Chapter 12

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

Like the insatiably curious Hermione.

"Sir Pippin, why did you just say Ollivander could never be sorted into Gryffindor?"

"Huh? Did I say that?" the ghost asked, swinging his head back onto his neck.

When the Sorting Hat shouted just now, his head nearly fell off—thankfully, a thin layer of skin still held it on.

He's nicknamed Nearly Headless Nick, after all; it never came all the way off.

"You did!" Hermione nodded firmly, dragging in witnesses.

"Yes, I testify!"

"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."

"Wow!" Fred exclaimed, "Oh, over a thousand years? Is that true?"

"Should be correct—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 one of Hogwarts' Four Founders, Godric Gryffindor—he was a wizard, yet he particularly favored swords over wands.

"Moreover, he didn't just have a goblin forge him a sword; he carried it with him always and publicly declared it superior to wands, even leaving behind only his Gryffindor sword as his legacy."

"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 had just said.

The feuds and passions of Hogwarts' Four Founders a thousand years ago—who wouldn't be interested?

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, staring blankly at the Sorting Hat.

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

That old hat didn't hesitate for a second—barely touched his hair before deciding, just like Malfoy, remarkable 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; the empty table instantly 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 the case, eat first!

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

As he gradually calmed down, Silven recalled the words he'd heard when he put on the Sorting Hat a second time.

He was suited for Gryffindor.

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

Thinking carefully, some of his earlier plans, if viewed in isolation, did seem very Gryffindor.

But he hadn't acted yet—only planned. Did that count?

Silven sighed.

Some things were simply once-in-a-millennium events, occurring only around Harry Potter.

Like the three-headed dog, or the basilisk… both rare, excellent wand cores; missing them would be a tragedy.

Once he grasped this, Silven slowly accepted being sorted into Gryffindor.

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

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

Silven convinced himself this way.

…It worked, at least enough that he could now enjoy his meal.

But he wondered whether Old Ollivander could accept it.

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

Probably no problem—he remembered his grandfather held no 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: no first-years entering the Forbidden Forest, and no students approaching a certain classroom on the fourth floor.

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

Finally, after everyone sang 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, Lady Longbottom said at Platform Nine's entrance that she hoped both him and Neville would be sorted into Gryffindor.

She was right after all.

Could the Longbottoms have a talent for prophecy?

"Silven?"

Perhaps sensing something, Neville turned around just then.

"You, are you okay?" he asked.

"What could possibly happen to me?"

"It's just the Sorting," said Hermione. "I heard Ollivander and Gryffindor have a feud."

"What? Really?" Silven was stunned—he briefly doubted he was a fake Ollivander.

"How come I never knew? Who told you that?"

"Sir Pippin," Hermione said. "He's Gryffindor's ghost, many call him Nearly Headless Nick."

"He said that Godric Gryffindor preferred swords, and his ideals clashed with those of the Ollivander family who make wands, so their relationship has always been poor."

Then she repeated exactly what the ghost had said.

"Maybe there's some truth to that," Silven said after listening, unconcerned. "But that was a thousand years ago. How could such a trivial matter be remembered so long? It's just a waste of time."

"That's a clash of ideals—you call that trivial?" Hermione looked at Silven in confusion.

"How could you think that? You're overthinking it," Silven smiled. "Do you remember what my grandfather said to 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 personally think the idea of a clash of ideals is nonsense—take Neville, for example."

"He loves toads and carries one everywhere, yet when he sends letters, he still chooses an owl. The owl is the wand."

"Is that how it works?" Hermione nodded slowly, half-understanding. "I always thought 'the wand chooses the wizard' was just for mystery's sake."

"You can think of it that way if you like."

(End of Chapter)