Chapter 53: The Impatient Weasley Brothers

This mission was simply too thrilling for Silven; he wasn't sure whether he'd heard someone shouting inside the castle.

Of course, it might also have been the wind, or some other sound.

Fortunately, in the end Silven didn't run into Filch or Professor Sprout, and made it safely back to the Gryffindor common room.

"If it happens again, I'm telling the professor!" the Fat Lady said threateningly as she opened the passage into the common room.

Silven simply pretended he hadn't heard.

The Weasley twins had told him long ago: the Fat Lady was all talk — she'd never actually report young wizards' nighttime wanderings to the professors, since that would only cause trouble for herself.

What surprised Silven was that, even though it was already the small hours of the morning, the lights in the common room were still on.

Then Silven realized it was Fred and George, the two of them sitting in armchairs, fiddling with a pile of junk they'd picked up goodness knows where.

Faced with Silven's sudden appearance, they were quite calm — after all, they'd known all along.

"We were just saying you should be back about now." Fred turned and glanced at Silven.

"What's that in your hand?"

"A tree branch," Silven said.

"You broke curfew and snuck out of the castle in the middle of the night just for a tree branch?" George didn't quite understand.

Aren't there plenty of those things lying around? Did you really need to risk getting caught and make a special trip out in the dead of night?

"It's a branch from the Whomping Willow," Silven emphasized, walking over and sitting down in the armchair across from them.

"Is there anything special about it?"

"Three Galleons per ounce — twice as expensive as dragon's blood of the same weight."

"How much?" Fred and George both leapt to their feet at once, their voices changing too.

"An ounce?"

"Are you sure you didn't get it wrong — three Galleons, not three Knuts?"

"I didn't get it wrong, it's Galleons." Silven nodded. "And even at three Galleons, you couldn't necessarily buy one even if you wanted to."

Silven had previously asked his grandfather, Garrick Ollivander: there was only this one Whomping Willow in all of Britain, and the entire Wizarding World combined had no more than ten — as rare as a phoenix among magical creatures.

Currently Britain only had one phoenix as well: Fawkes.

So the stuff really was that expensive, and Silven really couldn't afford it — otherwise he wouldn't have needed to take the risk.

As for applying to the headmaster for permission to use it… even his grandfather hadn't managed that, let alone a first-year like Silven.

On this matter Professor Sprout held veto power; even Dumbledore's word didn't count — even though the Whomping Willow was his planting.

Meanwhile, after getting Silven's affirmative answer, the Weasley twins' eyes were practically turning into the shape of Galleons.

"Oh…" Fred groaned. "What have we been missing…"

They knew the school had a Whomping Willow, but had never paid it much attention. Now it looked like it was basically a glittering golden tree.

Oh wait — if you figured it at three Galleons per ounce, converted to gold it would have to be even bigger.

The two exchanged a glance and, without another word, dashed outside.

Silven didn't even have time to react; by the time he came to his senses and chased after them, the two had already vanished into the dark corridor.

What's the rush? At least let me finish what I was saying… Silven returned to the common room somewhat uneasy.

There's no way to stop them now — hopefully they're all right.

Silven sat back down in his original spot and looked at the big pile of things on the table in front of him.

A chipped plate, a faded old tapestry, moldy parchment… who knew where the Weasley twins had picked up all this junk.

After thinking it over, Silven moved to a different seat and, for the first time, properly took stock of tonight's haul.

The leaves had withered the instant they hit the ground; all that remained now was a length of grey-brown branch, rough and hard on the surface, yet not as heavy in the hand as he'd imagined — about the same as oak.

Silven measured it with his hand: not long, roughly twenty inches. It would definitely make one wand; two would be a stretch.

Silven looked at it for a while longer. Since he wasn't sleepy at all, he simply went ahead and did some preliminary processing on the branch right there.

First was removing the rough bark. This time Silven didn't choose to use Sectumsempra — he had a better option.

"Sift the impurities!"

The tip of Silven's wand glowed a warm yellow, and a wisp of wind coiled around the branch like a spirit snake, gliding forward as it spiraled. Wherever the wind passed, dust, pebbles, and tiny twigs on the branch were all swept away.

"Unify as one!"

This time the light was silver-white; the originally rough bark seemed to be compressed by some invisible force, gradually becoming smooth and even.

The most famous wandmaker in Eastern Europe, Gregorovitch, usually made wand bodies without preserving the bark — he believed rough bark would interfere with the conversion of magical power.

On this point Ollivander was his exact opposite, and Silven was no exception: he believed overall wholeness was far more important than any single advantage.

Using magic to help the entire branch fuse into one piece — time-consuming and laborious, but a necessary step.

Half an hour later, the Whomping Willow branch had shrunk considerably, and the originally rough bark had become as smooth as polished marble.

With that, the first step was done.

But before Silven could do anything else, he heard a rustling commotion at the entrance to the common room.

Fred and George were back, heads drooping, crawling in through the passage listlessly.

Yes — they crawled in. Covered in dirt, with mud all over them; George's robe had a huge tear in it, revealing a filthy blue sweater underneath.

The moment they got in, the two collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath.

"Its temper… is really something, isn't it?" Fred tilted his head back, gazing at Silven soulfully. "You really should have told us sooner."

"Whose fault is it for being in such a rush? I hadn't even finished talking before you two took off." Silven shrugged.

"Who could hold back at that?" George said soulfully. "Now I finally understand why the Whomping Willow is so valuable… it's even more terrifying than a dragon."

"You should count yourselves lucky," Silven said. "This Whomping Willow was planted on school grounds and has been 'spoiled' by Professor Sprout for over a decade — its aggression has long since faded by more than half. Otherwise, you'd have been turned into fertilizer by now."

"Say no more." George seemed to recall something terrifying; his face went pale, but what showed more was vexation and regret.

"Actually, when that big fellow tried to smash my head, it snapped off some branches — I saw them." Fred sighed. "But the racket from the Whomping Willow woke Hagrid."

"Sprout came too, we didn't have time to pick anything, so we could only come back first."

"Wait, you were spotted by a professor?" Silven couldn't help asking.

"She didn't see us," George said. "Maybe she thought some animal had annoyed the Whomping Willow."

"Let's hope so," Silven said, but he cleared everything off the table as fast as he could, took that completely transformed branch, and headed back toward the dormitory.

Professor Sprout might not have seen them, but what if she had? In that case the ghosts would be the ones going around the various houses to check on things; staying in the common room any longer was far too risky.

……

(End of chapter)