Gryffindor

Gryffindor

The famous Savior drew away most people's attention, leaving only a small number still pressing for an answer to another question.

Hermione, whose thirst for knowledge was overflowing, was one of them.

"Sir Popington, why did you say Ollivander couldn't possibly be sorted into Gryffindor?"

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

When the Sorting Hat had shouted out its decision just now, his head had fallen off, though fortunately, a thin layer of skin was still holding it on.

His nickname was Nearly Headless Nick, after all. Naturally, it had not come off completely.

"You did!" Hermione nodded firmly and even brought in witnesses.

"Yes, I can testify!"

"That's right!"

The twin brothers Fred and George spoke from either side.

They were curious too.

Though they had no idea what had happened, judging by the professors' expressions, it had to be interesting.

"This... well, it's actually nothing." Nearly Headless Nick glanced at Silvan at the far end of the long table and lowered his voice.

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

"Wow!" Fred cried. "Oh, over a thousand years? Really?"

"That should be right. I've been at Hogwarts for five centuries, and I've never seen one."

"Why?" Hermione asked curiously.

"I don't know either." Nearly Headless Nick thought for a moment. "But there is a legend."

"What is it?"

"It's only a rumor, mind you. There's no real evidence..." the ghost stressed before continuing.

"This seems to have something to do with one of Hogwarts' four founders, Godric Gryffindor. Although he was a wizard, he particularly liked using swords rather than wands.

"Not only did he have goblins forge him a sword, but he carried it with him afterward and publicly declared many times that it was more useful than a wand. Even the relic he left behind was the Sword of Gryffindor."

"And the Ollivander Family is a family of wandmakers, so naturally they wouldn't like Gryffindor."

"Then what about Silvan? How was he sorted into Gryffindor?"

"I don't know." The ghost shook his head, which wobbled on his neck.

"Either he isn't an Ollivander, or there's something unusual about him."

Nearly Headless Nick drifted away.

But everyone remained immersed in what he had just said.

The grudges and romances of Hogwarts' four founders a thousand years ago—who wouldn't be interested in that?

Thus, everyone's attention returned to Silvan. Even when Harry Potter was sorted into Gryffindor, it failed to distract them.

At the Gryffindor table, Silvan sat closest to the teachers' table, staring expressionlessly at the Sorting Hat.

He had never expected to be sorted into Gryffindor. Even Hufflepuff would have been better than Gryffindor.

That tattered hat had not hesitated for even a second. The moment it brushed his hair, it made its decision, exactly like Malfoy's. Efficient, to say the least.

But why had he been sorted into Gryffindor?

Even after the sorting ceremony ended, Silvan still could not figure it out.

McGonagall took away the Sorting Hat and the three-legged stool. In the blink of an eye, the previously empty long tables were filled with all manner of lavish food.

The scent of food jolted Silvan out of his confusion. After sitting on the train all day, he had long since been starving.

Now that things had come to this, he might as well eat first!

The golden roast chicken and sweet, creamy soup entered his mouth, and his exhausted body and mind instantly sprang back to life.

After gradually calming down, Silvan recalled the words he had heard when he put on the Sorting Hat for the second time.

He was very suited to Gryffindor.

Silvan's hand froze halfway through cutting his pork chop.

Come to think of it, some of his earlier plans did seem rather Gryffindor when considered on their own.

But he had not even acted on them yet. They were only plans. Did that count too?

Silvan sighed.

Some opportunities were simply once in a lifetime, and they would only ever occur around Harry Potter.

Like the three-headed dog, or the basilisk... both were rare wand cores. It would be such a shame to miss them.

Once he thought it through, Silvan gradually accepted being sorted into Gryffindor.

What else could he do if he did not accept it? Hogwarts had no precedent for changing houses.

Besides, being closer to Harry Potter would make certain things more convenient.

Silvan used that reasoning to convince himself.

...It worked well enough. At least he was in the mood to eat now.

He just did not know whether old Ollivander would be able to accept it.

As Silvan put a piece of steak into his mouth, he could not help thinking of his grandfather.

It should be fine, right? In his memories, his grandfather had never shown any prejudice toward Gryffindor. Everything he had ever said was that Silvan only needed to be able to attend Hogwarts; he had never demanded any particular house.

Preoccupied with other thoughts, Silvan did not even notice when dessert disappeared, nor did he listen to Headmaster Dumbledore's speech.

He only vaguely remembered something about first-years not being allowed into the Forbidden Forest, as well as students being forbidden from approaching a certain classroom on the fourth floor.

Oh, and the Quidditch tryout schedule... Tch, what proper wizard played Quidditch?

After everyone finished singing the school song, Silvan stood and left the Great Hall with the other first-years in a line. While going upstairs, he spotted Neville walking ahead of him.

Come to think of it, at the entrance to Platform 9, Mrs. Longbottom seemed to have said she hoped that both he and Neville would be sorted into Gryffindor.

She had really called it.

Could the Longbottom Family have a gift for prophecy?

"Silvan?"

Perhaps sensing something, Neville happened to turn around at that moment.

"Are you... are you okay?" he asked.

"What could be wrong with me?"

"The sorting," Hermione said this time. "I heard the Ollivanders and Gryffindor have a feud."

"Huh, do they?" Silvan was bewildered. For a moment, he suspected he might be a fake Ollivander.

"How come I don't know about that? Who told you?"

"Sir Popington," Hermione said. "He's Gryffindor's ghost. A lot of people call him Nearly Headless Nick.

"He said that because Godric Gryffindor preferred swords, his ideals had always clashed with those of the wandmaking Ollivander Family, so their relationship had always been poor."

Then she repeated what the ghost had said earlier.

"Maybe that happened," Silvan said carelessly after hearing her out. "But that was a thousand years ago. How could anyone remember such a trivial matter for so long? What a waste of time."

"But that was a clash of ideals. A trivial matter?" Hermione looked at Silvan in confusion.

"How could it be? You're overthinking it." Silvan smiled. "Do you remember something my grandfather said when you bought your wand?"

"Which thing?"

"The wand chooses the wizard."

"I remember."

"That's the key," Silvan said.

"We believe that the wand chooses the wizard. As for how the wizard chooses... it doesn't matter."

"But personally, I think this so-called clash of ideals is nonsense. Take Neville, for example.

"He likes toads and takes one with him everywhere, but when he sends letters, he still chooses an owl. The owl is the wand."

"Is that so?" Hermione nodded, half understanding. "I always thought 'the wand chooses the wizard' was just meant to make it sound more mysterious."

"You can understand it that way if you want."