Fred and George personally witnessed Harold earning over three hundred Galleons in a single lunch break.
They all came to buy wands from him, the gold Galleons clinking merrily as they filled a pouch that grew heavier by the minute.
Only then did the twins truly realize the importance of having a skilled craft.
Even after selling Skiving Snackboxes and various magical trinkets, they had only managed to save up thirty Galleons between them.
Harold had made three hundred in one afternoon.
Their eyes turned red with envy, and they couldn't wait to learn wand-making themselves. In fact, they left immediately—before even finishing lunch—and ran straight to the library without looking back.
Harold called after them a few times, but they didn't stop. Their silhouettes quickly disappeared beyond the Great Hall doors.
"You're not mad?" Ron asked cautiously, glancing at Harold. "They pick things up really fast."
"If reading a few books was all it took to learn how to make wand cores out of a wizard's hair," Harold replied, shaking his head, "Ollivander's Wand Shop would've shut down long ago."
Even Garrick himself had scratched his head trying to figure out how to use wizard hair as a core. He'd spent over a year experimenting and still hadn't succeeded.
If Fred and George could manage it just like that, then maybe Ollivander's really should close shop.
"Forget them," Harold said. Back in the Gryffindor common room, he carefully sorted all the hair samples, labeled them, and then pulled out the heavy bag of coins.
With this, plus the last few days' income, he now had 513 Galleons. After deducting costs—hair was provided by the buyers, and most wand woods came from the Forbidden Forest or the Room of Requirement... well, some were purchased, like Harry's yew wood, which didn't grow in the forest—
Harold did the math. A pure profit of 513 Galleons might be an exaggeration, but at least 500 for sure.
Not bad at all.
He transferred the coins into his enchanted lizard-hide bag. The cheerful jingling made him feel that once Garrick retired, the era of magical creature cores might as well retire with him.
They just weren't as useful as wizard hair…
But what should he do with all this money?
Buy a Thunderbird?
Forget it—not only was it unaffordable, it was also illegal to trade Thunderbirds.
How about a Horned Serpent? If he could find another piece of serpentwood, maybe he could forge another magical ring.
But thinking it through… probably couldn't afford that either.
Maybe just buy more dragon-blood wood, and this time skip the standard variety—go straight for the premium stuff. He always suspected the dragon sanctuaries were hoarding the good wood and never selling it publicly.
That might be doable for five hundred Galleons.
…
While Harold was pondering what to spend his fortune on, over in the woods near Hogsmeade, Tom—hunting for lunch—ran into an unwelcome guest.
He hadn't gone into the Forbidden Forest today because he was looking after the newly arrived Crookshanks. Instead, he chose this ordinary patch of woodland.
Though not as rich as the Forbidden Forest, it still had plenty of small prey—mice, rabbits, weasels—enough to fill their stomachs.
Once Crookshanks had mastered hunting, he'd take her into the Forbidden Forest… that was the real paradise, and where Tom's loyal underlings were.
Tom was full of confidence.
But just as he spotted a plump rabbit, some clueless fool came charging out of nowhere and scared it off.
It was a filthy black dog, about the size of Fang. Its fur was matted, tangled, and reeked of a foul stench.
It clearly didn't know how to hunt—no stealth, no patience. It just charged straight at its target. What rabbit would stick around?
And if a rabbit did stick around, Tom wouldn't dare eat it.
Now the whole area was spooked.
What was he supposed to eat?
Furious, Tom pounced and began clawing the black dog's head. Crookshanks, seeing this, joined in without hesitation.
…
Sirius was stunned—completely dazed from the attack.
He was starving. He'd hoped to catch a rabbit or mouse to quiet his stomach, but not only did he fail, he got slapped senseless by some wildcat.
What the hell?
He'd suffered years in Azkaban, barely surviving the Dementors, and now that he'd finally escaped, a stray cat was going to finish him off?
Sirius shook his head, growling low in his throat.
He was warning the two cats: he'd let the earlier incident slide, but if they kept pushing, he wouldn't hold back.
He was Sirius Black, a top Hogwarts graduate, the only wizard ever to escape Azkaban. He might not be able to defeat a Dementor, but a cat?
Hearing the growl, Tom halted.
Not out of fear, but because now he was really mad.
That mangy mutt wanted to fight back?
His claws extended, Tom lunged again.
…
Five minutes later, Sirius lay flat on his back, belly exposed in submission.
It was a gesture of surrender—instinctive among animals. He'd picked it up after learning to transform into an Animagus. The moment his instincts took over, down he went.
It actually worked—Tom stopped, calmly wiping the blood off his claws on a leaf.
Sirius lay there, questioning everything.
He couldn't beat a cat.
Was this a dream?
He was a dog, for Merlin's sake. And not just any dog—he used to duel werewolves! Now he was getting trounced by a feral cat?
How was that fair?
And what the hell had this cat been eating? Its strength was monstrous. One slap had left his muzzle completely numb.
One more hit and he'd have lost all feeling.
Every slash from Tom had left four bloody welts. If Sirius's fur weren't black, he'd look like a freshly butchered redhound.
He stared up at the sky. One of the clouds looked like a raised middle finger.
His chest tightened.
He felt pathetic. He'd trusted the wrong person, gotten James and Lily killed. Tried to avenge them—failed. The coward got away, and he still knew nothing.
Now he'd escaped Azkaban only to get beaten into the dirt by a housecat.
Could he really get revenge?
He looked at a few yellowed dog teeth scattered nearby.
And started to cry.
Tears streamed down his muzzle, soaking the grass beneath him.
Tom froze.
Wait—why was that huge dog crying?
Even Fang hadn't cried like that after months of beatings… and this one was sobbing.
Tom glanced at Crookshanks.
Crookshanks tilted her head, pondered a moment, then pulled a strip of meat from her collar pouch.
A snack Hermione had given her.
Tom's eyes lit up—of course! The mutt must be crying from hunger.
Should they help?
Tom flexed his claws irritably, then, after a moment's hesitation, dashed into the woods.
That dog gave him a strange, almost familiar feeling… kind of like Harold's black cat form.
If it weren't for that, he wouldn't have bothered.
Not long after, Tom returned with two rabbits and three mice in his jaws. He dropped them beside Sirius with a look of utter disdain, then nudged them with his nose.
The gesture clearly said:
Eat, you useless mutt.
…(End of Chapter)