Chapter 12 — Gryffindor
The famous "Chosen One" had drawn most of everyone's attention, leaving only a small number of people still curious about another question.
For example, the ever-curious Hermione.
"Sir Nearly-Headless, why did you just say that no Ollivander could ever be sorted into Gryffindor?"
"Huh? Did I really say that?" the ghost asked, flipping his head back onto his neck.
When the Sorting Hat had shouted just now, his head had practically come off—but thankfully, a thin layer of skin kept it attached.
After all, he was Nearly Headless Nick; his head hadn't fully fallen off.
"You said it!" Hermione nodded firmly, and even brought in witnesses.
"Yes, I can testify!"
"Exactly!"
Fred and George, the twins, chimed in from either side.
They were curious too.
Although they didn't know what had happened, judging from the professors' expressions, it had to be interesting.
"Well… okay, I suppose it's nothing," Nearly Headless Nick said, glancing at Siron at the very end of the table and lowering 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. "Over a thousand years? Really?"
"Should be correct. I've been at Hogwarts for five centuries, and I've never seen it happen."
"Why not?" Hermione asked, intrigued.
"I don't know," Nearly Headless Nick said thoughtfully. "But there's a legend."
"What legend?"
"Just a legend—nothing confirmed…" the ghost emphasized first, then continued:
"It seems to be related to one of Hogwarts' four founders, Godric Gryffindor. Although he was a wizard, he particularly favored using a sword rather than a wand.
"Furthermore, he had a sword made by goblins, carried it with him everywhere, and often publicly declared that it was more useful than a wand. Even the relic he left behind was Gryffindor's sword."
"And the Ollivanders are a wand-making family, so naturally they wouldn't take to Gryffindor."
"Then what about Siron? How did he get sorted into Gryffindor?"
"No idea," the ghost shook his head, his head wobbling on his neck.
"Either he's not really an Ollivander, or there's something unique about him."
Nearly Headless Nick floated away.
But the others remained absorbed in what he had just said.
A thousand years of Hogwarts' founders' rivalries—who wouldn't be interested?
And so all eyes turned back to Siron, even when Harry Potter was sorted into Gryffindor, their attention didn't waver.
At the Gryffindor table, Siron sat closest to the staff table, expressionless, staring at the Sorting Hat.
He never expected to be sorted into Gryffindor. Even Hufflepuff would have seemed preferable to him than Gryffindor.
That ridiculous hat hadn't hesitated for a second. The moment it touched his hair, it made its decision—just like it had with Malfoy. Efficient, precise, decisive.
But why Gryffindor?
Even after the sorting ended, Siron still didn't understand.
The Sorting Hat and stool were taken by Professor McGonagall, and in an instant, the previously empty table was filled with all manner of sumptuous food.
The smell of the food snapped Siron out of his confusion. After a full day on the train, he was starving.
Well, at this point, time to eat!
Golden roast chicken and sweet, creamy soup revived his exhausted body and mind instantly.
As he calmed down, Siron recalled the words he had heard when wearing the Sorting Hat for the second time.
"You are well-suited for Gryffindor."
Siron paused mid-cut while slicing his pork chop.
Thinking carefully, some of his previous plans—if looked at individually—did have a certain Gryffindor-like quality.
But he hadn't even acted on them yet. They were just plans. Did that really count?
Siron sighed.
Some things, it seemed, were once-in-a-lifetime events, and only happened around Harry Potter.
Like the three-headed dog, or the basilisk… rare, prime wand cores. It would be a shame to miss them.
Having come to this realization, Siron gradually accepted being in Gryffindor.
What else could he do? Hogwarts had no precedent for changing houses.
Besides, being closer to Harry Potter could make some things more convenient.
Siron reasoned with himself.
…and it worked, at least enough that he was in the mood to eat.
He just didn't know if the old Ollivander would accept it.
As he took a bite of steak, he couldn't help thinking about his grandfather.
Probably not an issue. In his memories, his grandfather had no prejudice against Gryffindor. He had always said that as long as Siron could attend Hogwarts, the choice of house didn't matter.
…
Lost in thought, Siron didn't even notice when dessert disappeared or when Headmaster Dumbledore began speaking.
He only vaguely remembered something about forbidding first-years from entering the Forbidden Forest, and restricting access to a certain fourth-floor classroom.
Oh, and Quidditch tryouts… pfft, who plays Quidditch seriously anyway?
Finally, after everyone had finished singing the school song together, Siron stood, lined up with the other first-years, and left the Great Hall. Upstairs, he saw Neville walking ahead.
Come to think of it, at Platform 9¾, Madam Pomphrey had hoped that both he and Neville would be sorted into Gryffindor.
She had been right.
Could the Pomphrey family have a talent for prophecy?
"Siron?"
Perhaps sensing something, Neville turned back just then.
"Are… you alright?" he asked.
"What could possibly be wrong with me?"
"I mean… the sorting."
This time it was Hermione speaking. "I heard that the Ollivanders and Gryffindor have a rivalry."
"Ah, really?" Siron was puzzled. For a moment, he even wondered if he was a fake Ollivander.
"Who told you that?"
"Sir Nearly-Headless," Hermione said. "The Gryffindor ghost, many call him Nearly Headless Nick.
"He said that because Godric Gryffindor favored swords, and the wand-making Ollivanders had a conflicting philosophy, they've always had a bad relationship."
Then she repeated what the ghost had said earlier.
"Maybe there's some truth to it," Siron said casually, unconcerned. "But that was a thousand years ago. How could anyone remember such trivial things for so long? It's hardly worth the time."
"That was a clash of philosophies, trivial?" Hermione looked at Siron, puzzled.
"Of course not, you're overthinking," Siron smiled. "Do you remember what my grandfather said to you when you bought your wand?"
"Which phrase?"
"That the wand chooses the wizard."
"I remember."
"That's the key," Siron said.
"We believe the wand chooses the wizard. As for how the wizard chooses… it doesn't matter."
"But personally, I think this whole idea of a clash of philosophies is nonsense. Take Neville, for example.
"He likes to carry toads everywhere, but when delivering mail, he still uses an owl. The owl is the wand."
"Is that so?" Hermione nodded vaguely, beginning to understand. "I always thought that phrase—'the wand chooses the wizard'—was just for mystery's sake."
"You can interpret it that way if you want."
(End of Chapter)