Only after Harold gave him a definite answer did Hagrid finally turn and head down the steps.
Inside the castle, Harry Potter had been watching—well, more like sneaking glances at Hagrid all along the way—and just happened to catch the two of them whispering at the back of the line.
For some reason, as soon as Harold entered the castle, Harry instinctively walked over.
"Sorry to bother you… what were you two talking about just now?"
Harold blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected the Boy Who Lived to be this… friendly?
You'd think that after Malfoy's provocation, Harry wouldn't be all that keen on chatting with any pure-bloods right now.
"Sorry—I didn't mean anything by it," Harry realized his sudden question might have come off a bit rude, so he quickly waved his hands, trying to explain. "It's just… I know Hagrid too. I mean, if you need any help—"
"Thanks for the offer, but it's fine," Harold said casually. "He's just got something that's broken, and I can fix it."
"I see. Right—I'm Harry Potter."
"Harold Ollivander. We met in Diagon Alley, but your attention was all on your wand at the time."
"Really? Sorry, I don't remember at all."
"No need to apologize. Very few wizards stay calm when they get their first wand."
The two of them chatted idly, drawing more and more attention from the rest of the first-years.
Malfoy kept glancing over, and each time, his expression was different—bitterly entertaining to watch.
They were both pure-bloods—so why was Potter talking to Harold instead of him? It just wasn't fair!
Ron felt the same, though his face was more wary than jealous.
After everything earlier, he'd instinctively lumped Harold into the same category as Malfoy. And everyone knew the Weasleys and Malfoys didn't get along.
So the more Harry talked to Harold, the more irritated Ron became.
Thankfully, before the mood could sour further, Professor McGonagall returned and led them all into the Great Hall.
The hall was packed with students, but the moment McGonagall walked in with a long line of first-years behind her, all eyes turned to the newcomers.
Nervous? Most of them looked pretty nervous—but they were also awestruck by the sight before them.
The ceiling was a vast, enchanted night sky.
A thousand lit candles floated beneath it, as if suspended beneath the stars themselves.
And around the room hovered a dozen or so pale, ghost-like figures.
Neville and a few of the more timid kids looked ready to collapse, stumbling their way forward.
Hermione, standing beside him, looked a little better, but her face was pale and her hands were clutching the corner of her robe tightly.
Ghosts, a singing hat—this was turning her entire eleven years of understanding upside down.
Eventually, the Sorting Hat finished its song, and the entire hall sat up a little straighter.
"The Sorting will now begin. When I call your name, come forward, put on the hat, and sit on the stool."
Professor McGonagall glanced around the crowd of students.
As more and more names were called, Harold suddenly realized something—he was still holding Tom.
Normally, pets were sent ahead with the luggage, but since Tom had chased a "coworker" off the train, Harold had been forced to bring him along.
But he couldn't exactly walk up for the Sorting with a cat in his arms—that'd be way too showy, and honestly kind of pretentious. Google seaʀᴄh 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵✶𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮✶𝓷𝓮𝓽
Professor McGonagall's voice rang out. No time to think.
Harold quickly dropped Tom onto the ground.
"Don't run off," he whispered hastily, then strode toward the front.
"Look, it's Harold!" Over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione turned excitedly to Neville, who had just been Sorted into the same House.
"I really hope he ends up in Gryffindor too," she whispered.
A passing ghost happened to hear her and immediately shook his head. "That won't happen."
"Why not?" Hermione didn't get it. Four Houses—should be a one-in-four chance, right? Why was it impossible?
"Because he's an Ollivander," said Nearly Headless Nick with a smile. "And Ollivanders almost always go to Ravenclaw. There's just no way he'll be—"
"Gryffindor!" the Sorting Hat bellowed.
The entire hall fell into a strange silence.
Some students began clapping instinctively, but a good number just sat there in stunned disbelief, staring ahead.
Even the professors at the head table had stopped clapping and were all looking toward the Sorting Hat.
Gradually, the applause faded. A weird hush fell over the Great Hall.
Snape narrowed his eyes. Professor Flitwick rubbed his ears. Even Dumbledore leaned forward slightly.
"Albus…" Professor McGonagall turned toward him, clearly looking for confirmation.
"The Sorting Hat doesn't make mistakes," Dumbledore said firmly.
"Seems like it's given us another big surprise," Snape said with a cold twist of his mouth.
"Yes," Flitwick nodded beside him. "Just like when that Black boy ended up in Gryffindor decades ago."
"But this one's even more extreme."
At the center of everyone's attention, Harold calmly removed the hat and handed it back to McGonagall.
"Mr. Ollivander, you…"
"I respect the Sorting system, Professor," Harold said evenly. "But can I ask the Sorting Hat one more question? I was a bit rushed just now and forgot."
"…Go ahead." McGonagall hesitated, then placed the hat back on his head.
"Hmm? You again," came the soft voice by his ear. "No matter what you say, I won't change my mind—you belong in Gryffindor."
"No, you misunderstood. I just want to ask you a question," Harold said out loud—loud enough that many people nearby could hear.
"What question? Go on, ask."
"Do you have a favorite kind of wood?"
The hall blinked, collectively baffled. No one understood what the question was supposed to mean.
No one except Dumbledore, whose face shifted subtly.
He'd already heard rumors that the Ollivanders had a new kind of prodigy—one who could craft wand cores out of all kinds of bizarre materials.
He couldn't be serious… no, that was ridiculous. There was no way he was thinking about using the Sorting Hat as a wand core, right?
Dumbledore shook his head. Harold was probably just trying to mess with the Hat.
Such an attitude—definitely not very "Ollivander-like."
By now, Harold had calmly walked over and sat down at the Gryffindor table.
The Sorting continued as if nothing strange had happened.