A lot happened the night of Christmas.
First, Hagrid joined the professors and students for the Christmas feast in the Great Hall for the very first time. As a result, Harold received a very special gift.
Then came the chaos.
Apparently, someone had broken into the Restricted Section of the library. For the rest of the night, strange, high-pitched, bone-chilling screams echoed through the castle corridors.
Filch tore through the hallways like a madman, determined to catch the culprit—but by morning, he hadn't even seen a shadow. It was as if the intruder didn't exist at all.
Even the ever-present ghosts had no clue.
The next day, the mysterious library incident became one of the more exciting topics among the castle's spectral residents.
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—Nearly Headless Nick—sat with the Fat Friar and Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore of the Headless Hunt, gathered around a rotting, moldy pudding, debating who the intruder could have been.
Avoiding Filch was nothing special, they all agreed—but eluding the ghosts and the portraits as well? That was quite the feat.
"It's obviously those Weasley twins from your house," Sir Patrick declared, detaching his head and letting it hover through the pudding as if that counted as eating. "They're always sneaking about and breaking rules. Probably discovered a secret passage no one else knows about."
Nick's eyes gleamed at the mention of the Headless Hunt.
"It wasn't the Weasley twins," he said. "Patrick, would you like to know why? If you'll agree to let me into the Headless Hunt, I'll tell you."
"I've got all the time in the world to find the truth, Nick," Patrick chuckled, repositioning his head. "And I've told you before—repeatedly—the Headless Hunt only accepts ghosts who are completely decapitated."
"Oh, come on," Nick pleaded. "It took forty-five chops to nearly take my head off. I'm just half an inch away—I dream of joining the Hunt."
"I must correct you, Nick—ghosts don't dream."
"…"
That ended the conversation rather abruptly. Sir Nicholas and Sir Patrick stormed off in opposite directions, both sulking. Only the Fat Friar remained, completely unsurprised by the argument's outcome.
They were always like this. Every time they met, they'd argue over that half an inch—and they'd probably do it again the next time they saw each other.
Still, the Fat Friar had gleaned a new clue from their chat.
First, he could eliminate the usual suspects—the Weasley twins. Nick seemed confident about that, and as Gryffindor's house ghost, his word carried weight.
But the Fat Lady's portrait had mentioned someone passing her painting in the middle of the night, which meant the intruder likely had Gryffindor ties.
Nick had also mentioned lights staying on in one of the Gryffindor dorms until very late, with the occasional strange noises drifting out.
There might be something there.
On the second night, hoping the screams would return, ghosts and even Filch staked out the library's halls.
They saw nothing.
Silence.
On the third night, finally, someone showed up on the second floor—but it was only Dumbledore, and he was levitating something large, shrouded in a velvet cloth.
It looked like a mirror or a board of some kind.
Filch was terribly disappointed, but of course, he didn't dare detain the headmaster. He could only walk away, grumbling to himself.
From then on, the castle settled back into its usual calm—at least, mostly.
Fred and George noticed something strange: someone was missing.
Harold hadn't been seen in ages—not on the grounds, not on the Quidditch pitch, not even in the common room. It was like he'd vanished.
Or maybe he'd escaped through a secret passage.
Fortunately, George eventually spotted Harold arriving at the Great Hall for dinner—always for ten minutes and always alone. At least that ruled out the "runaway" theory.
One evening, the twins timed it just right and finally caught Harold at the entrance.
"Finally found you!"
"Spill it—what have you been up to?"
They flanked him, one on each side. Fred was about to launch into another question when he got a good look at Harold's face—dark circles under his eyes, lips pale and cracked.
"Merlin's beard!" Fred yelped. All curiosity forgotten, they dragged Harold into the Great Hall and forced him to sit down.
Five slices of toast, three sausages, one entire roast chicken, two sandwiches, and a bottle of pumpkin juice later, Harold finally looked halfway alive again.
The dark circles were still there, but he no longer seemed like he'd drop dead on the spot.
"What the hell happened to you?" George blurted. "You look like you haven't eaten in a day."
"Not like—I haven't," Harold said hoarsely.
"What, did Hogwarts ban you from the dining hall or something?" Fred asked.
"No, I've just… been working. Lost track of time, I guess," Harold muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"Please. That's the worst lie I've ever heard," Fred snorted. "Save it for Quirrell—he might be soft enough to give Gryffindor two points for honesty."
"And he's the only one dumb enough to believe it," George added. "Everyone else doesn't walk around with a scarf over their brain."
"Fine. I've been making a wand," Harold admitted.
"Great. Add Filch to the list—he'd love that one." Fred rolled his eyes. "You really think we haven't figured it out?"
"The Guide to Wandmaking and Application," George said smugly. "It's in the library. We read it."
"We even did the math. Once you've got the materials prepped, it shouldn't take more than an hour to finish a wand."
"You can't still be working on just one, can you?"
"If it were a normal wand, it'd take me ten minutes," Harold said after thinking it over.
"There you go." Fred leaned in. "So how come you've spent the entire day—"
"Ten days," Harold corrected. "Since Christmas."
"…Okay, ten days," George said. "Making one wand?"
Harold rubbed his face. "It's not a normal wand."
He wasn't exaggerating.
The troll spine had been condensed to a manageable two feet, sure—but it still had the same mass and magical resistance. Embedding it fully into the shaft, and then engraving every single magical rune, had pushed Harold to the limit.
It wasn't just about skill—it was pure, backbreaking work.