Harry was starting to get anxious.
If Harold didn't have the wand, what was he supposed to do about Ron's Christmas present? It was probably too late to come up with something else now.
"Can you make another one?" Harry asked cautiously.
"I can, sure. I've got the materials ready," Harold replied. "But are you sure? Wands aren't like parchment—you can't just make a copy and expect it to suit the same person."
"Then what do I do…"
"Don't panic. We can give it a shot. Christmas is the day after tomorrow, and my grandfather probably won't be going anywhere far," Harold said, glancing out the window.
"If everything goes well, we should make it in time." He stood up. "Come on, let's head to the Owlery first—see if we can find a strong courier owl."
"Use Hedwig," Harry offered.
"Huh?"
"My owl, Hedwig," Harry said. "She's a snowy owl!"
"Oh, that's perfect," Harold smacked his forehead.
How could he have forgotten that Harry had an owl—and not just any owl, but a snowy owl worth twenty Galleons. One of the priciest breeds in the shop, known for speed and endurance.
Harold quickly wrote a letter, and the two of them went up to the Owlery, where they soon spotted the beautiful snowy owl.
She really stood out—glowing like a beacon among the other birds.
When she saw Harry, Hedwig immediately flew down and gently nibbled at his fingers. Harold couldn't help feeling a pang of jealousy.
His own pet, Tom, was always sneaking around who-knows-where, probably plotting how to eat someone's toad again.
Ugh. He really shouldn't have cheaped out.
…
Harold and Harry arrived in the Great Hall about ten minutes after dinner had started. They were a little late, but at least they didn't have to starve.
Ron found it a bit odd. Harry had said he had something to do—so why had he come back with Harold?
Throughout the meal, Ron kept dropping hints, trying to figure out what Harry had been up to. But Harry dodged every question, feigning ignorance. When pressed, he finally muttered something vague about "finishing homework," and let it go at that.
Ron didn't fully buy it, but thankfully stopped asking.
Soon the three of them—Ron, Harry, and Hermione—were off whispering about something else.
Harold sat nearby, not trying to eavesdrop, but still catching a few words.
They were discussing going to the library over the holiday break to look up someone named Nicolas Flamel.
Harold didn't have much faith in that plan. Trying to get Harry and Ron to spend their vacation in the library? Hermione had ambition, sure—but that idea had no legs.
To celebrate the upcoming holiday, the Gryffindor students threw a small party in the common room that night.
The Weasley twins had snuck in food from the kitchen: pies, roasted chicken, juicy steaks, pumpkin juice, pea crisps—it was even better than dinner.
There was also butterbeer from Hogsmeade.
That part was a rarity—Fred and George only brought one bottle. And it was for Harold.
Not out of kindness. They had questions.
They were dying to know how Harold could use more than one wand.
It was common knowledge in the magical world: a wizard could only use one wand. Plenty of people had bought a second, but those always turned out useless. Spells cast with a second wand were sluggish, weak, and unreliable. Even a basic Scouring Charm would leave behind smudges. Only after abandoning their original wand would the new one work properly.
No one really knew why. Even Ollivander would only give the cryptic response: "The wand chooses the wizard."
But Harold's comment earlier that day had blown the twins' minds.
If someone could wield three wands—just imagine the possibilities.
They were hooked.
Harold, not one to hoard knowledge (especially after a nice bottle of butterbeer), told them the truth: to use multiple wands, you just had to learn how to make them.
By midnight, Fred and George were already flipping through wandlore books in the library.
No one knew how long they'd last.
The next morning, the students who were heading home for Christmas left early, boarding the Hogwarts Express. Gryffindor Tower, once lively and bustling, now felt vast and empty.
Harold had gotten up early and was sitting by the fireplace in a cushy armchair, fiddling with what looked like a baseball bat that had been split in half.
When Harry and Ron arrived, Harold was drawing on it with a crimson quill.
"Morning, Harold," Harry said, dropping into a chair next to him. Ron followed.
Normally, these were the most coveted seats in the common room. Today, they had their pick.
Ron grabbed some leftover bread and pies from the party and started roasting them over the fire.
Harry, meanwhile, was sniffing the air with a puzzled look.
"What's that smell?" he asked.
"Think I burnt something…" Ron said sheepishly.
"No, not that." Harry shook his head. "I smell… blood?"
"Now that you mention it…" Ron looked around too.
"No need to look—it's this," Harold said, holding up the quill.
"You're writing with blood?!" Ron recoiled.
"It's not ink, it's a… well, a magical medium," Harold explained.
"I was gonna ask," Harry said, pointing to the bat-like object. "Are you making a baseball bat or something?"
"What's baseball?" Ron asked.
"It's a Muggle sport," Harry replied. "They hit a ball with a wooden bat."
"Like Beaters in Quidditch?" Ron immediately thought of his brothers.
"Sort of," Harry said. "But the bats are bigger, and it's not a Bludger they're hitting."
"Dunno. I never played," he added. "My cousin Dudley had a bat, but I don't think he ever used it either. Just liked having it."
"I've never played either," Harold said. "This isn't a bat—it's the base for my next wand."
(End of Chapter)