Chapter 39: Conflict

Overnight, Hogwarts Castle was blanketed in thick snow, as if nature itself were reminding everyone that Christmas was just around the corner. Harold had originally planned to return to Diagon Alley for the holidays. A month ago, he'd received a letter from his parents, saying they would be back in Britain for Christmas. But plans had changed. Harold glanced at the long-necked glass bottle resting on the windowsill. Suspended in pale yellow resin floated a "baseball bat" roughly two and a half feet long. This was the wand body he'd been crafting over the past several days. From its current condition, it was nearly ready for final shaping. As for the wand core—Hagrid still wouldn't let him take it out of the hut. If Harold went home for the break, he wouldn't be able to finish the wand until next term. And he didn't want to miss this rare opportunity. So, Harold had signed his name on the list of students staying at Hogwarts for Christmas. "Harold Ollivander. My office. Now." After Potions, Snape's cold voice rang out. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had already been halfway out the door but stopped immediately, turning back to look at Harold. That brief tension from a month ago had long since faded, and Harry and Ron had been looking for a chance to talk to Harold again. Now seemed like a good time. "What does he want with you?" Harry asked, concern in his tone. "Relax. It's not detention," Harold replied. "Probably just the request I submitted being approved." "You really asked him for stuff?" Ron looked shocked. "Not exactly... I submitted a request. Through Professor McGonagall," Harold explained. "It's a long story. I'll tell you later—see you in the Great Hall?" Just a few words, and it was like nothing had ever gone wrong between them. That old ease returned as if the past month's awkwardness had never happened. "Right. See you at lunch," Harry said, quietly relieved. Following Snape down to his office, Harold noted that very little had changed since his last visit—except that the jars of potion ingredients on the walls had been switched out. "Here's what you asked for." Snape placed a tiny vial on the desk. Inside it was a glimmering, almost amber liquid. Then Snape narrowed his eyes, glaring at Harold. "Tell me. How did you know the school had troll blood?" "I heard it from Professor Quirrell," Harold replied evenly, the excuse long prepared. Pushing it off on Quirrell was simple. No matter how hard Quirrell denied it, Snape would never believe him anyway. Sure enough, at the mention of Quirrell's name, Snape's face twisted into a scowl, his brows knitting in pure disgust—as though someone had just offered him a spoonful of flobberworm mucus. "What are you using it for?" he asked next. "To make a wand," Harold said calmly. "Lies!" Snape suddenly lunged forward, his black robes billowing like smoke. "I looked into it. Wand-making doesn't require magical creature blood. Tell me the truth!" "I am telling the truth." Harold met his eyes without flinching. "If you don't believe me, you can ask Professor McGonagall. She already confirmed it with my grandfather." And that was true. Harold had gone through all the proper channels: wrote a letter to his grandfather Garrick Ollivander, who then contacted Professor McGonagall, who in turn submitted the request to Snape. It had taken several days, but it was all by the book. There was no need for Harold to feel guilty—he hadn't lied. Snape continued staring at him, his dark gaze locked on Harold's. Then, suddenly, the color drained from his face. Veins bulged on his temple, and within seconds, his brow was slick with cold sweat. Harold blinked, startled. But before he could say anything, Snape snarled and flung out his arm. "OUT! GET OUT!" The door blasted open with a bang. Harold didn't argue. He quickly grabbed the vial off the desk and left without a word. As soon as he was through, the door slammed shut behind him, shaking dust from the ceiling. Harold stood in the corridor, frowning slightly. Had Snape just tried to use Legilimency on him? He hadn't felt anything at the time, but judging by Snape's reaction... yeah. That was probably it. Thing was, ancient wizard protections weren't exactly friendly. If Occlumency was like drawing a curtain, Harold's mind was more like a wasp nest hung from a tree—try peeking inside, and you'd be lucky to escape without being stung half to death. Snape, apparently, had just gotten himself stung. All that—for a single vial of troll blood that McGonagall had already approved? Heh. Serves him right. Harold's opinion of Snape dropped another level. Still, none of that mattered as long as Snape kept buying the things he needed. That made him a "good professor" in Harold's book. As Harold approached the main corridor, he noticed something strange—students packed both sides of the hallway, and more were pouring in. Gryffindors to the left. Slytherins to the right. Red and green scarves like battle banners. The shouting was intense, and more than a few wands had already been drawn. As the crowd thickened, the passage ahead was completely blocked. And Harold noticed something else. He had just exited the Potions classroom—which put him right in the middle of the Slytherin side. One glance ahead showed a sea of green and silver scarves. Luckily, the noise was still loud enough that no one had noticed him yet. A full-blown house brawl? An ambush waiting to happen? Harold quietly pulled out his wand, hesitating for a moment. Should he start this fight himself? He was in a great position—one good spell from behind could throw Slytherin's ranks into chaos. But before he could act, a shout came from behind him. "Whoa! What the heck is that?!" Harold spun around, only to sigh in relief. "Fred? George? What are you two doing here?" "What else? We were gonna sneak up on them from the back," said Fred matter-of-factly. "But before we get into that—" George pointed to Harold's hands, eyes wide. "Can you explain what's going on with those?" "My wands," Harold said. "We know they're wands!" Fred gaped. "But why are you holding three of them?!" "Because I can only hold three at once," Harold replied. "...Wait, you mean you have more?" "Of course. As a wandmaker, it's perfectly reasonable for me to carry a few spares, isn't it?" It was such a confident answer that for a second, the twins nodded. Then they frowned—hang on, that's not what they were asking! They weren't talking about hand space! "You lot! What do you think you're doing?! Disperse immediately!" Before the twins could speak again, Professor McGonagall stormed onto the scene—Hermione right behind her. Her lips were tight, her face flushed with fury. Everyone scattered at once, trying to make themselves scarce. But the hall was so packed, people tripped over one another in the rush. "Pointing wands at your fellow students—do you even know what that means?!" "Twenty points from Gryffindor. And twenty from Slytherin!" She looked ready to explode, her voice shaking with restrained rage. "All of you, out of this corridor—NOW! And if I ever see this again, both houses will be disqualified from Quidditch!" (End of Chapter)