.

It was too hard. Though the troll spine had been shrunk to about two feet, its mass hadn’t changed at all. For Silven, embedding it fully into the wand shaft and filling every rune was a dual test of skill and stamina.

(End of Chapter)