Chapter 6: How Can You Insult Someone Like That?

August passed quickly.

On September 1st, Ollivander took the Knight Bus early in the morning and dropped Silven off at an alley outside King’s Cross Station.

“It’s outrageous—you’re starting school today, and Garyan and Lila haven’t even sent you a letter!”

This was already Ollivander’s third complaint today about his son and daughter-in-law; it was clear he was deeply upset.

But Silven didn’t care.

“Botanists are always like this—they’ll wait months just for a single flower to bloom. Haven’t you gotten used to it yet?”

“I just think it’s unfair to you,” Ollivander sighed. “Today is a big day.”

“You’re overthinking it,” Silven said—he truly didn’t care.

“That’s good to hear.”

Just as Silven was thinking how to comfort his grandfather, who was indignantly defending him, someone slapped him hard on the shoulder.

“Then I’ll leave you here,” Ollivander said, pulling out his wand as Silven stared in disbelief.

“Last night, Mr. Drew wrote me a letter—he found a grove of three-hundred-year-old pines in Dorset’s forest inhabited by Tree-Keepers. I need to go see them quickly.”

“Then good luck!”

Before Silven could speak, Ollivander vanished instantly.

“Meow～Raw～”

Tom had never seen a wizard Apparate before; the sudden disappearance startled him. His back arched high, every hair on his body standing on end.

By the way, Tom was the name Silven gave his pet tabby cat—no special meaning, he simply felt foreign cats ought to be called Tom.

“It’s fine, relax,” Silven, now back to himself, whispered to his pet. “No wandmaker can resist the lure of Tree-Keepers, especially a newly discovered colony. This is normal.”

More accurately, Ollivander wasn’t interested in the Tree-Keepers themselves—he was interested in the trees they lived in.

Not just any piece of wood can be made into a wand; magic isn’t that casual—it has many strict requirements.

The most important, and most indispensable, is the Tree-Keeper’s approval.

Only if a Tree-Keeper has built its nest on the branch can you harvest it for a wand; otherwise, it’s useless, no matter how old the wood… Oh, except Dragonblood wood—it’s guaranteed to gain Tree-Keeper approval, they just dare not live near it.

In Britain today, such high-quality wand-trees are rare. Ollivander must go abroad to find materials.

That’s why he was in such a hurry.

Silven looked around. Good—the alley they were in was secluded, with no Muggles nearby.

As if understanding Silven’s words, Tom gradually calmed down and curled back up on top of the suitcase.

…

Silven entered King’s Cross Station, found a trolley, and walked toward Platform Nine.

Though it was his first time here, Platform Nine was so famous he was certainly familiar with it.

In ten minutes, he found his destination—the small patch of space between Platforms Nine and Ten, enchanted with a Muggle-Repelling Charm.

When he arrived, a round-faced boy was cautiously approaching one of the partition walls, moving slowly as if afraid he’d hit his head.

But this action angered an oddly dressed old woman nearby.

“Don’t act like a coward, Neville—charge through, move quickly!” Mrs. Longbottom barked. The boy jumped, dashed toward the wall, and vanished.

No, Silven thought—he didn’t so much charge as stumble forward in fright, dragging the trolley with him.

But Mrs. Longbottom didn’t seem to notice; she appeared satisfied with the boy’s boldness and nodded approvingly.

At the same time, she noticed Silven beside her.

“You’re also taking the train to Hogwarts, right?”

Silven nodded, thinking she was a bit addled.

Who comes to King’s Cross Station at this hour if not to go to Hogwarts?

“What year?”

“First year,” Silven answered honestly.

“Neville’s a first year too,” Mrs. Longbottom said, glancing at Silven again—then noticing he was alone.

“All by yourself? From a Muggle family that can’t accept magic? Ha, this happens every year.”

“Alright, child—if you’re looking for the platform…” She pointed at the wall before her. “Just run through. If you’re scared, close your eyes.”

She had clearly misunderstood something.

Silven opened his mouth to explain, but after a moment’s hesitation, he changed his mind:

“Ah, thank you.”

It wasn’t a big deal. Silven feigned sudden understanding, pushed the trolley, and charged toward the wall.

As he passed through the platform:

“I hope you and Neville both get sorted into Gryffindor—it’s the best house.”

Instantly, the scene before him changed.

Silven didn’t care about any of this—he was still echoing the woman’s words in his mind.

Sorted into Gryffindor…

That’s awful!

Silven felt sick… He was a wandmaker. Whether carving runes into the wand shaft or twisting materials into a core, it was all delicate craftsmanship.

Patience, attention to detail, calmness—these were essential. Sometimes, to craft a perfect core, he’d sit in his workshop all day.

But Gryffindor? A house where instinct overrides thought, where three words out of place and you draw your wand and fight. Not everyone, of course—but calling it a den of brutes was absolutely fair.

Put him in Gryffindor?

You can’t say that—it’s too insulting!

Silven turned to look at the wall, wanting to go back and ask her to change her blessing… He absolutely couldn’t go to Gryffindor, or he’d be mocked by every wandmaker in the world.

But the moment this thought surfaced, someone else came in behind him—he had no choice but to keep moving forward, making room.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t bump into you, did I?” The trolley scraped past Silven’s arm.

“Ah, no,” Silven sidestepped slightly, then heard the boy continue:

“You’re a first-year, right? As a prefect, I must remind you not to loiter at the platform entrance—it obstructs others.”

“I see,” Silven said, staring at the red-haired boy with horn-rimmed glasses—and the way he’d adjusted his prefect badge three times in half a minute.

Percy Weasley—a familiar face, though he didn’t seem to recognize Silven.

Silven said nothing.

Being scolded for no reason was annoying enough; now he had to deal with someone who couldn’t stop reminding everyone he was a prefect? Even more annoying.

Arguing was out of the question—he wasn’t that kind of person.

“Is ‘prefect’ just another name for ‘big-headed boy’? Ha, if you like it, fine.” Silven raised an eyebrow at the badge, gave him a look as if he were a troll, and walked off—barely holding back from covering his nose.

He was just a first-year who didn’t even know what a prefect was—no problem at all!

Besides, the badge on his chest really did say “Big-Headed Boy.”

Percy’s face turned bright red—and worse, his two younger brothers, Fred and George, had seen the whole thing. They stood at the platform entrance, laughing hysterically.

“It was you two who messed with my prefect badge!”

“Lies!”

“We didn’t!”

“I’m telling Mum!”

The platform entrance erupted into chaos—but none of it concerned Silven. By now, he had already boarded the train with his luggage.

(End of Chapter)