Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

Even though it wasn't the official start of term yet, Hogwarts had suddenly come alive with activity.

"It's all because of what you said in the paper," Hermione snapped, slapping her book onto the table. "People are crowding around the common room entrance just to see you destroy the Chamber."

"Did I say I'd do it today?" Harold thought for a moment. "If I'm remembering right, tomorrow's the last day of the holiday. That's when everyone takes the train back."

"You're right," Hermione admitted, unfolding a copy of the Daily Prophet and laying it flat. "But the article also said you'd take care of it before the students return."

"They'll be back tomorrow night. Technically, that would break your 'promise,'" she said with a pointed look.

"Well, that explains it," Harold said with a nod.

"I suggest you don't go out today," Harry added, lifting his head from the chessboard.

"We can speak to Professor McGonagall," Hermione offered. "She'll know how to end this farce."

"No need. Don't bother the professors," Harold replied, glancing down at the parchment in his hand, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Besides, I wouldn't call this a farce."

"Exactly! It's the most important moment before the big show!"

Fred and George came bursting in, each lugging a large box.

"Where've you been?" Ron asked. "And what's in the boxes?"

"Tools for destroying the Chamber, of course!" Fred declared, opening his box for everyone to see.

It was filled with Exploding Snap fireworks—specifically the 'Splash Bloom' series, which lit only when in contact with water and burst with a soaking splash rather than fire.

George's box was filled with 'Dragon's Breath' fireworks, which emitted roaring fire-like jets once ignited—a perfect tool for spectacle.

"You're not seriously going to use these to fake the Chamber's destruction, are you?" Hermione asked, aghast.

"Brilliant idea, isn't it?" Fred grinned, winking. "We've been working on it for days."

"Cost us nearly all our galleons, too," George said proudly. "By tonight, they'll be going off all over the castle!"

"The Astronomy Tower…"

"The turrets…"

"And the Great Hall—who's to say the Chamber isn't hidden under there?"

Their eyes sparkled with excitement. To them, the whole plan was a masterpiece—an excuse to legally light up fireworks across Hogwarts. Harold's plan had become genius in their eyes.

"You can't do that!" Percy came running down from the dormitory. "This is clearly against school rules, and I—"

"We're just helping the school eliminate a dangerous threat," Fred interrupted solemnly. "You're a prefect, Percy. Surely you wouldn't interfere with that?"

"But your fireworks—"

"What fireworks? These are our secret weapons against the monster of the Chamber!" George said, wide-eyed with innocence. "Maybe it's afraid of loud noises!"

Percy, sputtering and red-faced, could only glare. "I—I'm telling Mum!"

"Oh, come on, Perce," Fred chuckled. "Mum won't care."

"And besides, you must've liked the name 'Dumby'—why else would you wear that badge for days?"

Percy's face turned beet-red, and the common room erupted in laughter, remembering the Christmas feast when someone had enchanted his prefect badge to read "Dumby," which he wore for nearly a week before noticing.

The room was filled with cheer.

Still, Harold took Harry's advice and stayed inside all day. At lunchtime, the others brought him sandwiches and pork chops from the Great Hall.

By afternoon, more students had returned. On the Marauder's Map, the names were so densely packed that Harold had to squint to pick out the ones he was looking for.

Harry came to visit twice, the second time carrying a bulging package.

As night fell, the eighth floor swelled with people.

When the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open, every head turned toward the doorway—including a small beetle perched in the corner, whose markings around the eyes looked suspiciously like eyeglass frames.

BOOM!

With a resounding blast, a glowing red lion burst from the common room, soared into the air, and exploded into dozens of golden birds.

"It's in the tower!" someone shouted. "There are two dragons on the tower, and they're breathing fire!"

Fred and George burst out riding broomsticks, fully geared up and hollering with delight.

"Come on!"

"Let's light it up!"

…

Most of the crowd followed them toward the Astronomy Tower, their excited cries echoing through the corridors.

The castle quieted once again.

Meanwhile, on the second floor, in a dim and deserted corridor, the candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the walls.

Someone approached—but instead of entering, the person lingered at a distance, scanning the area.

With most students gone or chasing fireworks, the corridor was empty.

"Heh… knew it," the figure sneered and turned to leave.

But just as he turned, the air behind him shimmered—and a person suddenly appeared out of thin air, wand already pointed at his head.

"Harold Ollivander, you—"

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy," Harold said with a smile, raising his wand. "Incarcerous!"

Ropes shot from his wand, coiling around Draco Malfoy like a spider's web. They suspended him from the ceiling, dangling and helpless.

"What are you doing?! Let me down or I'll tell Professor Snape!" Draco shouted, struggling furiously.

"By all means," Harold said. "But you'll have to wait—he's up at the tower right now. Busy handling something much more important."

Harold stepped closer and began tapping his wand along Draco's robes, checking one pocket after another.

"Ah, found it."

Ignoring Draco's frantic writhing, Harold reached into a pocket and pulled out a battered black diary.

"Give it back!" Draco's eyes filled with panic. He thrashed harder, the ropes digging tighter.

"That's my diary! Give it back!"

Harold's next words stopped him cold.

"Oh? Your diary? Isn't this Tom Riddle's diary?"

Draco fell silent, like a rooster suddenly strangled.

"I—I don't know who that is! Let me down!" he sputtered.

"Whether you admit it or not doesn't matter. What matters is—I found it." Harold turned the diary over in his hands. "I've been wondering who took it. Never guessed it was you."

"That's just an ordinary diary! I bought it in Knockturn Alley!"

"Drop the act." Harold chuckled. "That article in the Prophet was for whoever had this diary. When you read I'd destroy the Chamber with the Headmaster, you panicked, didn't you?

"So you rushed back to Hogwarts early to confirm if it was true."

"I—I was just here for the fun," Draco stammered. "Other people came back too!"

"But only you came to the second floor—seven times today alone." Harold raised a brow. "Care to explain that?"

"I—I was going to the library!"

"Funny. I never knew you were such a bookworm." Harold laughed coldly. "Except you never went near the library—not even once."

"How do you know that?!"

"Oh, I know," Harold said with a gleam in his eye. "In fact, I know everything you've been doing."

His expression darkened. With a flick of his wand, Harold shifted Draco's suspended body over the banister. Then he pulled out another wand.

"Diffindo!"

The ropes began to snap, one by one, until only a single thread held Draco by his ankle.

Draco's position was far worse than before—dangling upside down above the marble floor of the first-floor entrance hall. One fall, and…

His face went pale.

"You sicced the basilisk on me!" Harold growled, wand aimed at the last rope. "Maybe I should let you drop. Call it even."

"But don't worry—it's only the second floor. At worst, you'll just need another bottle of Skelegro."

He raised his wand again. "Diffin—"

"I didn't!" Draco blurted out. "It was Tom Riddle! He wanted to kill you, not me!"

"Oh? So you're admitting it now." Harold lowered his wand. "Why?"

"He said… he said you killed him…" Draco stammered, trembling.

"What?" Harold blinked. That was not the answer he expected.

"I'm twelve. How do you figure I killed someone from fifty years ago?" Harold asked flatly.

"I—I don't know! That's what he said. Just let me down!"

Harold didn't answer. He pulled out a quill and flipped open the diary in his hand.

It really was a mess—half of it was usable, the other half was soaked and grimy, as though someone had scrubbed it through a muddy puddle.

Was this really a magical diary?

No matter. The usable part remained.

And Harold now had exactly what he came for.

(End of Chapter)