Chapter 6: How Could You Insult Someone Like That

August passed by quickly.

On the first of September, Ollivander had sent Silven to a certain alley outside King's Cross Station early in the morning via the Knight Bus.

"That's too much — it's clearly your first day of school, yet neither Garlan nor Lila even sent a letter!"

This was already the third time today that Ollivander had complained about his own son and daughter-in-law; it was obvious he was very displeased.

But Silven didn't mind at all.

"Those botanists of theirs are all like that — waiting several months in a row just to catch the moment a single flower blooms is perfectly normal. Surely you've gotten used to it by now?"

"I just feel it's unfair to you." Ollivander sighed. "It's clearly a big day today."

"Then you're overthinking it," Silven said. He truly didn't care.

"It's a relief to hear you say that."

Just as Silven was wondering how to turn things around and comfort his grandfather, who was standing up for him, someone suddenly gave his shoulder a hard slap.

"In that case, I'll leave you here." Under Silven's incredulous gaze, Ollivander drew his wand.

"Last night Mr. Drew wrote to me saying he'd discovered a pine wood in a forest in Dorset inhabited by bowtruckles — all pines over three hundred years old. I have to hurry over and take a look."

"Well then, good luck!"

Without giving Silven any chance to speak, the moment the words fell, Ollivander vanished on the spot.

"Meow~ Roar~"

Tom, seeing a wizard use Apparition for the first time, was startled by the sudden change — his back arched high and every hair on his body stood on end.

Incidentally, Tom was the name Silven had given that pet tabby cat. There was no special meaning to it; he just felt in his heart that a foreign cat ought to be called Tom.

"It's fine, relax." Silven, having recovered himself, gently soothed his pet. "No wandmaker can resist the lure of bowtruckles — especially a newly discovered bowtruckle colony. This is a perfectly normal reaction."

To be precise, Ollivander wasn't interested in the bowtruckles themselves, but in the trees they lived in.

Not just any piece of wood can be made into a wand — magic isn't that casual; the requirements are many.

The most important point, and the one that absolutely cannot be overlooked, is gaining the bowtruckle's approval.

Only when bowtruckles nest in a tree can its branches be taken to make wands; otherwise it's scrap — no matter how old it is, it's useless… Oh, except for Dragonheart Wood; that stuff gets bowtruckle approval one hundred percent of the time — they just don't dare go live in it.

Currently within Britain, such high-quality wand trees are already very scarce; if Ollivander wants to find materials, he can only go abroad.

That is also why he was in such a hurry to go.

Silven looked around. Fortunately, the alley they were in was rather out-of-the-way, and there were no Muggles around.

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

……

Silven walked into King's Cross Station, found a trolley, and headed toward Platform Nine.

Although it was his first time there, a place as famous as Platform Nine was naturally not unfamiliar to Silven.

In just ten minutes, he found his destination… between Platforms Nine and Ten, a small patch of wall that had been placed under a Muggle-Repelling Charm.

When he arrived, a round-faced boy was carefully approaching one of the dividing walls; he walked very slowly, as if afraid of bumping his head.

But this behavior annoyed an oddly dressed old woman standing nearby.

"Stop acting like a coward, Neville — charge through it, quickly!" Mrs. Longbottom snapped sharply. The boy was startled, rushed headlong at the wall, and vanished.

No — rather than charging in, Silven felt he more likely lost his footing after being startled and tumbled through, trolley and all.

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

At the same time, she also noticed Silven beside her.

"You're taking the train to Hogwarts too, aren't you?"

Silven nodded, thinking she was a bit muddled.

Anyone coming to King's Cross Station at this hour who wasn't going to Hogwarts — were they there to sightsee?

"What year?"

"First year," Silven answered honestly.

"Neville is also a first year." Mrs. Longbottom glanced at Silven again, only then noticing he was alone.

"Alone, is it a Muggle family that can't accept magic? Ha, that happens every year."

"Well then, child, if you're looking for the platform…" She stretched out her hand and pointed at the wall in front of them. "Just charge through and you'll be there. If you're scared, close your eyes."

She had clearly misunderstood something.

Silven opened his mouth, meaning to explain, but after a moment's hesitation he changed his words:

"Ah, thank you."

It wasn't a big deal. Silven put on a look of sudden realization, pushed his trolley, and charged at the wall.

In the instant he passed through the platform—

"I hope both you and Neville get sorted into Gryffindor — that's the best house."

And after that, the scene before his eyes instantly changed.

Silven didn't care about any of that; the words from just now were still echoing in his mind.

Being sorted into Gryffindor…

That sounds awful!

Silven felt terrible all over… He was a wandmaker — whether inscribing magical runes on the wand body or twisting materials into cores, it was all delicate handwork.

When doing this kind of work, patience, care, and calm were all indispensable; sometimes, to twist a single perfect core, sitting in the room for an entire day was perfectly normal.

But what kind of place was Gryffindor? Bodies faster than brains — three wrong words and out come the wands. Although not everyone was like that, calling it a hothead's stronghold was absolutely fair.

Put him together with Gryffindor?

You can't just insult a person like that — it really sounds too awful!

Silven turned to look at the wall, wanting to go back and persuade the other woman to change her blessing… He really couldn't go to Gryffindor, or his peers would definitely laugh at him.

But as soon as this thought surfaced, someone else came in behind him, and Silven had no choice but to keep walking to make room for the newcomer.

"Oh, sorry, didn't bump into you, did I?" The cart brushed past Silven's arm.

"Ah, no." Silven sidestepped slightly, then heard the other 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 understand." Silven stared at the red-haired boy before him, with his horn-rimmed glasses, and the tiny habit of adjusting his prefect badge three times in half a minute.

Percy Weasley—a familiar face—but he didn't seem to recognize Silven.

Silven said nothing.

Being scolded for no reason was already annoying; now he had to deal with someone who never stopped boasting about being a prefect—double annoying.

Arguing was out of the question; he wasn't that kind of crude person.

"Is 'prefect' just another name for 'big-head boy'? Ha, if you like it, fine." Silven raised an eyebrow at the badge, gave him a look as if he were staring at a troll, and turned to walk away—so close to pinching his nose.

He was just a first-year who hadn't even enrolled yet; he didn't even know what a prefect was—no problem at all!

Besides, the badge on his chest really did say "Big-Head Boy."

Percy's face turned instantly red—and worse, his two younger brothers, Fred and George, had seen the whole thing; they stood at the platform entrance, laughing so hard they doubled over.

"You two must have switched my prefect badge!"

"Nonsense!"

"We didn't!"

"I'm telling Mum!"

The platform entrance erupted into chaos—but none of it concerned Silven; by now, he had already picked up his luggage and boarded the train.

(End of Chapter)