As soon as Sylas stepped into the clearing, his eyes locked warily on the gnarled giant at the valley's heart.
The Old Willow.
He had suspected it all along. The relentless ambushes, the lashing branches, the relentless herding deeper into the woods—it had all been to lead him here.
To this tree.
A Huorn.
Unlike the Ents who spoke and walked and herded sheep in the tales of old, Huorns were something far darker. They were trees that had teetered too far toward sentience, more wild than wise. Some still lingered on the edge of consciousness, slow to act but prone to aggression. Others, like this one, had fully awakened with age, and grown bitter, ancient, and malicious.
And this one… this one was ancient beyond reckoning.
Its roots ran deeper than the forest itself. Its bark was gnarled and twisted like dragonhide, and its massive trunk bore a gaping, jagged split, like a mouth, wide and grinning.
Without realizing it, Sylas swayed on his feet.
A sound had begun to creep into his mind, a lullaby, soft as breath, carried by the breeze. Gentle. Comforting.
Enchanting.
His thoughts slowed. His limbs grew heavy. His eyes began to glaze over as the forest's edge fell away behind him, and he drifted forward like a moth to fire.
The Old Willow Tree waited patiently. Its yawning crack widened, a terrible smile carved in wood. The soft hum of leaves wove a song not meant to comfort, but to consume.
Sylas walked straight toward it, his boots crunching through leaves, his arms limp at his sides.
Just a few more steps.
Then, like lightning through fog, a chime echoed through his mind:
[Hogwarts Sign-In System: Location — Old Forest. Sign-in available. Proceed?]
The system's voice shattered the trance in an instant.
Sylas blinked sharply. His heart pounded. His hand moved on instinct.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The spell flew from his fingertips like a streak of white fire, striking the Old Willow squarely in the trunk. With a groan of splintering bark, the Huorn froze, its branches halting mid-lurch, and the haunting song stopped.
Sylas exhaled, only to inhale again in panic.
The spell had stunned the monster… but not for long.
With an angry creak, the Old Willow flexed. Its branches writhed like serpents, snapping free from the paralysis as though the spell had never touched it.
Then came the strike.
One of its titanic limbs swung toward him like a battering ram.
"Protego!"
The Shield Charm sprang to life just in time, a glowing dome forming between Sylas and the monstrous branch. The impact shook him to the core, a thunderclap of force rippling through the shield.
He staggered back, barely holding the spell.
'That didn't work. It barely slowed it.'
As the branch reared back for another blow, Sylas's eyes darted downward, toward the base of the willow.
The forest floor was thick with fallen leaves… unnaturally thick.
His gaze sharpened.
"Incendio!"
A burst of flame erupted from Sylas's hand, streaking through the air and striking the thick mat of fallen leaves beneath the Old Willow.
The result was instant.
The dry undergrowth caught fire with a loud whoosh, orange flames curling hungrily around the base of the ancient Huorn. The blaze licked up its gnarled bark, climbing toward its sweeping limbs.
Even a creature as old and malicious as this willow was still wood—and fire was its mortal enemy.
The giant tree let out a deafening creak, swaying violently. The haunting lullaby stopped at once. Its branches flailed wildly, no longer aiming at Sylas, but swatting at the flames, desperate to beat them down. The air filled with crackling heat and a thick, acrid smoke as burning leaves rose into the sky.
Sylas didn't hesitate.
With a flick of his wrist, one of his bone cleavers flew from his belt like a silver flash, slicing clean through one of the willow's thick branches. It hit the ground with a thud, and the knife returned to him in the same motion, carrying a section of willowwood with it.
"Got it."
He spun on his heel and ran.
Behind him, the willow let out a groaning, furious roar, like stone grinding against stone. But Sylas didn't stop to look back. He darted downstream, following the Willow River as it wound its way toward the Brandywine.
The forest behind him was alive with anger. The Old Willow thrashed, its cries echoing through the trees. But Sylas knew better than to turn around. He'd escaped by the skin of his teeth, and the wrath of a Huorn was not something one lingered near.
He ran fast, weaving through brambles and hopping over roots, until the sounds of pursuit faded into the background hum of the forest.
The Willow River flowed into the Brandywine just past the edges of Buckland. It wasn't the most direct route back to Bucklebury, but returning through the Old Forest was no longer an option.
Still, before retracing his steps, Sylas slowed to a stop near the riverbank.
There was something far more important he needed to do first.
He took a deep breath, steadied his thoughts, and whispered, "System, sign me in."
[Hogwarts Sign-In System: Sign-in successful. Reward: Ollivander's Wandmaking Craft.]
The moment the message appeared, knowledge flooded his mind like a crashing wave.
Centuries of wandlore, techniques perfected by the Ollivander family, details on wood resonance, wand cores, pairing compatibility, carving rituals, it all downloaded into his consciousness in an instant.
Sylas staggered slightly, eyes wide.
"Whoa."
He blinked, then broke into a wide grin.
This wasn't just a reward. It was The reward. With this, he didn't need to find some ancient wandmaker, or wait for a wand to choose him.
He could make his own.
A wand forged with his own hand, shaped from wood he trusted, fitted with a core he'd choose. A wand that would be loyal only to him.
Without a wand, casting high-level or destructive spells was like trying to duel with bare hands. It wasn't impossible, but it was reckless.
Take the Avada Kedavra curse, for instance. Sylas had studied its theory, memorized its intricacies, and longed to try it. But without a wand to focus the magic, the deadly curse was just as likely to backfire, and he'd be the first to fall.
So yes, a wand wasn't just a tool. It was a lifeline.
Still gripping the precious willowwood, Sylas had expected the trees along the Willow River to lash out, trying to block his escape. But to his surprise, they stood still and silent, as if the entire forest had sighed and given up the chase.
He didn't linger to question it.
Following the current, he reached the river's mouth where it joined the Brandywine. From there, he turned northward, trekking upstream under the early light of dawn.
By the time he finally arrived at Bucklebury, the sun was peeking over the hills and painting the fields gold.
Drogo Baggins, who had just stepped outside with a plate of breakfast scones, nearly dropped them at the sight of him.
"Merciful Shire! Sylas, what happened to you?" Drogo's voice cracked in alarm as he took in the dirt-smudged cloak, tangled hair, and scraped boots.
"I took a stroll through the Old Forest," Sylas said casually, slumping into the nearest armchair as though he hadn't just dodged death all night. "Ended up trading spells with a bunch of angry trees."
"You what?!" Drogo yelped, clutching the scone plate like a shield. "You actually went into the Old Forest?! Alone?!"
His voice rose with every word. In Buckland, especially in the Brandy Hall region, the Old Forest was practically a legend of doom. Hobbits didn't go near it. Ever.
"No one comes back from there! Except maybe to haunt the place!"
Sylas chuckled, pulling off one of his boots and emptying a clump of moss from inside. "I figured it was safer not to tell you in advance. Didn't want you talking me out of it."
Drogo, still pale, hurried over to check him for injuries. "Are you sure you're not missing any parts? Fingers? Ears? Your soul?!"
"I'm fine," Sylas grinned. "Really. In fact… I think the trees came out worse than I did."
Once Drogo was satisfied that Sylas was still in one piece, he finally relaxed enough to serve breakfast. Sylas devoured it with enthusiasm, but rather than rest afterward, he headed straight to the workshop.
There was something far more important than sleep.
He had wand wood to test.
The bundle of branches he'd brought back was impressive, more than a dozen varieties. Chestnut. Alder. Laurel. Elm. And most important of all: a branch from the Old Willow Tree.
He began the compatibility tests one by one, trying to channel his magic through each wood.
Some responded decently. Most resisted. There was always a degree of sluggishness, a stutter in the current that told him: this isn't the one.
Until he reached the willow branch.
The moment Sylas touched it and let his magic flow through, his breath caught.
The response was immediate.
The magic coursed through the willowwood like water in a stream, smooth, swift, and vibrant. No resistance. No delay.
It was as if the wood had been waiting for him.
A grin slowly spread across his face.
"Finally," he whispered. "I found it."
This was it. The wand body.
Now all he needed was the right core, something that resonated as deeply as the woo, and he could forge a wand that was truly his.
It was nothing short of serendipity.
According to the newly absorbed knowledge from Ollivander's Wandmaking Craft, choosing wand wood wasn't just about its magical properties. Timing mattered. Greatly.
To achieve peak performance, the wood had to be harvested at midnight under a full moon, a detail most wandmakers overlooked, but one the Ollivanders had followed for generations. It was one of the reasons their wands were revered across the wizarding world.
And as fate would have it, last night had been a full moon.
Which meant the willow branch Sylas had risked his life to retrieve was not only compatible with him, it had been gathered under the exact conditions required for crafting a truly exceptional wand.
No return trip to face the Old Willow Tree was necessary.
The branch was nearly a meter long, sturdy and beautifully veined, more than enough to craft multiple wands.
Back in the workshop, Sylas placed it gently on the table and measured it with practiced hands. Then, with a flick of his blade, he divided the wood into three equal sections.
He picked up one piece and held it in his palm.
The moment he touched it, his mind sparked.
A clear image took shape—the wand's ideal form. Its length, its curvature, even the angle at which it should be tapered. He didn't need to guess. He simply knew.
This intuitive connection,the ability to envision a wand's ideal form the moment he touched the wood, was the gift bestowed upon him by Ollivander's Wandmaking Craft.