Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

"Expelliarmus!"

Whoosh—

BANG! A flash of red light shot across the room, sending Harry sprawling face-first onto the ground.

The fall wasn't gentle. Harry was momentarily stunned, struggling to his feet, wobbling with each unsteady step.

"You okay, Harry?" Harold walked over from the other side, picked up Harry's glasses from the floor, and tapped them with his wand.

"Reparo."

The cracks on the lenses vanished instantly.

"Thanks." Harry slipped the glasses back on.

"No need to thank me." Harold shook his head. "You sure you're alright?"

"Ow… yeah, I'm fine." Harry rubbed his thigh. "But... why did it feel like your book rebounded the spell a lot harder this time?"

"It felt stronger… are you sure?" Harold asked, a little alarmed.

"Positive." Harry nodded after a moment. "I was ready for it—totally prepared to dodge the rebound. But it came back way too fast. I didn't even have time to react."

"And…" Harry glanced at the spot where he'd been standing, then at the wall he'd slammed into. "Last time we practiced, I didn't fly back this far."

To Harry, it felt like last time someone had gently plucked his wand away. This time it was like a brute had wrestled it from his hand and given him a solid kick for good measure.

It really hurt… he rubbed his thigh again with a grimace.

Seeing his expression, Harold had to bite back a laugh.

He'd had a feeling—ever since the basilisk's death, something had changed in the Soulbound Tome.

That mist-like aura left behind after the basilisk died? That hadn't just been Riddle's lingering soul. After fusing with the basilisk, Riddle had become something else entirely—a spirit similar to a Horcrux, but not quite the same.

Harold had experimented—just once—and surprisingly, it was easily absorbed by the Soulbound Tome.

The changes were immediate. The number of usable blank pages jumped to fifteen, meaning Harold could now store or reflect fifteen spells.

That alone had been a huge win. But the increased power in spell rebounds? That was unexpected.

He'd noticed the spell felt "heavier" during casting, but assumed it was just his imagination. Clearly, it wasn't.

Now he wondered just how much stronger it had become.

Was the power increase tied to his own magical reserves? Or did the Soulbound Tome simply return the enemy's spell, amplified? If it was the latter… was there a limit?

Harold's eyes flicked to Harry.

Testing that theory wouldn't be hard… assuming Harry was willing to eat a few more faceplants.

But watching him now, clutching his sore thigh and wincing in pain, Harold couldn't bring himself to ask.

"You've worked hard, Harry." Harold walked over and pulled out a finely crafted little box. "Here, take this. My way of saying thanks."

"Ah, no, you don't have to." Harry waved his hands quickly. "You already warned me—I was the one who didn't listen. And we're friends, right? I can't take a gift just for helping out."

He was firm.

Harold looked at him, seeing nothing but honest sincerity.

Honestly, Harold thought, Harry could be reckless, impulsive, gullible, and not the brightest wand in the rack… but he was loyal. He always showed up when it mattered.

And here Harold was, scheming about tossing him around again for "research." Not very Gryffindor of him.

"It's not much—just a wand care kit. I've been meaning to give you all one anyway," Harold said, pulling out two more boxes. "Since I just remembered, help me pass these to Ron and Hermione."

Harry only accepted it once he saw the others got gifts too.

He opened the lid and peeked inside—there was a thick black polishing cloth, wand wax, and a shimmering golden oil.

"Thanks, Harold."

"No problem."

After giving away three gifts, Harold suddenly felt… more Gryffindor.

Wait—hold on.

Why did he care about being "more Gryffindor"?

He shook his head as Harry hobbled out of the room. Then he shut his dormitory door with a sigh.

…

The next day, exams began.

Representatives from the Wizarding Examinations Authority arrived at the castle, led by a stern-looking old witch who might've been older than Dumbledore.

That morning, Harold sat in a sweltering classroom. On the desk lay a stack of test papers and a bewitched anti-cheating quill. A balding old wizard paced the room with a sharp gaze, scrutinizing every twitch and blink.

Harold thought it was a bit over the top. These were just second-year exams, not O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s. Who would even bother cheating?

The thought had barely formed when the old wizard raised his wand and pointed it at a Ravenclaw girl to Harold's left.

A large butterfly hairpin on her head suddenly flapped its wings and flew into the wizard's hand—transforming midair into a parchment covered in tiny writing.

"Zero points, Miss Selwyn," the wizard said coldly. "You should be grateful this isn't a N.E.W.T. exam, or you'd be expelled on your final day."

Miss Selwyn burst into tears and fled the room.

A Ravenclaw. Cheating.

If it had been a student from any of the other three Houses, it might've made sense—but Ravenclaw? Weren't they supposed to be the clever ones?

Even stranger, after the exam, Harry told Harold that another Ravenclaw—Viola Thorne—had also been caught cheating in their classroom.

He'd tried to disguise a cheat sheet as a piece of Sugar Quill gum. The inspector, Madam Marchbanks, wasn't fooled.

She was the ancient witch who oversaw the entire Hogwarts exam process, including O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.

Two cheaters in second year. Both Ravenclaw. Even Professor Flitwick was too embarrassed to show up in the Great Hall for lunch.

But seriously—what were they trying to prove?

Even if you wanted to run for Minister of Magic, nobody cared about your second-year grades.

"Looks like you're the one who made them panic," Percy said while munching a roasted potato. He glanced at Hermione. "You were top of the year last time. The Ravenclaws probably couldn't accept that."

"I didn't cheat," Hermione said stiffly.

"Of course not." Percy nodded. "They just think they're smarter than everyone else. Some of them won't even talk to me anymore… because I'm top of the year too."

"Oh, Percy, I didn't know that," Fred said, eyes wide with fake surprise. "You're top of the year?"

"And for six years running!" George chimed in.

"Amazing!"

They both spoke in exaggerated tones, dragging every syllable.

"You two…" Percy's ears flushed red.

"What's wrong?" Fred raised an eyebrow and mimicked Percy's voice. "Five points from Gryffindor for insulting a prefect?"

"Go ahead," George said, sipping his pumpkin fizz. "Harold already earned us two hundred points."

"Plus another hundred and fifty from Harry, Ron, and Hermione." Fred added. "You'd have to dock points for days before it even made a dent."

Percy turned scarlet. After stewing for a moment, he huffed, "I'm telling Mum."

"Be our guest." Fred thought back to the morning's exam.

Honestly, it wasn't bad. He might even score decently—if so, Mum wouldn't have anything to complain about.

"But I'm curious," George said, peering at the badge on Percy's chest. "How do you know they stopped talking to you because of your grades?"

"Someone told me, obviously," Percy snapped. His ears were practically the same color as his hair now.

"Maybe," Fred snickered, "they just don't know how to talk to a 'dunce.'"

Somehow, Percy's prefect badge had been hexed again—this time reading "Dunce."

But Percy pretended not to notice. He ate a few more rolls and left the hall in a hurry.

…

(End of Chapter)