Chapter 114: A Gift for Hagrid

Harold hadn't expected Hagrid to have something prepared for him too. Inside the cloth sack were all kinds of magical creature parts Hagrid had collected recently—fur, scales, feathers, even some unidentifiable bones. There was a lot of it, and the bag was heavy. At the same time, Harold took out his gift—a two-foot-long oak rod. The moment it left his magical lizard-hide pouch, it hit the floor with a thud, leaving a visible dent. "This is..." Hagrid initially thought it was a Beater's bat used in Quidditch—but the weight was all wrong. He'd never seen a bat that could dent the floor. "It's a wand," Harold said, flexing his wrist. "The core is something you've seen before—a whole troll spine." "A troll—Merlin's beard! You actually used that thing?" Hagrid gawked at him, stepping forward in disbelief. Hagrid had known Harold was thinking of turning the troll spine into a wand core, but he hadn't believed it was possible. Last he saw, the thing was nearly three feet long. How could it be made into a wand like unicorn hair? And now Harold was saying he'd succeeded? Hagrid couldn't help but walk over and inspect the club-like object closely. The length matched, sure—but he still had a hard time believing it. "This thing's really a wand?" he asked dubiously. "Certified and true," Harold confirmed. "It's a bit different from traditional wands, though. It can only cast Protego—but that's also its advantage." In under a minute, Harold summarized its function—in one sentence. All it did was cast a permanent Protego spell on the wielder when channeled with magic—no incantation, no gesture required. A wand with only one spell? Hagrid had never seen anything like it. But the fact that it didn't need incantations or wrist flicks... that was tempting. "This is my gift for you," Harold said. "I was going to wait for Christmas, but it's too heavy for an owl." "Oh—I can't take that," Hagrid said immediately, shaking his head. "You know I've already got a wand." He glanced reflexively at the cupboard where the wand Harold repaired for him last year was stored. It worked better than ever now. "This is different. That wand's for daily use. This one's made for battle." Harold looked him in the eye. "Back when you fought Death Eaters... you never used your wand, did you?" "Well, no... wait—how do you know that?" Hagrid blinked. Back then, Voldemort hadn't even fallen yet—Harold would've been a baby. "Dumbledore told me." Ah, that made sense. And it was true—he didn't use a wand back then. Too much hassle: locate enemy, aim, chant, flick your wrist... Hagrid wasn't built for that. Half the time, he got it wrong in a panic. It was easier to just charge in and knock the Death Eater into the wall. "You're a wizard, Hagrid—not a real giant," Harold said, hoisting the troll wand back onto his shoulder. "Magic is your greatest strength. You should use it. "Protego will strengthen your body, and the wand itself is heavy enough to be a weapon. It's one of the best fits for you." "Still, I really can't accept it," Hagrid said. "That's far too valuable. In Knockturn Alley, even an untreated troll spine goes for thirty Galleons!" "But you gave me that troll spine," Harold reminded him, adjusting his footing. "...Also, please help me out here—it's really heavy." "Oh! Right." Hagrid effortlessly took the wand from Harold's shoulder, holding it like a quill. "How's it feel?" Harold asked. "Not bad," Hagrid said, looking surprised. It wasn't huge, but the weight was comparable to his six-foot stone bow. A bit light for combat, but decent in the hand. He swung it experimentally. The wand whistled through the air, shrieking like a raging troll. "It really is made for you," Harold said, satisfied. "Most people would struggle just holding it—let alone using it." "Try a Engorgio," Harold added. "You do know that one, right? Those pumpkins don't get cart-sized on their own." Hagrid recalled the incantation, but before he could speak it, a gray-blue flash shot from the wand's tip, rushed down its length, and disappeared into his palm. Whum... A faint, shimmering shield shimmered around him—also gray-blue. "What is—" "That's Protego," Harold said. Even he was surprised by how visible the shield was. Hagrid practically glowed. Feeling the change in his body, Hagrid's jaw dropped. If he hadn't felt the magic himself, he'd have sworn Harold cast it. No chanting? No aiming? Hagrid's eyes lit up with temptation. Only one spell—but for him, that was plenty. He'd never had any spell before—only fists. "Looks like it chose you," Harold smiled. "If the wand's too blunt for you, you can even convert it into a weapon—an axe, maybe—just don't damage the shaft." Hagrid, who'd been about to protest again, immediately forgot what he was saying. "Convert it... into a weapon? What do you mean?" "Literally," Harold said. He pointed his wand at a napkin on the table. The cloth transformed into a gleaming axehead, which floated down and affixed itself to the troll wand's end. Instantly, the wand became an axe—not unlike those held by the stone knights in the castle, though shorter. "Like that," Harold said. "I thickened the oak shaft to pair with the troll spine. It's not as flexible or stealthy, but it's far sturdier. Totally capable of being an axe handle. "Professor Dumbledore could help you fit a real axehead without damaging the wand. Or something else—if you prefer a different weapon." "Bye, Hagrid. I'll drop by again soon." By the time Hagrid came out of his daze, Harold was already halfway back to the castle, eating lunch. — He'd been planning to give that wand to Hagrid for a while. Sure, it was good for resisting magical explosions during wand crafting—especially when working with dragon bloodwood—but it had downsides. It made him careless. Harold figured the high failure rate in his dragon bloodwood experiments was because he didn't fear the explosions anymore. If there's no risk... why would he care? So he gave it to Hagrid. A tradeoff—but one he was happy with. — That afternoon, Harry returned from the hospital wing—with news about a certain house-elf named Dobby. "So you're telling me all of this was done by the Malfoys' house-elf?" Ron's voice pitched up in disbelief. "He blocked you from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, then rigged the Bludger to hit your head—all to save you?" "That's what he said..." "And you believe that?" Harry didn't answer. It sounded insane—but deep down, he didn't think Dobby had lied. Seeing Harry's silence, Ron got his answer. "He works for the Malfoys," Ron pressed. "This could all be part of their plan. That Bludger nearly killed you—is that what saving you looks like?" "Dobby said it was an accident. He just meant to break my arm," Harry mumbled, clearly unconvinced. "He kept slamming his head into the wall while talking—it didn't look like he was lying." "That's textbook Malfoy behavior," Ron sneered. Harry's doubt only grew. He wanted to trust Dobby—but the Malfoy connection gnawed at him. "Wait—how do you even know he's their elf?" Ron asked. "I saw him. When Malfoy's dad came to get him from the hospital, Dobby was with him. They thought I was asleep—but I was awake the whole time." "Then he came to visit again. I recognized the same dirty pillowcase he wore." Harry frowned. "Ron, what is a house-elf? Are they like goblins?" "Course not," Ron said. "House-elves are a wizard family's best helper—they do everything. Mum's always wanted one." "Goblins are useless. They just steal potatoes and cabbage." So... servants? Harry nodded vaguely, still confused. At that moment, Harold and Hermione returned from the library. Seeing Harold reminded Harry of something else Dobby had said: "At Hogwarts, terrible things are about to happen. Maybe they already have. History will repeat itself. The Chamber has been opened again..." Repeat history? Chamber? What did that mean? And "terrible things" already happening—was that about Harold's attack? But Harold looked totally fine—going to classes, visiting the library—like nothing happened. None of the professors mentioned anything either. Only Lockhart kept going on about it. Harry had too many questions—and every time Dobby tried to answer one, he'd bash himself in the head with a jug. ... (End of Chapter)