Chapter 45: Flitwick’s Curiosity

Harold truly believed that staying at Hogwarts for the holidays had been the best decision he'd made. It was as if the troll itself had known it was Christmas—delivering him a little surprise just before nightfall. The Fusion Charm had worn off. That meant the troll spine had finally and truly become a proper wand core. Sure, it still looked a bit oversized, but that didn't matter. Harold had anticipated this possibility and had prepared a wand shaft over two feet long, perfectly matching the core's final size. He'd thought he might have to adjust the measurements again—but now? Not necessary at all. Next step: officially assembling the wand. Only, it was already too late at night. At Hagrid's insistence, Harold had to reluctantly restrain his twitching fingers and head back to the castle—glancing over his shoulder with every other step as if leaving his child behind. Hagrid walked him to the door. He didn't actually mind Harold staying. The sounds Harold made while crafting wands weren't even as loud as Fang's snoring—he barely noticed them. But Professor McGonagall was doing room checks tonight. That wasn't normally part of Hogwarts protocol, but this year was special. With two Weasley boys staying behind, McGonagall was being extra careful. Even so, seeing how heartbroken Harold looked as he left, Hagrid hesitated. He turned, glanced back inside the hut— —and a few minutes later, threw on his mole-skin coat and hurried after Harold. Dinner that evening was roast turkey sandwiches and cranberry toast—delicious, everyone was cheerful. Everyone except Harold, that is. His mind was still full of the wand he was on the verge of completing—he barely noticed what he ate. At the teachers' table, Dumbledore was turning over a brown wand in his hands with great interest, while Professor McGonagall chuckled contentedly beside him. "I've tested it—it's truly marvelous," she said, casting a glance toward the distracted Harold. "Aside from not working alongside my original wand, it's practically perfect. It feels like a part of my body—like a new hand." "Is a hair-core really that impressive?" Dumbledore murmured, clearly intrigued. Realistically, a witch like McGonagall didn't rely on a wand as much anymore. She was more than capable of spellcasting without one. And yet, she'd been visibly delighted all day—and Dumbledore had noticed she'd cast spells far more often than usual. Even simple tasks she usually handled wordlessly, she now used her new wand for. "It's incredible," McGonagall confirmed. "It feels like magic flows even without me saying a word." "Nonverbal spells?" Professor Flitwick perked up. "That's child's play for you, though." "It's not that," McGonagall shook her head. "It's not that I'm casting silently—it's that I don't even have to say the spell at all. As soon as I think about it, the magic happens." "Truly?" Flitwick's eyes widened with astonishment. As a former dueling champion, he immediately grasped what that meant. No incantation meant zero casting delay—in a duel, that could give you an insurmountable edge, leaving opponents no time to react. As for McGonagall's disclaimer that it only worked for simple spells... Flitwick paid that no mind. Even with just a basic Knockback Jinx, he could suppress most opponents without effort. "If I were to purchase one myself... do you think Mr. Ollivander would find that offensive?" Flitwick was visibly tempted, but hesitant—unsure of Harold's stance. He'd known young Garrick Ollivander, back when he was just starting out—and the man had been stubborn to the bone. He crafted wands based on mood and whim... until eventually he inherited the Diagon Alley shop. "Um..." McGonagall faltered, unsure how to respond. Would Harold feel insulted? She honestly didn't know. But... Her eyes drifted down, almost involuntarily, to the top of Flitwick's head. Everyone knew the Charms professor had some goblin ancestry—and goblins weren't exactly known for their flowing locks. McGonagall wasn't certain whether his hair would even be viable as wand core material. Especially for a wand nearly twelve inches long. On the far side of the hall, Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and happened to notice a familiar face peeking nervously from the entrance. "Hagrid?" Dumbledore said in surprise, immediately walking over to greet him. "I'm so glad you didn't turn down my invitation to join us this time. Christmas is always merrier with everyone together," Dumbledore said warmly, ushering Hagrid toward an empty seat. That seat had originally belonged to Snape—who, unsurprisingly, hadn't shown up today. Hagrid looked awkward and uncomfortable. Thanks to certain events, the Ministry had once expelled him from Hogwarts for "failure to control dangerous creatures," and broken his wand. Only Dumbledore had believed in him, offering him work and shelter. So Hagrid didn't like coming to the castle—especially not to dine with the professors. He didn't want to make Dumbledore's life more difficult. He hadn't planned on staying tonight either. He'd only come to find Harold. But Dumbledore's warmth was overwhelming. By the time Hagrid realized what was happening, he was already seated in Snape's old chair. "Would you like something to eat? A turkey sandwich, perhaps? I must admit, the house-elves may have gone a bit overboard with the turkeys this year," Dumbledore joked lightly. Hagrid couldn't refuse. "You should come more often," Dumbledore said kindly. "You're part of Hogwarts too—our groundskeeper. You belong here." Hagrid pretended not to hear. He still didn't want to be a burden. And he didn't particularly enjoy crowded spaces—most wizards weren't fond of giants, and even less so of giant hybrids. Most students gave him strange looks, which made him deeply uncomfortable. Though Harold and Harry were different, of course. Sitting beside Dumbledore, Hagrid barely managed to finish his meal. It was an awkward, anxious dinner. As soon as the food vanished from his plate, he stood up and prepared to leave. On his way past Harold, he casually slipped a brown paper bag into his arms. "Something you forgot at my place. Don't go losing it again," he said. Harold blinked, confused—then looked up to see Hagrid winking at him. Hagrid was a terrible liar. His forced tone and awkward phrasing were obvious even to Harry and Ron, who sat just a few seats away. But Hagrid didn't give them time to ask questions—he dropped off the package and walked straight out of the hall. Harold instinctively peeked inside—and a familiar white shimmer greeted him. "What's that?" Ron craned his neck, trying to see. "Nothing," Harold said as he quickly folded the bag closed. "Just some of Hagrid's rock cakes. I forgot them earlier." "Rock cakes..." Ron grimaced, clearly recalling a traumatic memory. "Those things are harder than bricks. You actually asked him for more?" "Yeah. You should try one—they're great," Harold said absently. "...I think I'll pass." Ron clutched his mouth protectively, instantly losing interest in the mystery bag.