Chapter 53: The Impatient Weasley Brothers

This mission was incredibly thrilling for Silven; he wasn’t sure if he’d heard voices shouting inside the castle.

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

Fortunately, Silven never encountered Filch or Professor Sprout, and returned safely to the Gryffindor common room.

“Next time, I’m telling the professors!” the Fat Lady said, threatening as she swung open the entrance to the common room.

Silven pretended not to hear.

The Weasley brothers had already told him: the Fat Lady only talked big—she’d never report students for sneaking out at night, because that would only bring trouble upon herself.

To Silven’s surprise, it was already past midnight, yet the common room was lit up.

Then he realized it was Fred and George, sitting in armchairs, fiddling with a pile of junk they’d clearly scavenged somewhere.

They were perfectly calm at his sudden appearance—they’d already known he’d be back.

“We were just saying you’d probably be returning soon,” Fred said, glancing over at Silven.

“What’s that you’re holding?”

“A branch,” Silven said.

“You broke curfew, sneaked out of the castle in the middle of the night, just for a branch?” George didn’t understand.

Aren’t there branches everywhere? Why risk getting caught by venturing out in the dead of night?

“This is a Whomping Willow branch,” Silven emphasized, walking over and sitting in the armchair across from them.

“What’s so special about it?”

“It sells for three Galleons an ounce—twice the price of dragon’s blood by weight.”

“How much?” Fred and George both jumped to their feet, their voices changing.

“An ounce?”

“Are you sure you didn’t mean three Sickles, not three Galleons?”

“No mistake—it’s Galleons,” Silven nodded. “And even at three Galleons, you might not be able to buy it even if you wanted to.”

Silven had asked his grandfather Garrick Ollivander: there was only one Whomping Willow in all of Britain, and fewer than ten in the entire magical world—its rarity matched that of the phoenix among magical creatures.

Currently, Fawkes was the only phoenix in Britain.

So this stuff was genuinely expensive, and Silven genuinely couldn’t afford it—otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the risk.

As for applying to the headmaster for permission… if even his grandfather couldn’t manage it, how could Silven, a first-year student?

Professor Sprout held veto power over this matter—even Dumbledore’s word meant nothing, even though the Whomping Willow was planted here by him.

Meanwhile, after receiving Silven’s confirmation, the Weasley brothers’ eyes nearly turned into Galleons.

“Oh…” Fred groaned, “what have we missed…”

They knew the school had a Whomping Willow, but had never given it a second thought—now it looked like a tree made of pure gold.

No, wait—if you calculated by three Galleons per ounce, even solid gold would need to be much larger to match its value.

They exchanged a glance, said nothing, and bolted out the door.

Silven didn’t even have time to react; by the time he snapped out of his shock and chased after them, they were already gone into the dark corridor.

Why the rush? At least let me finish speaking… Silven returned to the common room, uneasy.

There was no stopping them now—hopefully they’d be alright.

Silven sat back down in his original spot, staring at the pile of junk on the table.

A chipped plate, a faded old tapestry, mildewed parchment… he had no idea where the Weasley brothers had dug up these scraps.

After thinking for a moment, Silven moved to another seat and for the first time seriously examined his haul of the night.

The leaf had withered instantly upon hitting the ground, leaving only a gray-brown branch—rough, hard, yet surprisingly light in hand, feeling about as heavy as oak wood.

Silven measured it with his hand—it wasn’t long, roughly twenty inches. Perfect for one wand; two would be pushing it.

Silven stared at it a while longer. Since he had no sleepiness at all, he decided to begin preliminary processing right there.

First, remove the rough bark. This time, Silven didn’t choose the Cutting Charm—he had a better option.

“Purify the impurities!”

The tip of Silven’s wand glowed warm yellow, then a gentle breeze, like a living serpent, curled around the branch and spiraled forward. Where the wind passed, dust, pebbles, and tiny twigs were swept clean.

“Unify as one!”

This time, silver-white light shimmered—the rough bark seemed compressed by invisible force, gradually smoothing into evenness.

The famed Eastern European wandmaker Gregorovitch typically stripped the bark from his wands, believing rough bark hindered magical flow.

Ollivander held the opposite view, and Silven naturally agreed—he believed complete integrity mattered far more than isolated advantages.

Using magic to fully fuse the entire branch together was time-consuming and laborious, but absolutely necessary.

Half an hour later, the Whomping Willow branch had shrunk considerably, its once-rough bark now smooth as marble.

The first step was complete.

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

Fred and George returned, heads drooping, dragging themselves in through the portrait hole.

Yes—they crawled in. Their faces and clothes were caked in dirt; George’s robe had a large tear, revealing a filthy blue sweater underneath.

As soon as they entered, they collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath.

“Its temper… is truly fierce… isn’t it?” Fred looked up at Silven, voice hollow. “You really should’ve told us sooner.”

“Who told you to run off like that? I hadn’t even finished speaking.” Silven shrugged.

“Who could resist?” George murmured. “Now I finally understand why Whomping Willow is so valuable… it’s even more terrifying than a dragon.”

“You should be grateful,” Silven said. “This Whomping Willow has been planted at the school and ‘coddled’ by Professor Sprout for over a decade—its aggression has long since faded. Otherwise, you’d already be fertilizer.”

“Don’t say that,” George said, turning pale as if imagining something horrific—though more than fear, his face showed regret and disappointment.

“Actually, when that thing tried to smash my head, it broke off some branches—I saw them,” Fred sighed. “But the noise woke Hagrid.”

“Professor Sprout came too. We didn’t have time to collect anything—we had to run back.”

“Wait—you were spotted by the professors?” Silven couldn’t help asking.

“She didn’t see us,” George said. “Maybe she thought some animal angered the Whomping Willow.”

“I hope so,” Silven said—but he cleared the entire table in record time, grabbed the transformed branch, and headed for the dormitory.

Professor Sprout might not have seen them—but what if she had? If ghosts started checking each house, staying in the common room would be far too risky.

…

(End of Chapter)