Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

Chapter 232: Essays and Advertisements

The Quidditch match was over—Gryffindor had crushed Ravenclaw with a score of 230 to 10, completely turning the tables after their loss to Slytherin!

The stands erupted in deafening cheers. Everyone was shouting Harry's name, as if in that moment, he truly was the savior of the wizarding world.

"That was brilliant—absolutely brilliant!" Ron shouted as he squeezed through the crowd, still flailing his arms to mimic the moment Harry had caught the Golden Snitch.

"Did you see it? That was a classic Chudley Cannons move—oh, Harold, were you waiting for us?"

As soon as he stepped out of the Quidditch pitch, Ron spotted Harold waiting outside.

"Of course," Harold said. "Hurry up—I just heard there's a celebration starting in the common room right now."

At the mention of a party, Ron's eyes lit up, and he quickened his pace without realizing it.

"You got out fast," he said casually. "It was packed in there—I thought I'd lose my breakfast."

"I was sitting on the outer edge, close to the exit," Harold replied. "And I left the moment Harry caught the Snitch, so no crowds for me."

"Lucky you," Seamus said. "But I still think it's worth it to watch up close. Even if I get squished afterward."

They made their way back to the castle, none of them noticing that Harold had actually left long before the match ended.

Back in the Gryffindor common room, the celebration was in full swing.

It felt like they had already won the Quidditch Cup. The party went on all day and deep into the night, only ending when a furious Professor McGonagall stormed in through the portrait hole—wearing a checkered nightgown, no less. Everyone scattered reluctantly and went to bed.

Harold lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

If he hadn't met Sirius today, the man probably would've already broken into the Gryffindor common room by now. If anyone had seen him… well, no one in the castle would be sleeping tonight.

That thought lingered as Harold slowly drifted off to sleep.

...

The next day, the Gryffindor students were still basking in their victory. The excitement carried right into Monday—until Potions class.

Snape, clearly in one of his moods, started deducting points for all kinds of ridiculous reasons—barely halfway through class, he'd already taken almost thirty from Gryffindor.

His cold, cutting voice was like a bucket of ice water, instantly killing the joyful mood. Everyone's smiles vanished.

By the end of the lesson, Gryffindor's hourglass had lost more than fifty points in total.

"He's doing it on purpose!" Ron fumed as they left the classroom. "It's because we're two hundred points ahead of Slytherin! He knows they can't catch up anymore, so he's taking it out on us!"

"I know!" Harry said angrily. He had lost thirty-five of those fifty points by himself.

"If he does that again next class, I'm going straight to McGonagall!"

In fact, someone already had.

But even Professor McGonagall didn't have a good way to deal with Snape's arbitrary point deductions.

Once points were taken, they couldn't be restored—and she wasn't the type to secretly add them back. All she could do was have a few quiet words with Snape over lunch.

After that, the whole thing just faded away.

Harold, meanwhile, was more interested in Defense Against the Dark Arts. During class, he kept sneaking glances at Professor Lupin, trying to see if anything was off—but Lupin looked completely normal.

So Sirius hadn't approached him yet.

Was it pride?

Or did he just not know what to say?

Either way, Harold didn't dwell on it. His mind was too busy with thoughts of how to promote his wand business.

The Hogwarts market was already near saturation. Students didn't have much pocket money, and a second wand wasn't exactly a necessity… unless Sirius went mad and broke everyone's wands, which was unlikely.

Too bad—Sirius definitely wasn't that kind of lunatic.

As for the professors… aside from McGonagall and Flitwick, none of them seemed to care much about wands.

Professor Sprout was obsessed with magical plants—her shovel and dragon dung mattered more than any wand.

Snape? Please. To him, a wand was just a stirring stick for potions.

Professor Sinistra was too busy staring at the stars, and Professor Babbling was impossible to find outside of class.

Trelawney barely used hers.

As for Arithmancy and Muggle Studies—Harold didn't even know those professors well.

And Hagrid already owned one of his wands.

...

That left only Professor Lupin and the ghostly History of Magic teacher—both not worth pursuing.

Which meant Harold's only real opportunity was an advertisement slot in Transfiguration Today. Time to get serious about that research paper.

He'd been buried in the library for days, combing through every relevant book he could find.

There were plenty of texts on Transfiguration—but almost none that discussed it in relation to wandcraft.

Wandlore wasn't exactly a popular topic, so related materials were scarce. Even Madam Pince couldn't find him a book that matched what he needed.

In the end, Harold had to cobble things together—pulling bits and pieces from vaguely related texts and journals, adding his own theories to build the paper from scratch.

It felt just like second year again—same library, same company.

Hermione had grown more and more anxious lately—almost hysterical, in Harold's eyes.

When he arrived, she was sitting in a corner, buried in a massive tome titled The Family Life and Social Habits of British Muggles—seven hundred pages at least.

By the time Harold finished his research and was about to leave, she was still on that book, scribbling notes furiously as she read.

"You're taking on too much," Harold finally said to her one day. "Maybe you should drop something. You wouldn't be so wound up all the time. Like Muggle Studies, for example.

"Seriously, it's not as important as you think—especially since you grew up in a Muggle family."

"I know that," Hermione said, lifting her head tiredly from a pile of open books, "but I can't. I chose the class, and I can't just quit halfway."

"You—wait a second." Harold paused when he noticed a nearby open book. It was a potions text.

"'The Preparation of the Wolfsbane Potion'… Hermione, why are you reading this? That's way beyond third-year level."

"I was reading it because of Professor Lupin…" Hermione stopped abruptly, looking flustered, as if she'd said too much.

But she quickly recovered. "I mean—Professor Lupin told me this potion helps werewolves. I just wanted to learn more about it."

"Is that so?" Harold said with a knowing smile.

So she had figured out that Lupin was a werewolf—but for some reason, she hadn't told anyone. Not even Harry.

"Don't push yourself too hard," Harold added. "That potion's extremely difficult. Besides, it's not like we'll run into any werewolves at school."

"I know," Hermione said softly.

...

(End of Chapter)