Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

Chapter 227: A Spell That Can Turn

About twenty minutes later, Harry and Harold left Professor Flitwick's office.

At this point, Harry was seriously questioning his life choices.

He had lost count of how many times he'd cast Expelliarmus—whether face-to-face or trying to ambush from the side—but not a single spell landed. Every one was effortlessly swatted aside like an annoying insect.

This was also the first time Harry truly realized the gap between student and professor.

So… would it be the same with Snape?

He couldn't help but recall a recurring fantasy during Potions class—he'd finally get fed up with Snape's unfairness, stand up, and strike back with a well-aimed jinx.

He used to naively believe that even if he couldn't defeat Snape, at least he could make the man suffer a little.

But now, thanks to Flitwick, he realized just how impossible that was. His spells couldn't even graze a professor's robe.

"Don't beat yourself up," Harold said, clapping him on the shoulder with a grin. "Professor Flitwick is a two-time dueling champion. If he actually let you hit him, that would've been the real joke."

Harold was in a great mood. After leaving Flitwick's office, his pockets were thirty Galleons heavier, and he had a small tuft of grey-white hair in hand.

That was Professor Flitwick's hair—he had just officially commissioned a custom wand from Harold, using his own hair as the core, and one of Harold's new wand shafts.

Naturally, even with that, the price was a non-negotiable thirty-five Galleons.

Compared to the standard seven, that was a fivefold markup—but Harold felt it was more than fair.

After all, the materials for the new wand shafts were extremely rare. The price needed to reflect that. Thirty-five Galleons was already a discounted "friends and family" price, given Flitwick's ties with Garrick Ollivander.

If Snape had asked? Fifty Galleons, minimum.

Professor Flitwick didn't even haggle—he paid upfront without a second thought.

But when it came time to actually pluck the hair, the mighty dueling champion—unflinching in the face of any enemy—began to tremble.

By the fifth strand, his fingers were shaking.

By the tenth, he looked ready to bolt, caught between the agony of pulling more and the anguish of wasting the strands he'd already given up.

Thankfully, Harold had a kind heart. He stopped at ten, sparing Flitwick any further trauma.

Now, Harold and Harry were headed down to the Great Hall.

"Did you notice his expression?" Harry said as they walked, referring to the moment Harold had pulled Flitwick's hair. "He was so tense, I thought he'd explode. Was he… afraid of the pain or something?"

"I don't know if pain was the issue," Harold replied, biting into a buttered toast. "But you'll understand the answer yourself soon enough." He gave a vague glance at Harry's pointed wool hat.

At some point, Harry had developed a fondness for wearing hats. He'd even written to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions to order one better suited for winter.

Harry didn't think much of Harold's cryptic reply—he chalked it up to more of his seer nonsense. Always speaking in riddles.

"So this whole thing," Harry said, changing the subject, "you got me to help just to promote your new wand?"

"You could say that," Harold nodded. "But more importantly, I wanted to test a theory."

"What theory?"

"…It's not time to say yet."

…

After the meal, Harold left Harry behind and headed to the eighth-floor corridor where the Room of Requirement was located.

"I need a place to practice spells… a place to practice spells…"

Moments later, a door appeared on the wall. Harold stepped inside.

The room was spacious, filled with magical tomes and mannequins made from unknown materials.

Harold approached the nearest dummy, drew Silvermane, and took a deep breath.

"Depulso!"

Boom— the dummy shot backward, dragging along the floor and leaving a long trail.

When it finally came to a stop, Harold quickly measured the distance—about twelve feet, five inches.

He then placed a wand in the dummy's hand and cast Expelliarmus.

Once the wand had been flung away, Harold didn't bother catching it—he simply noted the point where it landed.

He had also previously recorded the exact time he'd etched the runes into the wand shaft.

The reason for all this? He wanted to see what would change when someone approved of a wand he crafted.

Would the spell effects improve? Or would it just make the runework easier?

That distinction was critical.

Over the following days, Harold focused solely on crafting the wand. Eventually, he identified the ideal wood for Flitwick's wand:

The Whomping Willow.

Yes—the very one on Hogwarts grounds. After mastering Animagus, Harold had managed to collect a few branches and stashed them for future use.

When he finally settled on the material, his first reaction wasn't joy—it was regret.

That was Whomping Willow wood. He could've sold it in Knockturn Alley for dozens of Galleons! And he'd given it away for just thirty-five?

What a loss.

"Screw it… let's call it a professor's discount," Harold muttered, shaking off the thought. He carefully placed the wand shaft into a cylindrical container filled with a slate-colored liquid—just enough to fully submerge the wood.

January quietly slipped into February, the biting cold refusing to let up. On one such frozen day, Harold completed Flitwick's wand.

[Whomping Willow, Wizard Hair, 8¼ inches]

[Status: Perfect]

[Attributes:]

Spread – Area-of-effect spells cover +10%(30%) more.

Precision – Auto-corrects spell trajectory up to 1(3) degrees.

Chain-Casting – Silent spellcasting gains +10%(30%) casting speed.

It was, without question, an exceptional wand.

Unlike Professor McGonagall, whose wand leaned toward Transfiguration, Flitwick's wand leaned heavily into dueling.

Area control, pinpoint accuracy, rapid suppression—it was a duelist's dream.

Harold tested it himself in the Room of Requirement.

What surprised him most was the second attribute: Precision.

He hadn't seen this one before.

At first, he didn't quite understand what it did. Then, during one spell, his hand slipped mid-cast.

By rights, the spell should've veered off and missed the dummy.

Instead, just as it neared the target, it bent—slightly but unmistakably—curving into the dummy's center.

"Auto-correction?" Harold blinked, stunned.

He had thought wands that boosted Animagus success rate were already ridiculous. He hadn't expected anything more absurd.

A spell that curves. That tracks.

Flitwick's future opponents were in for a real treat.

…

(End of Chapter)