Chapter 73: Romania

Silven’s idea was good, but by the next morning, he still took the door key that Garrick handed him.

Because he had overlooked one thing: Romania’s most famous place, besides the dragon reserve, was where the finest dragonwood in the magical world grew.

Silven could ignore dragonheart strings, but he could not ignore dragonwood—especially after accidentally crafting that special wand.

Silven touched the wand in his pocket, no longer than his fingers.

Fortunately, Garrick Ollivander didn’t know what the core was, or else he might have shattered right there, with no mood left to go to Romania.

“Ready?” Garrick glanced at the time. “We applied for ten o’clock. Hurry up.”

“Three… two… one…”

It felt as if something had yanked him hard—Silven’s feet left the ground, and his body was dragged rapidly forward.

Wind howled past his ears; the scenery blurred. Diagon Alley’s shops, streets, familiar sights flashed backward like lightning.

Silven had used door keys before; this special magical item didn’t require Apparition to operate and was faster and more convenient than the Floo Network or the Knight Bus, always Garrick and Lila’s preferred way to travel far.

But back then, Silven had only used them around Britain—this was his first time attempting a door key spanning over a thousand miles.

Silven didn’t know how long he’d been pulled through—only that his head grew dizzier and his stomach churned violently.

Finally, his feet slammed onto the ground. He staggered, barely steadied himself, then had time to observe his surroundings.

Beneath his feet was a broad expanse of grass, thick and soft, cushioning his fall had he stumbled.

In the distance rose vast, endless mountain ranges surrounded by boundless forests; the air carried an inescapable sulfur scent.

“Welcome to Romania. That smell is unforgettable,” Garrick Ollivander landed gracefully on the grass and clapped Silven on the shoulder.

“How are you holding up?”

“A bit disorienting,” Silven rubbed his nose. The sulfur smell grew stronger—he felt like he stood beside a volcano about to erupt.

“I felt the same the first time I came,” Garrick laughed. “Oh, someone’s here to meet us.”

A muscular man sprinted out from the trees ahead.

“It really is you, Garrick!” The man looked sixty or seventy, yet his build dwarfed most others—his arms, knotted with muscle, were scarred: some old and healed, others fresh with scabs, clearly recent.

He gripped Garrick in a tight hug. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Diagon Alley, preparing wands for Hogwarts-bound students?”

“The acceptance letters haven’t been sent out yet,” Garrick said.

“I nearly forgot—it’s only July,” the man said.

Silven watched the two from the side.

“Oh, let me introduce you—this is Alastair Buckly,” Garrick said. “My old friend, a senior dragon keeper who’s worked here for thirty years.”

“Hello,” Silven stepped forward. “I’m Silven Ollivander.”

“Hello,” Alastair said. They shook hands.

Silven felt as if he were gripping unpolished dragonhide.

“Ollivander…” Alastair glanced at Garrick thoughtfully. “He’s Garran and Lila’s son, isn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve heard—Garran’s son inherited the Ollivander wandmaking craft… Oh, wait.”

He lowered his voice. “Garrick, even though we’re friends, I must warn you: the dragon reserve only partners with the sole owner of a wand shop. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know. And I have no plans to retire,” Garrick said.

“You’re sure?” Alastair eyed him skeptically. “And the dragon reserve doesn’t sell materials to individuals.”

He didn’t know Silven, but he knew young Garrick—despite their cordiality now, fifty years ago they couldn’t have spoken calmly.

Back then, that old man would stop at nothing to obtain enough dragonheart strings and heart tendons.

He’d just graduated, brimming with passion and dreams, arriving at the dragon reserve utterly naive to the magical world’s treachery. Facing scheming Garrick, he was tricked daily—each day a new fool’s errand.

Those experiences became his sharpest weapon against poachers later in life.

“Relax—he’s only in his second year. Even if you were willing to sell, he couldn’t afford it,” Garrick said.

Alastair still looked doubtful.

“I’ll keep him outside,” Garrick added. “He won’t come with us to see the dead Ukrainian Ironbelly.”

“So you knew!” Alastair snapped. “That’s why you came today… How did you even find out? We haven’t even announced it, and already a dozen people showed up.”

“Who else came?”

“You used to be Headmaster Albus Dumbledore—he came with Mr. Newt Scamander.”

“Dumbledore… I should’ve come sooner.”

“Hmph,” Alastair sneered.

“Come on, take me to see it,” Garrick urged. “I promise, every child who uses a dragon wand will thank you for your generosity and selflessness.”

“You’ve used that line on me countless times…” Alastair gave him a long look. “Many poachers use dragonheart-core wands.”

Still, he led Garrick toward the reserve’s center—because more dragonheart-core users were keepers, including himself, whose wand was made of dragonheart tendon.

But he didn’t leave Silven alone—though this wasn’t the reserve’s most dangerous core zone, it wasn’t safe either.

“Someone will come find you soon. Wander around, explore. Ask him anything you want to know,” Alastair turned, sizing up Silven.

Clean-cut features, good demeanor—he’d stood quietly beside them while they spoke.

His first impression of Silven was favorable—far better than that old man Garrick.

“Work hard, boy,” he smiled. “I hope we can cooperate soon.”

…

(End of Chapter)