Chapter 80: Make Money, Buy Dragon Bloodwood!

Late at night, Silven returned to the wand shop; the moment his taut nerves relaxed, a wave of crushing fatigue swept over him, and his head grew thick and dizzy.

But Silven forced himself to stay awake and didn't head straight to bed. Instead, he drew the curtains first, then unclenched the left hand he had been gripping tightly all along.

A small pile of grey-white flakes drifted down from his opened palm, like crushed, fully burned-out charcoal.

And before Silven stepped into Knockturn Alley, it had still been a complete wand, two inches long.

It was also because of that wand that Silven instinctively overlooked the dangers that might lurk in Knockturn Alley.

Thinking about it, it made sense — being able to cast Avada Kedavra with no conditions at all, how could Silven possibly be afraid of those bullies in Knockturn Alley who only pick on the weak?

Reality didn't disappoint him either. The enhanced Avada Kedavra killed every enemy in an instant; he didn't even need to summon a unicorn to buy himself time to escape.

And the price was this: when the afterglow of Avada Kedavra faded inside Borgin & Burkes, that wand was completely gone, leaving only a handful of scalding ash in his hand.

Over a thousand years of dragon bloodwood, a sliver of serpentwood, a fragment of Voldemort's soul — nothing left.

Though the price was steep, Silven couldn't help admitting from the bottom of his heart that it really was worth every knut.

No incantation needed, no wand movement needed — just a sliver of magic power, and you could cast Avada Kedavra instantly, with area-of-effect damage and auto-targeting to boot.

Apart from one tiny little side effect, it was perfect in every other respect.

Too bad it could only be used once.

Silven found a box and carefully poured the ash from his hand into it — consider it a memento, to mark his first narrow escape from death.

How strange — how could a wandmaker like him be in more danger than the Boy Who Lived? He wondered whether those people still had accomplices.

Probably not, right?

According to old Borgin, the Death Eaters who used Polyjuice Potion to come to Diagon Alley from North America numbered six — all of them were there, neatly lined up, with a piece of their master's soul for company…

Right — in a sense, they could be said to have perished together with the fragment of Voldemort's soul. For Death Eaters, that was a tremendous honour.

Silven felt he really was a good person — people wanted to kill him, yet he still went and helped them fulfil their dream. Was there anyone else in this world who could do that?

No, not a single one.

Thinking this way, Silven somehow did feel a good deal better.

He lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, and inevitably began letting his thoughts run wild again.

Old Borgin only said six Death Eaters came from North America — but what about other places? What if another six came from South America?

Thinking of old Borgin, Silven always felt there was something off about him at the end — a bit too polite, especially when he was about to leave; his upper body was almost parallel to the ground, and his words carried a tone of reverence.

Yet he had been quite tough before, especially when it came to galleons — that look of him ready to fight to the death had almost made Silven unable to keep up the act.

When did he start to change…? Oh, right — when Quirinus Quirrell was mentioned, afterwards he seemed to suddenly become humble.

He even generously said Silven could pick from the spoils first, without being bound by his promise to take only one item; if he couldn't decide, Borgin would gladly offer his counsel.

If he were facing a wizard like Dumbledore, that would be understandable.

But he clearly wasn't Dumbledore, so this was very abnormal.

Silven thought drowsily, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier…

And he seemed to have mistaken that wand's effect for a technique of the Ollivander family… well, fair enough — it could indeed be called an Ollivander technique.

……

He didn't know how long passed before dawn broke.

Silven groggily climbed out of bed and rubbed his eyes hard.

He had slept terribly that night — he kept dreaming, and sometimes no sooner had he closed his eyes than he would be startled awake.

Silven didn't know whether this was because it was his first time using Avada Kedavra to kill another wizard, but once he took out Silvermane and held it in his hand, he was finally able to fall asleep.

But by then it was already the small hours; all told, he had slept less than three hours.

Silven went downstairs yawning.

His grandfather, Garrick Ollivander, had already opened the door and was standing behind the counter, ready to welcome customers.

Right — yesterday the Hogwarts acceptance letters had been sent out, and the new students would soon be coming to Diagon Alley one after another to buy their wands.

"A letter came from the school — this is for you." Garrick handed Silven a letter and a bag of galleons.

Silven tore open the yellow parchment envelope and read it.

The contents were roughly telling him to board the Hogwarts Express from Platform 9¾ on the first of September as usual, and also listing the new textbooks he would need this year — a long row, even more outrageous than last year's.

*Standard Spells, Grade Two* by Miranda Goshawk… that was fine — the standard one-volume-per-year textbook, and five sickles wasn't expensive.

But what on earth were the rest…

*Break with a Banshee* by Gilderoy Lockhart.

*Gadding with Ghouls* by Gilderoy Lockhart.

*Travels with Trolls* by Gilderoy Lockhart.

……

Seven books in total, and even the cheapest was five galleons each.

Damn it — how could he have forgotten about that fellow Gilderoy Lockhart.

Silven scratched his hair. No wonder Garrick had given him an extra bag of galleons — this year's book expenses could truly be called astronomical.

Such an outrageous request — how could Dumbledore have agreed to it? He couldn't be taking a kickback, could he?

Silven muttered darkly to himself.

"Grandfather." He looked up and said, "I'll make an advertisement to hang outside in a bit — about the wand-colouring spray and the stickers. Oh, and the maintenance kit we agreed on the past two years."

"Hm?" Hearing Silven's words, Garrick reacted the same as before — somewhat resistant.

But he didn't refuse outright; instead he asked, "Why? Didn't you used to think those things were a scam too?"

A sticker of a magical animal matching the wand core costs one knut to make, sells for one sickle; the rare holographic version costs two knuts to make, sells for five sickles and up.

The spray was even more outrageous — priced in galleons.

Only the maintenance kit was a bit better — the cost price could climb all the way up to sickles.

To be honest, after setting the price, even Silven himself felt embarrassed, so he never actively pushed the sales.

"You don't need to think those books are too expensive." Garrick said with a smile: "We can still afford this much money."

"No, it has nothing to do with that." Silven's expression was dazed, as if he was thinking again about that unreasonable Avada Kedavra from last night.

It really is useful — just one night had passed, and Silven was already starting to feel insecure.

But Voldemort's soul was easy enough to deal with — whether it was a Horcrux, or Harry, there would always be a chance to poke a piece off. The wand body, however, was a bit troublesome.

Silven rubbed his face, his expression growing more and more resolute. It was just reputation — right now he just wanted to get money, to buy Dragonblood Wood!

……

(End of this chapter)