Chapter 71: The Wisdom of the Old Wandmaker

“Silven, I’m afraid I can’t offer you much useful advice.”

At No. 267 Diagon Alley, on the second floor of Ollivander’s Wand Shop, Garrick Ollivander stared at the five wands laid out on the table, his eyes flickering with daze.

Last year, Silven crafted a wand with a core of Red Hat’s heart nerve—he was so astonished he couldn’t sleep for days.

Now, that wand seemed the most ordinary of all.

Look at the others…

A full troll spine, a wizard’s hair, a unicorn’s soul, and something else—unknown, but certainly not anything good.

These materials were crushing Garrick’s understanding, smashing it flat, piecing it back together, then crushing it again… this cycle had repeated four times.

And Pianpian at this moment, Silven asked him questions… how to shrink a troll spine to normal wand core size, how to quickly match a wand shaft to wizard hair…

I don’t know!

Yes, he had made nearly a hundred wands in his life, but he had never used a full troll spine—such an absurd material!

All the accumulated experience of centuries suddenly became useless when facing Silven.

This made Garrick constantly wonder: what had Silven experienced at Hogwarts?

“Let’s set the rest aside for now,” Garrick picked up the wand that looked the most normal—the one he considered the most abnormal.

“How did you turn wizard hair into a wand core?”

“What’s the problem?” Silven asked. “You’ve made wands with veela hair before…”

“Veela are not wizards,” Garrick said. “Even if they can appear identical to witches, even marry wizards, veela are still magical creatures, their magic fundamentally different from that of wizards.”

“I’ve tried using wizard hair before—every attempt failed. My grandfather, his grandfather, none succeeded.”

Then Garrick explained in detail why those attempts failed.

A wand exists to compensate for a wizard’s insufficient innate magic, like two semicircular magnets—one positive, one negative—that together form a complete circle.

That’s why most wizards can only cast spells with a wand; only a few elites, through relentless study, can make their own magic complete—what’s called wandless casting.

Among these, magical creature magic is the “negative pole,” utterly distinct from a wizard’s own “positive pole” magic—a distinction clear even at Hogwarts.

Hogwarts has magic that blocks Apparition, yet it has no effect on house-elves or phoenixes—this is the difference in magic.

Wizard hair, naturally, is also “positive pole”—how could two positive poles possibly fit together?

Hearing Garrick’s explanation, Silven sat up straight in surprise.

“Wait, has there never been such a wand before?”

“Not exactly,” Garrick frowned. “Andrews the Invincible used his own tooth as a wand core.”

“Then it’s done,” Silven shrugged. “I’ve already made one.”

“What’s its effect?” Garrick asked eagerly.

“I don’t know,” Silven thought for a moment. “But Professor McGonagall says she finds it easy to use.”

“What about others?”

“I find it easy to use too.”

“Is that what I meant?” Garrick’s face turned red; he snatched up the wand and gave it a light flick.

“Orchids bloom!”

The wand jerked violently, then sparks shot from its tip—barely missing setting Garrick’s hair on fire.

But Garrick didn’t care; his eyes shone like lightbulbs.

“So it’s true… but…” he sighed, his expression complex—as if he’d expected this, yet still felt a flicker of delight.

Though he himself couldn’t use the wand at all, Millicent McGonagall could—and those sparks, too, were clearly magic.

“Is it because the hair produces too low a magical resonance?” Garrick nearly pressed his eyes against the wand, muttering to himself:

“Combined with your unique core magic, it’s triggered a completely new magical transformation.”

He held the wand upright, tracing his fingers along its shaft, tapping lightly at intervals.

“Never seen this kind of magical resonance… too monotonous… no, wait—that’s the point… I see… incredible—this is a line of thought no one ever considered…”

“Silven, could I borrow this for a while?” Garrick couldn’t help asking.

“Of course,” Silven, snapping back to himself, said, licking his lips.

Though Silven had seen this many times before, every time Garrick revealed his wand knowledge, he remained astonished.

When he made the five-legged creature core, it was Garrick who recommended bamboo as the shaft—yet in Silven’s memory, Garrick had never used that material before.

And now, with wizard hair as the core, Silven had made it—but didn’t understand the principle.

Yet Garrick grasped nearly everything in minutes—no wonder he was the top wandmaker.

Watching Garrick’s glowing eyes, Silven asked curiously, “Could you make such a wand too?”

“Not now,” he said.

“Then someday?”

“Never,” Garrick tore his gaze from the wand, speaking seriously and earnestly. “My wands may not suit everyone, but they will never be fixed to one single person.”

“Of course, that’s my belief—not yours,” he smiled at Silven. “You should find your own path—even if it’s different from mine, different from all Ollivanders, it doesn’t matter.”

Silven said nothing. After a long pause, he muttered softly, “You sound like you think I’d change my mind if you disagreed.”

Now it was Garrick’s turn to fall silent.

“But Grandfather, if you won’t make this kind of wand, why waste time studying it?” Silven changed the subject.

“Goblins in Gringotts never think they have too much treasure—even if they can’t use it,” Garrick said. “For me, wands are treasure.”

Silven nodded, half-understanding, then pointed to the other three wands. “What about these? I won’t use them during the holidays—feel free to borrow them all.”

“No,” Garrick said without hesitation, his mouth twitching slightly.

He loved wands—but only those he could understand.

Like goblins who hoard gold but dare not steal Galleons from Dumbledore’s pocket, Garrick simply could not imagine how to fit a whole unicorn into a twelve-inch shaft—what magic, what method?

This question could drive every wandmaker to madness.

To avoid sinking into endless confusion and mystery, Garrick Ollivander’s wisdom and eighty years of life screamed at him—abandon this!

The same applied to the remaining two—leave them to Silven.

(End of Chapter)