Chapter 72: The Leaky Cauldron and Knockturn Alley

When July first began its holiday, the wand shop remained closed, not only because Garrick Ollivander was too busy to run it, but also because the new students hadn’t received their acceptance letters yet.

It would be about a month before owls delivered the letters to this year’s newcomers—that was when the wand shop would truly open its doors.

Garrick Ollivander had stayed in his room for a week, during which Silven spent most of his time poring over those dull wand books.

After arriving at Hogwarts, he realized his theoretical knowledge was still lacking, so he naturally wanted to make up for it whenever he had time.

But he didn’t spend all his time reading; when he grew bored, he’d occasionally go to the Leaky Cauldron to relax, order a butterbeer, and listen to drunkards boasting about how they rode Swedish Short-Snouts in the Giant War.

Whether they dared approach a Swedish Short-Snout or trembled at the sight of giants—none of that mattered; everyone around them was having a good time.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but it doesn’t matter…” The middle-aged wizard in a cowboy hat slammed back a large gulp of ale and slumped drunkenly against the bar.

After all, when I stepped on the giant… burp… you were all still trembling with fear from the Death Eaters… I won’t hold it against you…

As his lies grew wilder, spiraling into indiscriminate magical explosions, a wizard in a purple robe could no longer sit still and shouted out:

“John, which giant did you step on—Gog or Golgor?”

“Y-yes, Gog!” the cowboy-hatted wizard stammered.

“Really?” The purple-robed wizard’s face flashed with shock, then quickly turned skeptical. “I don’t believe it—that giant couldn’t possibly have been named Gog!”

“You think I’m lying?” John’s face flushed red. “That giant was named Gog—I remember it perfectly.”

After a moment of silence, the Leaky Cauldron erupted in loud, merry laughter, even the candle flames on the ceiling trembling with it.

Patrons doubled over, clutching their stomachs, while John sat bewildered, unaware of what they were laughing at.

Finally, Tom (the barkeep, not the cat who refused to leave the Forbidden Forest) couldn’t bear it anymore and quietly told John that Gog was a title for the giant chieftain, like Headmaster of Hogwarts or Minister of Magic—a title, not a name.

John’s ears instantly turned bright red, like charcoal licked by a salamander. He clumsily tried to stand and protest, nearly tripping over his own cloak.

“What do you know!” he slurred, pounding the table. “Back then… back then…”

“You were probably too scared to leave your house!” someone finished his sentence for him.

More than a decade ago, You-Know-Who recruited giants to attack the magical world, causing great panic and destruction; any wizard who had taken part could not possibly be unaware of what “Gog” represented.

“I bet he can’t tell the difference between a giant and a troll—unless trolls wear cowboy hats!” This sparked another wave of laughter; the entire bar’s uproar threatened to shake the Leaky Cauldron’s old sign off its hooks.

Silven watched John sit there like a defeated cockatrice with a chicken’s head and a serpent’s tail, silent and defeated. He knew the entertainment was over, drained the rest of his butterbeer, and returned to Diagon Alley through the back courtyard.

As he passed a side alley, he instinctively paused.

This was the entrance to Knockturn Alley—he’d come here several times recently, hoping to find affordable wand-core materials.

Silven had lived in Diagon Alley for years; even in Knockturn Alley, some wizards recognized him.

Of course, these wizards primarily knew Garrick Ollivander and were willing to give the old wandmaker a little respect, sparing Silven trouble.

Provided Silven didn’t venture deep into Knockturn Alley—those who lived there weren’t normal at all; even Dumbledore’s name held no weight, let alone Garrick Ollivander’s.

Silven knew this well, so normally, even when he came here, he stayed only near the entrance, never crossing beyond Borgin and Burkes.

But strangely, lately, many unfamiliar faces had appeared in Knockturn Alley.

The last time he came, the vendor who sold dark creature hearts and toes was gone, replaced by an old witch with moss growing on her teeth.

“Never mind,” he decided, for safety’s sake, abandoning the idea of shopping in Knockturn Alley and returning straight to the wand shop.

How odd—his grandfather had actually stepped out.

Silven stared at Garrick Ollivander behind the counter and exclaimed, “You figured it out already?”

“Not quite.”

“Then why are you out?” Silven said. “It’s only the first week of vacation—new students won’t get their letters for ages.”

“No, there’s something else.” Garrick Ollivander looked at Silven. “Interested in a trip?”

“A vacation?” Silven shook his head. “Not interested. I’d rather listen to the Leaky Cauldron’s wild tales of Goblin Rebellions and the Giant War.”

“No, not just any trip.” Garrick paused, then continued: “I’m taking you to a few special places. Haven’t you always wondered where the dragon heartstrings, unicorn tail hairs, and various wand woods come from?”

“Huh?” Silven, halfway up the stairs, stopped and turned around. “But didn’t you say, according to tradition, you wouldn’t take me until I graduated?”

“Normally, yes,” Garrick nodded. “To avoid wasting precious materials. I only went to Romania for the first time after graduating from Hogwarts—your great-grandmother took me. But I don’t think you need to wait that long…”

Whether because he was thinking of that unicorn wand, Garrick’s expression grew increasingly strange.

How did he even manage it… no, forget it, forget it quickly!

Silven stared, bewildered, as Garrick suddenly began slapping his own head and muttering to himself… What was this ritual? Was his grandfather truly all right?

“I’m fine.” As if reading Silven’s thoughts, Garrick spoke directly: “So, about this trip to Romania…”

“Still not interested,” Silven shrugged.

A year ago—or anywhere else—he’d gladly accompany Garrick. But Romania? No.

Unlike his grandfather Garrick, he wanted an entire dragon heart, not just a single heartstring or cardiac nerve.

Would the Romanian dragon reserve even agree to such a request?

He didn’t need to think—it was impossible.

After all, whether for potions or alchemy, dragon hearts were among the most precious materials, fiercely contested.

Since he’d surely be disappointed going to the dragon reserve, it was better not to go at all. Even if he ever needed dragon nerve later, he could always ask Garrick for help.

…

(End of Chapter)