Chapter 12: Gryffindor

The famous Savior drew most people’s attention, but only a few still sought the answer to another question.

Like Hermione, whose thirst for knowledge was insatiable.

“Sir Pottinton, why did you just say Ollivander could never have been sorted into Gryffindor?”

“Huh? Did I say that?” the ghost asked, flipping his head back onto his neck.

When the Sorting Hat shouted that, his head nearly came off—thankfully, a thin strip of skin still held it on.

He’s nicknamed Nearly Headless Nick, after all; it never fully detached.

“You did!” Hermione nodded firmly, pulling in witnesses.

“Yes, I witnessed it!”

“That’s right!”

Fred and George, the twins, spoke from either side.

They were curious too.

Though they didn’t know what had happened, the professors’ expressions suggested it was fascinating.

“This… well, actually, it’s nothing much,” Nearly Headless Nick glanced at Silven at the far end of the table and lowered his voice.

“As far as I know, since Hogwarts was founded, not a single Ollivander has ever been sorted into Gryffindor—not one.”

“Whoa!” Fred exclaimed, “Oh, over a thousand years? Is that true?”

“Probably true—I’ve been at Hogwarts for five centuries and have never seen one.”

“Why?” Hermione asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” Nearly Headless Nick thought for a moment. “But there’s a legend.”

“What?”

“It’s said—only said, with no factual basis—” the ghost emphasized first, then continued:

“This seems tied to Godric Gryffindor, one of Hogwarts’ four founders. Though a wizard, he particularly favored swords over wands.

“Moreover, he didn’t just commission a goblin to forge a sword—he carried it with him always and publicly declared it superior to wands. Even his heirloom was Gryffindor’s sword.”

“And the Ollivanders are a wand-making family; naturally, they’d dislike Gryffindor.”

“Then why was Silven sorted into Gryffindor?”

“I don’t know,” the ghost shook his head, his head wobbling on his neck.

“Either he’s not an Ollivander, or he has something unusual about him.”

Nearly Headless Nick drifted away.

But everyone remained immersed in what he’d just said.

The ancient grudges and feuds among Hogwarts’ four founders—who wouldn’t be fascinated?

So all eyes turned again to Silven—even Harry Potter’s sorting into Gryffindor failed to distract them.

At the Gryffindor table, Silven sat closest to the staff table, expressionless, staring at the Sorting Hat.

He never imagined he’d be sorted into Gryffindor—even Hufflepuff would’ve been better.

The stupid hat didn’t hesitate for a second; the moment it touched his hair, it made its decision—just like Malfoy, all efficiency.

But why was he sorted into Gryffindor?

Even after sorting ended, Silven still couldn’t figure it out.

Professor McGonagall took away the Sorting Hat and the stool; in an instant, the empty table was filled with lavish food.

The aroma of the food snapped Silven out of his confusion—he’d been on the train all day and was starving.

Whatever else, eat first!

Golden roasted chicken and sweet creamy soup filled his mouth, reviving his weary body and mind instantly.

As he calmed down, Silven remembered the words he’d heard when he’d put on the Sorting Hat a second time.

He was suited for Gryffindor.

Silven’s knife froze mid-slice of pork chop.

Thinking back, some of his earlier plans—taken on their own—did seem very Gryffindor.

But he hadn’t acted yet; they were only plans. Did that count?

Silven sighed.

Some things were simply once-in-a-lifetime, and only ever happened around Harry Potter.

Like the three-headed dog, or the basilisk… both were rare, excellent wand cores. Missing them would be a shame.

Once he accepted this, Silven gradually came to terms with being sorted into Gryffindor.

What else could he do? Hogwarts had never allowed switching houses.

Besides, being closer to Harry Potter would make certain things easier to accomplish.

Silven convinced himself this way.

…It worked, at least—he now had an appetite.

But he wondered if old Ollivander could accept it.

As Silven put a piece of steak in his mouth, he couldn’t help thinking of his grandfather.

Probably no problem—he remembered his grandfather never held any prejudice against Gryffindor. He’d always said only that Silven should attend Hogwarts, never once specifying a house.

…

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Silven didn’t notice when dessert vanished, nor did he hear Headmaster Dumbledore’s speech.

He vaguely recalled warnings: freshmen must not enter the Forbidden Forest, and students must not approach a certain classroom on the fourth floor.

Oh, and the Quidditch tryouts… pfft, who in their right mind plays Quidditch?

After everyone finished singing the school song, Silven stood and joined the new students lining up to leave the Great Hall. On the stairs, he spotted Neville walking ahead.

Come to think of it, Mrs. Longbottom had said at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters that she hoped both he and Neville would be sorted into Gryffindor.

She was right.

Could the Longbottoms have a gift for prophecy?

“Silven?”

Perhaps sensing something, Neville turned around just then.

“You—you okay? Are you alright?” he asked.

“What could possibly be wrong with me?”

“It’s the sorting,” Hermione said. “I heard the Ollivanders and Gryffindors have a feud.”

“Huh? Do they?” Silven was baffled—he briefly doubted he was a real Ollivander.

“How come I never heard of this? Who told you?”

“Sir Pottinton,” Hermione said. “The Gryffindor ghost—many call him Nearly Headless Nick.

“He said Godric Gryffindor preferred swords over wands, so his ideals clashed with the Ollivander family’s wand-making tradition, and their relationship has always been poor.”

Then she repeated the ghost’s earlier words.

“Maybe there’s some truth to it,” Silven said dismissively after listening. “But that was a thousand years ago. How could anyone hold onto such a trivial matter? It’s a waste of time.”

“But that’s a clash of ideals—trivial?” Hermione frowned at Silven.

“Impossible. You’re overthinking,” Silven smiled. “Remember what my grandfather told you when you bought your wand?”

“Which line?”

“The wand chooses the wizard.”

“I remember.”

“That’s the key,” Silven said.

“We believe the wand chooses the wizard. How the wizard chooses… doesn’t matter.”

“But I think the idea of ideological conflict is nonsense—take Neville, for example.

“He loves toads and carries one everywhere, yet when he sends mail, he still uses an owl. The owl is his wand.”

“Is that how it works?” Hermione nodded slowly, half-understanding. “I always thought ‘the wand chooses the wizard’ was just for mystery.”

“You can think of it that way too.”

(End of Chapter)