Chapter 80: Make Money, Buy Dragon

Late at night, Silven returned to the wand shop; once his tense mind relaxed, a wave of intense fatigue washed over him, his head spinning dully.

But Silven forced himself to stay awake, not immediately going to bed; instead, he drew the curtains shut and loosened his tightly clenched left hand.

A small pile of gray-white ashes crumbled softly from his open palm, like crushed, fully burned charcoal.

Before Silven entered Knockturn Alley, it had been a complete, two-inch-long wand.

And it was precisely because of this wand that Silven had unconsciously ignored the dangers lurking in Knockturn Alley.

Think about it—no incantation, no gesture, just a trickle of magic to cast Avada Kedavra—how could he possibly fear the cowards in Knockturn Alley who only bullied the weak?

The outcome proved him right: the enhanced Avada Kedavra instantly killed all enemies; he didn’t even need to summon the unicorn to buy time for escape.

And the cost? When the afterglow of the Killing Curse faded from Borgin and Burkes, the wand vanished completely—leaving only a handful of scorching ash in his hand.

A thousand-year-old Dragon’s Blood wood, Snakewood fragments, Voldemort’s soul shard—all gone.

Though the cost was high, Silven had to sincerely admit: it was worth every galleon.

No incantation, no gesture—just a whisper of magic to instantly cast Avada Kedavra, with area damage and automatic targeting.

Aside from a slight side effect, every other aspect was perfect.

Too bad it could only be used once.

Silven found a box and carefully poured the ash inside—just as a keepsake, to remember his first brush with death.

It was strange—why was a wandmaker like him in more danger than the Boy Who Lived? He wondered if those attackers had any accomplices left.

Probably not.

According to old Borgin, only six Death Eaters had come from North America to Diagon Alley—all of them there, neatly lined up, with a piece of their master as company…

Yes, in a way, they’d died alongside Voldemort’s soul shard—what a great honor for Death Eaters.

Silven thought himself a good man: they wanted to kill him, yet he helped fulfill their dream—was there anyone else in the world who could do that?

No one. Not a single soul.

As Silven thought this, his heart felt strangely lighter.

He lay on the bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, his mind drifting into wild thoughts.

Old Borgin said six Death Eaters came from North America—what about other regions? What if six more arrived from South America?

Thinking of old Borgin, Silven felt something was off about him—too polite, especially at the end, when he bent nearly parallel to the floor, speaking with reverence.

Yet earlier, he’d been so defiant, especially when gold was involved—his desperate, combative stance had nearly broken Silven’s act.

When had he changed?… Oh, right—when he mentioned Quirinus Quirrell, he suddenly became humble.

He even generously offered Silven first pick among the artifacts, disregarding his promise to take only one item; if unsure, he’d gladly advise.

That might make sense if he were facing Dumbledore.

But he clearly wasn’t Dumbledore—this was deeply abnormal.

Silven drifted into half-sleep, his eyelids growing heavier…

And he’d mistaken the wand’s power for an Ollivander family technique… Well, truthfully, it was accurate enough to call it an Ollivander method.

…

Hours passed; dawn arrived.

Silven groggily rose from bed, rubbing his eyes hard.

He’d slept poorly—constantly dreaming, waking abruptly just moments after closing his eyes.

Silven didn’t know if this was because it was his first time using Avada Kedavra to kill another wizard, but once he held Silvermane in his hand, he finally fell asleep.

By then, it was already dawn—he’d slept less than three hours.

Silven yawned as he walked downstairs.

His grandfather, Garrick Ollivander, had already opened the shop and stood behind the counter, ready to welcome customers.

By the way, Hogwarts acceptance letters had been sent out yesterday; new students would soon begin arriving in Diagon Alley to buy their wands.

“The school letter arrived. Here’s yours.” Garrick handed Silven a letter and a pouch of galleons.

Silven opened the yellow parchment envelope and read.

It told him to board the Hogwarts Express from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on September first, and listed his required books for the year—a long, absurdly lengthy list, even longer than last year’s.

“Standard Spellbook, Level Two,” by Miranda Goshawk… Fine, standard annual text, five sickles—reasonable.

But what were the rest…?

“Break with a Banshee,” by Gilderoy Lockhart.

“Traveling with a Ghoul,” by Gilderoy Lockhart.

“Walking with a Troll,” by Gilderoy Lockhart.

…

Seven books total—each costing at least five galleons.

Damn it, how had he forgotten about Gilderoy Lockhart?

Silven scratched his head—no wonder Garrick had given him extra galleons; this year’s textbook fees were astronomical.

How could Dumbledore have approved such nonsense? Had he taken kickbacks?

Silven thought darkly.

“Grandfather,” he said, lifting his head, “I’ll put up an advertisement outside—about wand-coloring spray and stickers, oh, and the maintenance kit we discussed two years ago.”

“Hmm?” At Silven’s words, Garrick reacted as he always did—resistant.

But he didn’t refuse outright; instead, he asked: “Why? Didn’t you say those things were scams?”

A sticker matching the wand’s core creature cost one knut; sold for one sickle. The rare glowing version cost two knuts; sold for at least five sickles.

The spray was even wilder—priced at galleons.

Only the maintenance kit was halfway decent—costing up to a sickle to produce.

Honestly, even Silven felt embarrassed by the pricing, so he’d never pushed them.

“Don’t think the books are too expensive,” Garrick smiled. “We can afford this.”

“No, it’s not about that,” Silven murmured, his mind drifting back to last night’s unreasonable Avada Kedavra.

It was truly effective—just one night had passed, and Silven already felt unsafe without it.

Voldemort’s soul shard was manageable—whether Horcrux or Harry, there’d always be a chance to chip off a piece—but the wand core was problematic.

Silven rubbed his face, his expression hardening—reputation be damned; he wanted money now, to buy Dragon’s Blood wood!

…

(End of Chapter)