Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

At dinner, Harold waited for Dumbledore in the Entrance Hall as he returned from Hogsmeade, and told him the truth: Hagrid wasn't the one who killed Moaning Myrtle—it had been the basilisk.

Dumbledore seemed genuinely surprised. He found it strange that Harold would know something like this.

"That incident was over fifty years ago," he said. "Very few in the school know the full story—even some of the professors are unaware."

Harold explained that he had repaired Hagrid's wand, which had led him to dig into the past.

Dumbledore nodded in realization. "Ah, so that explains the abnormally large pumpkins last Halloween. I should have known you were the one who restored his wand."

"Well, it wasn't completely restored. I just patched it up a bit," Harold replied. "But Headmaster, I only just realized—the girls' lavatory is the entrance to the Chamber. Maybe Myrtle was killed because she looked the basilisk in the eye."

"That's a very sound deduction," Dumbledore said, the candlelight casting faint reflections on his glasses. "I've always believed that Hagrid wasn't the one who killed Miss Warren. But keeping an Acromantula in the castle was still a serious offense—that's why he was expelled."

"But there are still people who suspect him," Harold said.

"You're not wrong," Dumbledore sighed. "But without evidence, the Ministry won't believe Hogwarts houses a basilisk—certainly not based on two unverified snakeskins."

"They'd want something more tangible," he continued. "Like a memory, or the actual creature itself. And those are things we just don't have."

Harold had to admit, he had no solution either. He couldn't open the Chamber. Harry, who could, couldn't enter the lavatory. As for a memory—who knew if what remained of Riddle could even provide one?

"I am grateful you told me this, Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore said warmly. "And I'm sure Hagrid would be, too."

He stepped past Harold. "But for now, let's not keep supper waiting. I recommend the orange marmalade pudding—truly delightful."

Harold wasn't entirely sure what the Headmaster was thinking, but he didn't press the issue and followed him into the Great Hall.

Just as Dumbledore said, the orange marmalade pudding was indeed delicious—though perhaps too sweet, and suspiciously loaded with syrup.

…

In the following days, the Gryffindor Trio grew increasingly scarce in the common room. But so did Harold.

Harry and his friends were clearly darting around the castle, while Harold holed himself up in the dormitory, reading.

Reversible Transfiguration—that chained book—was endlessly fascinating. Harold had discovered that casting transfiguration spells directly on its pages caused the content to change, depending on the type of transfiguration used.

Reading it normally yielded what felt like an advanced version of Advanced Transfiguration. But if you performed standard object-to-object spells while reading, the content would shift and focus on sequential transformations.

Sequential transformations meant, for example: turning a matchstick into a needle, then turning that needle into a quill. That was a "double transformation." Add one more to make it a fork, and it became a triple transformation.

Harold didn't care much about that section.

Instead, he tried turning the book back into a porcupine.

That did it—new content appeared, this time centered on human transfiguration, including detailed information on Animagi.

This, Harold was sure, was what Professor McGonagall had intended him to find. Why she hadn't just told him directly, he had no idea.

Maybe she wanted to test him.

Either way, he was hooked. A book with three entirely separate contents depending on the spell used? Even after finishing it, Harold kept flipping through it daily.

That lasted until Monday, when Professor McGonagall announced during Transfiguration class that exams would begin next week.

Only then did Harold reluctantly put away all transfiguration books and dig out the rest of his textbooks.

He didn't care much about exam scores, but he didn't want to do poorly either. At minimum, he needed to pass each subject with an "A" for "Acceptable."

After all, grades were still a benchmark for judging a wizard.

Just imagine—twenty years from now, someone asks about Ollivander's Wand Shop, and another wizard chimes in, "Cyril Ollivander? Oh, he got a 'Troll' on his N.E.W.T.s."

That would definitely hurt business.

It took Harold ten minutes just to find the rest of his books—A History of Magic, in particular, had gathered a thick layer of dust.

He realized he hadn't opened it once all year. Not even in class. He'd always been too busy reading transfiguration texts or journals.

And then there were all those Lockhart books, now forgotten in the corner.

That very night, Harold started reviewing A History of Magic in earnest.

…

Three days left until exams, and the castle had become a pressure cooker. Students clutched books while eating, walking, even climbing stairs.

Harold was no exception.

That morning, he ate breakfast in the Great Hall while reciting facts about the medieval European Wizarding Council under his breath.

Ten minutes later, the post arrived.

Owls swooped down from the enchanted ceiling, dropping letters and packages onto tables.

But this time, a seagull swooped in—and headed straight for Dumbledore.

"Ron, can seagulls deliver mail too?" Harry asked in surprise.

"Of course," Ron replied. "Not every place likes owls. Seaside countries prefer seagulls."

They both looked toward the staff table. So did Harold.

Dumbledore accepted the letter from the seagull, opened it, and read it quickly. His expression changed. He immediately stood up, leaned over to whisper something to Professor McGonagall, and then left the Great Hall in haste.

Harold noticed—he didn't go upstairs. He exited the castle entirely.

A few curious students slipped out to see what was happening and came back with news.

"It's true—I saw him leave through the main gates," Lee Jordan reported, surrounded by eager classmates. "Then he just Disapparated."

"Who do you think sent that letter?" Fred asked, intrigued. "Must've been urgent for the Headmaster to skip breakfast."

"No idea, but it had to be important," George said. "Did you see his face? He looked dead serious."

"My guess is the International Confederation of Wizards," someone offered. "They're known for using seagulls."

…

With exams looming, the castle had turned grim. The mystery of Dumbledore's sudden departure was a welcome distraction, and students immediately launched into loud speculation.

Harold didn't join in.

He was more concerned about why Dumbledore would leave at such a critical time.

Did he really trust his enchantments that much?

His gaze drifted back toward the staff table.

At the far end, Lockhart was chatting away cheerfully with Professor Sprout. He looked absolutely delighted—though whether it was the topic or something else, Harold couldn't say.

…

(End of Chapter)