The famous Boy Who Lived had captured almost everyone's attention—almost. A few were still stuck on another, very specific mystery.
Like the ever-curious Hermione.
"Sir Nicholas, why did you say earlier that an Ollivander couldn't possibly be sorted into Gryffindor?"
"Huh? Did I say that?" the ghost replied, tossing his head back onto his neck.
When the Sorting Hat had bellowed out its decision, his head had nearly fallen off. Thankfully, a thin strip of skin had kept it hanging—hence the nickname, Nearly Headless Nick.
"You did say it!" Hermione nodded firmly, even pulling in witnesses.
Fred and George, the Weasley twins, chimed in from either side. They were just as curious.
They didn't know exactly what had happened, but judging by the professors' expressions, it had to be something juicy.
"Well… alright, I suppose it's not that big a secret," Nick glanced toward the far end of the Gryffindor table at Harold and lowered his voice.
"As far as I know, ever since Hogwarts was founded, not a single Ollivander has been sorted into Gryffindor. Not one."
"Whoa!" Fred exclaimed. "No way—over a thousand years?"
"I've been at Hogwarts for five centuries, and I've never seen it happen."
"But why?" Hermione pressed, intrigued.
"I don't know for sure," said Nick thoughtfully. "But there's a legend."
"What kind of legend?"
"Now mind you, this is all hearsay—nothing verified," the ghost clarified, then continued:
"Apparently, it has something to do with one of the four founders, Godric Gryffindor. Though he was a wizard, he had a particular fondness for using swords over wands."
"In fact, he commissioned a goblin-made sword, which he carried everywhere. He even openly claimed that his sword was more useful than a wand. And the heirloom he left behind? Gryffindor's Sword."
"And since the Ollivanders are a wandmaking family… well, naturally, they weren't too fond of Gryffindor's views."
"So then why did Harold get sorted into Gryffindor?" Hermione asked.
"No idea," Nick replied, his head wobbling loosely on his neck.
"Maybe he's not really an Ollivander. Or maybe he's just... different."
With that, Nearly Headless Nick drifted away.
But everyone else was still caught up in what he'd said.
Ancient grudges between Hogwarts' founders? Who wouldn't be interested in that?
Soon, all eyes turned back to Harold. Not even Harry Potter's own sorting into Gryffindor could fully distract them.
At the Gryffindor table, Harold sat closest to the staff table, expressionless as he stared at the Sorting Hat.
He couldn't believe it himself.
He'd expected Ravenclaw, or even Hufflepuff—but Gryffindor? Really?
The hat hadn't even paused for a second—it had barely touched his head before blurting it out. Just like Malfoy. Efficient, if nothing else.
Even as the Sorting continued, Harold still hadn't figured it out.
The Sorting Hat and its little stool were eventually carried off by Professor McGonagall, and in a blink, the once-empty long tables filled with steaming dishes.
The aroma of food snapped Harold back to reality. After a full day on the train, he was starving.
Well, whatever. Time to eat.
Golden roast chicken and creamy soups filled his mouth, instantly recharging his tired body and mind.
As he calmed down, Harold's thoughts drifted back to what the hat had said the second time he'd worn it.
He was a good fit for Gryffindor.
Harold's knife froze mid-cut through a pork chop.
Come to think of it, some of his earlier plans—taken in isolation—were indeed… pretty Gryffindor.
But he hadn't even acted on them yet. They were just ideas. Did that really count?
Some things were once-in-a-lifetime opportunities—and they always seemed to happen around Harry Potter.
Take the three-headed dog, or the basilisk, for example… rare creatures, perfect for wand cores. Letting those go would be a crime.
With that logic in mind, Harold slowly accepted his placement in Gryffindor.
It's not like he had a choice anyway. Hogwarts had no precedent for switching Houses.
And being closer to Harry Potter might actually make some things easier.
Harold told himself that.
It sort of worked. At least, he could now enjoy his meal.
He just wasn't sure how Old Ollivander would take it.
As Harold bit into a piece of steak, he couldn't help but think of his grandfather.
Still, it would probably be fine. As far as he could remember, his grandfather had never shown any particular bias against Gryffindor. He'd always said that as long as Harold got into Hogwarts, that was enough—never cared about the House.
Distracted by his own thoughts, Harold didn't even notice when the dessert vanished or when Dumbledore started speaking.
He only vaguely remembered bits and pieces—something about first-years staying out of the Forbidden Forest, a specific classroom on the fourth floor being off-limits.
Oh, and Quidditch tryouts… pfft. What kind of serious wizard played Quidditch?
Once the school song was sung—quite the spectacle—Harold stood and followed the line of first-years out of the hall. On their way up the stairs, he spotted Neville walking just ahead.
Come to think of it, back at Platform 9¾, Mrs. Longbottom had said she hoped both he and Neville would end up in Gryffindor.
Did the Longbottoms have the Sight or something?
Maybe sensing his gaze, Neville turned back at just the right moment.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Well… the Sorting," Hermione added, stepping in. "I heard the Ollivanders don't get along with Gryffindor."
"Really?" Harold was genuinely baffled. For a second, he wondered if he was some kind of fake Ollivander.
"I never heard that. Who told you?"
"Sir Nicholas," Hermione said. "The Gryffindor ghost—most people call him Nearly Headless Nick.
"He said Godric Gryffindor liked swords more than wands, so his ideas didn't align with the Ollivanders, who make wands. That's why your families never got along."
She quickly recapped what the ghost had told them earlier.
"Maybe there's some truth to it," Harold said after listening, completely unfazed. "But it's been a thousand years. Who still cares about ancient grudges that small? Waste of time."
"But it's a clash of ideals! That's not small," Hermione said, looking confused.
"Don't overthink it," Harold chuckled. "Remember what my grandfather said when you bought your wand?"
"The wand chooses the wizard."
"Oh, right. I remember."
"That's the key," Harold said. "We believe the wand chooses the wizard. How the wizard chooses… doesn't matter."
"Personally, I think this whole 'clash of ideals' is nonsense. Take Neville, for example. Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on novel•fire.net
"He loves his toad—takes it everywhere. But when it's time to send a letter, he still uses an owl. The owl is the wand."
"I see…" Hermione nodded, half-understanding. "I always thought that whole 'wand chooses the wizard' thing was just for drama."
"You can think of it that way too."