Robert felt like he was being mocked.
Sure, he wasn't great at flying, but was that really such a big deal? Wasn't it pretty normal? Even Hogwarts didn't allow first-years to try out for the Quidditch team. Compared to most kids his age, he was already doing better. At least he didn't fall off the broom randomly.
"If I remember correctly, dragon blood trees aren't really suitable for making wands, right?" Charlie shifted his gaze awkwardly.
"Why do you say that?" Robert asked, tilting his head.
"Because most people who come to buy dragon blood wood are alchemists, then maybe potioneers and magizoologists," Charlie said. "Anyway, since I've been here, I've never seen Mr. Ollivander specifically go looking for dragon blood wood. Mr. Gregorovitch, either."
Gregorovitch was also a famous wandmaker, though he was better known in Eastern Europe, mostly supplying wands for Durmstrang students.
Beauxbatons in France had their own affiliated wandmaker, Cosme Acajor, the oldest among the three major European wandmakers. Still, his reputation didn't quite compare to the other two.
In the wandmaking industry, reputation doesn't always equal skill—but the two were certainly related. Like how Charlie had just mentioned two wandmakers and ignored the third.
When the Delacour family in France wanted a Veela-hair wand made a few years ago, they went straight to Garrick Ollivander, even though Acajor was geographically closer.
"Wait a second…" Robert suddenly picked up on something. "Charlie, you just said 'come to buy dragon blood wood'? You mean it's actually something you can buy?"
"If it's just dragon blood wood? Yeah," Charlie said, lowering his voice a little. "The dragon reserves are expensive to maintain, and funding from the Ministries in different countries keeps dropping. It's barely enough to feed the dragons, so we've had to come up with our own methods to make ends meet.
"Dragon blood wood and dragon dung fertilizer are considered byproducts. They're not regulated like the dragons themselves. We can handle them however we want."
"Is it expensive?" Robert's eyes lit up. He could buy it? That was fantastic. His grandfather had just received the wand subsidy for last year's new students—several hundred Galleons.
"Not really. A bookmark made from five-year-old dragon blood wood is only ten Sickles. If you like it, I can give you one."
Robert couldn't even pretend to smile.
Not because it was cheap, but because it was too expensive.
Ten Sickles could buy a huge snack box on the Hogwarts Express: two Chocolate Frogs, a pack of Superbubble Gum, two big boxes of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, five Licorice Wands, and a 3-inch Cauldron Cake—more than enough for two kids to share on the ride.
And that was just five-year-old dragon blood wood. Robert didn't want something so ordinary.
"Oh, right—you're a first-year, too. Do you know Ron Weasley? He's my younger brother, in Gryffindor."
"I know him," Robert said casually. "We were even in the same dorm once."
"What?" Charlie's voice got louder. He stared at Robert like he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "But he's in… Wait—are you in Gryffindor, too?"
Seeing Charlie's surprised face felt like another invisible arrow to Robert's chest.
It was as if nobody could imagine a wandmaker being sorted into Gryffindor. Even actual Gryffindors seemed shocked.
"The Sorting Hat thought I was a good fit," Robert said flatly. Then he asked, "Is there any older dragon blood wood? Like, say, a thousand years old?"
"Nope," Charlie shook his head without even thinking. "The longer dragon blood wood grows, the stronger the scent it gives off—and dragons love it. But just like how regular plants can't be overwatered, too much dragon fire can ruin the tree. It becomes really hard for it to survive.
"Also, the Dragon Reserve's only been around for about a hundred years. If there are any older trees, they'd have to predate the reserve—and there aren't many of those."
"Fair enough." Robert looked thoughtful. "But if a tree like that did exist, what do you think it would cost?"
Charlie didn't think much of the question and just assumed Robert was curious. He gave it a bit of thought and answered seriously. "The oldest I've seen was about two hundred years. A Bulgarian alchemist bought a branch the size of a broom handle—it cost him a hundred Galleons."
"A hundred Galleons?!" Robert blurted out. He had expected it to be expensive, but not that expensive.
Even if you just did the math based on age, a thousand-year-old piece would cost at least five hundred Galleons—and he needed even older than that.
Totally unaffordable.
Looking at Robert's helpless expression, Charlie chuckled. "Don't take it so seriously. It's not just the price. You'd also need the guts to snatch a pillow from a dragon's mouth."
Charlie laughed at his own joke.
Robert didn't laugh.
He really did want to buy it.
No wonder his grandfather's face looked so sour back when he'd returned with that dragon blood wood. At the time, Robert thought he was just being dramatic—like the wand shop was going bankrupt or something.
Now he got it. The only reason they could afford that piece was because Ollivander didn't plan to use dragon blood wood for wands, which meant they got a bargain.
But where did it come from? The Hebrides?
That place immediately popped into Robert's mind. When British wizards thought of dragons, they usually imagined two places: the Romanian Dragon Reserve and the Hebridean Black Dragon's habitat.
According to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Hebridean Blacks had been around for centuries—almost as long as Hogwarts itself. So it was entirely possible that ancient dragon blood trees still existed there.
But the location of the Hebrides Reserve was top-secret. Some said it was protected by magic as strong as the Fidelius Charm, and only a few wizards knew how to find it.
Robert sighed. Spending money really did seem easier than trying to sneak into a dragon nest.
Except the price was horrifying. Suddenly, unicorn tail hair at nine Galleons seemed downright cheap. Even Acromantula venom—at a hundred Galleons a pint—felt like a bargain.
He frowned.
Was Voldemort really worth all this?
Just one dark wizard—and yet Robert had spent over five hundred Galleons because of him?
No. That guy had wasted over five hundred Galleons of his money.
Thinking about the dragon blood wood wand that exploded into pieces, Robert felt the urge to smash Voldemort's short wand into dust and have a unicorn poke a hole in him for good measure.
But as soon as that image entered his mind, Robert suppressed it.
Too wasteful.
There had to be a more practical way to even the score.
Those Horcruxes might work.
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