At daybreak, a lone figure arrived at the towering hedge wall known as the High Hay, just beyond the borders of Bucklebury.
The Hobbits of Buckland, wary and proud residents of this eastern Shire frontier, had always viewed the Old Forest with deep suspicion. From the time they were children, they were warned never to set foot beyond the hedge, for tales of strange happenings, moving trees, and vanishing travelers were common.
Centuries ago, to halt the creeping advance of the Old Forest, the Hobbits planted a dense barrier of hawthorn and holly hedges. Over the years, this green fortification had grown into a vast living wall, stretching from the Brandywine River to the far banks of the Withywindle, curving for over twenty miles in a protective arc.
Sylas had heard the stories. He had read Bilbo's notes and heard Drogo's anxious warnings, but curiosity and purpose burned stronger than fear.
He walked for miles along the hedge line, searching for an opening. But the High Hay was flawless, impossible to climb and tightly sealed.
With a resigned sigh, Sylas reached to his belt and drew out two bone-handled knives.
With a flick of his fingers, the knives sprang to life, spinning midair like enchanted sawblades. They flew forward, tearing into the thick hedge with controlled fury. Branches and brambles exploded in all directions, leaves spiraled into the morning light, and a tunnel began to form.
He didn't stop until the spinning blades had carved a person-sized opening clear through the wall of thorn.
Peering through the gap, Sylas glimpsed the other side.
Beyond the hedge lay a narrow strip of land, a no-man's-land, perhaps a hundred feet wide. Not a single tree grew in that buffer zone. Only weeds and dry grass covered the scorched soil, as if even the Old Forest itself respected the invisible boundary.
Sylas stepped through, crunching across old ash and burnt earth. Beneath his feet, he spotted blackened stumps and the charred skeletons of long-dead roots. The stories were true. The Hobbits of Buckland had once waged war with the Forest, using axe and flame to hold the trees at bay.
And now, he crossed that line.
The moment Sylas stepped beneath the boughs of the Old Forest, the air changed.
It grew heavy, oppressive, as though the very atmosphere pressed down on him. A chill slithered across his spine. Though there was no wind, the branches above rustled.
It felt like being watched.
No, he was being watched.
He turned slowly, eyes scanning the dense canopy. His gaze met the gnarled trunks of ancient oaks and ash trees. Their branches twisted and curled like claws, and their bark looked like wrinkled skin. The forest murmured. He could hear it, low and distant, faint whispers, like trees gossiping behind his back.
Outwardly, Sylas kept calm, his expression betraying nothing. But within, he was alert, his magical senses stretched thin like spider silk, probing the shifting forest around him.
Then, without warning, a thick branch cracked free above him, hurtling toward his head.
"Protego!"
With a sharp cry, Sylas thrust his hand upward. A shimmering, translucent shield snapped into place just in time, the falling branch slamming against it with a dull thud before bouncing harmlessly to the forest floor.
Ever since acquiring Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, the Shield Charm had been the first spell Sylas chose to master. It was one of the most reliable spells in the magical world, able to deflect both curses and physical attacks. But without a wand, casting it was a challenge even beyond what seventh-years at Hogwarts faced.
It had taken Sylas nearly a full month of nightly practice before he could summon even a basic shield. And now, at last, it had proved its worth.
The branch attack failed, but it had stirred something.
The entire forest began to whisper louder. Trees creaked and shuddered, their boughs swaying without a breeze. Sylas felt the weight of their hostility pressing in like a living wall.
He took a deep breath.
"Fine. If that's how you want to play."
The two bone-handled blades at his belt shot into the air with a flick of his wrist. Like humming knives, they darted toward a towering oak and a nearby pine, each one slicing cleanly through a thick, straight branch the size of a grown man's forearm. With a flick of his fingers, the severed branches were drawn back into his satchel.
"Just borrowing a few samples," Sylas muttered.
The forest roared in fury.
The ground trembled as if stirred by some great beast. The two trees he had wounded groaned, their bark peeling away in sheets to reveal pulsing, sap-slick trunks. Thick roots erupted from the soil like serpents, slamming into the earth and flailing toward Sylas with surprising speed.
"Oh come on!" he shouted as he bolted for the clearing. "It's just a branch or two! Don't be so dramatic!"
The forest didn't share his humor. Roots as thick as barrels crashed down behind him, tearing up moss and stone. Sylas ran full tilt, the bone knives spinning in orbit around him, carving through the thinner roots with every pass.
But the larger ones were too much.
He raised his hand again. "Locomotor Mortis!"
A burst of magic shot forward, slamming into the nearest roots. To his surprise and delight, the roots seized up—stiffening, twisting around themselves into tangled knots like a spider wrapping prey.
It worked.
The Leg-Locking Curse had worked...on a tree.
Sylas grinned, heart pounding. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"
With the two massive trees still thrashing in rage behind him, he made his escape, leaping over the charred buffer zone, ducking back through the tunnel in the High Hay, and collapsing onto the grass with a long, relieved sigh.
Examining the oak and pine branches in his hands, Sylas grinned. Though he was slightly disappointed that he hadn't triggered a new sign-in, obtaining potential wand materials from the mysterious Old Forest was still a significant reward.
After roughly disguising the hole in the High Hay hedge, he made his way back to Buckleberry, carefully cradling the branches.
Once home at Drogo Baggins's cozy Smial, Sylas borrowed some woodworking tools and got to work. He stripped the bark, trimmed off uneven edges, and polished the wood until two smooth, straight sticks lay gleaming before him.
He picked up the oak first, the straighter and more finely grained of the two, and channeled a small stream of magic into it.
A warm tingle ran up his fingers.
His eyes lit up with excitement. The flow of magic was a bit sluggish, but steady. For a piece of raw wood, it conducted energy surprisingly well. It wasn't perfect, but it was viable.
Then he turned to the pine.
As he released magic into the second wand-shaped stick, he felt it respond, though the magic moved even more sluggishly than with the oak. Still, it conducted.
That was enough to confirm his theory: the trees of the Old Forest could be used to make wand bodies.
Sylas could hardly contain his excitement. He didn't yet have the knowledge or skill to craft a proper wand, but discovering viable materials was a step forward. Hope sparked inside him like a newly lit candle.
Of course, the resistance he felt while channeling magic hinted at another truth: the wood wasn't his match.
In the wizarding world, wands were deeply personal tools. Holly for Harry Potter, yew for Voldemort, elderwood for Dumbledore… Each wand chose its wielder, and compatibility was vital. Using the wrong wood could weaken spells, or worse, lead to dangerous backfires.
Oak and pine might be useful, but they clearly weren't ideal for him. So what was his true match?
He recalled how diverse the Old Forest had seemed, oaks, ashes, beeches, blackthorns… Perhaps he'd return again, cautiously, to collect more samples and discover which wood resonated with him.
But before that, he had another task to finish.
His gaze drifted toward the two pots near the window, where the dittany plants now stood tall and full. After more than a month of moonlit irrigation and nightly care, the young dittany had grown to nearly a meter high, on the verge of magical maturity.
That night, under a sky painted silver by the full moon, Sylas knelt by the window, holding the stalks of the dittany in both hands. He closed his eyes, letting his magic surge gently from his core into the roots.
The plants pulsed in response.
Their pale green leaves deepened in color, their stems straightened, and droplets of dew beaded along their edges. Then, suddenly, both stalks shimmered faintly, drawing the moonlight toward them in slow streams.
They began to glow with a soft, silvery light.
In moments, the dittany had grown taller, their mature leaves exuding a strong, clean, herbal scent.