August passed in the blink of an eye.
On September 1st, Ollivander personally took Harold to a back alley just outside King's Cross Station via the Knight Bus.
"It's outrageous! It's your very first day of school, and Garion and Lila didn't even send a single letter!"
That was the third time Ollivander had complained about his son and daughter-in-law that morning. It was obvious he wasn't pleased.
But Harold didn't seem to mind.
"Botanists are always like that. They'll wait months just to see a flower bloom. Haven't you gotten used to it by now?"
"I just think it's unfair to you," Ollivander sighed. "It's a big day, after all."
"Then you're overthinking it," Harold replied. He genuinely didn't care.
"I'm glad you feel that way."
As Harold was trying to think of a way to comfort his indignant grandfather, he suddenly felt a strong clap on the shoulder.
"Well then, I'll drop you off here."
To Harold's disbelief, Ollivander pulled out his wand.
"Mr. Drew wrote to me last night. He's found a grove of pine trees in the forests of Dorset where bowtruckles are nesting. The trees are all over three hundred years old. I need to go see it right away."
Before Harold could say a word, Ollivander vanished with a pop.
Tom, seeing Apparition for the first time, was startled out of his fur. His back arched high, every hair standing on end.
By the way, "Tom" was the name Harold had given his oddly scruffy pet cat. No special meaning—he just felt foreign cats should be named Tom.
"It's okay. Relax." Harold gently soothed the feline. "No wandmaker can resist the call of bowtruckles, especially when it's a newly discovered colony. Totally normal."
More accurately, Ollivander wasn't interested in the bowtruckles themselves, but in the trees they lived in.
Not just any wood could be made into a wand—magic wasn't that casual. There were many conditions.
One of the most important was getting the bowtruckles' approval.
Only branches from trees they nested in could be used. Otherwise, no matter how old or fine the wood was, it'd be worthless.
Well… dragonblood wood was an exception—it always passed inspection, though bowtruckles never dared live in it.
There weren't many quality wand trees left in Britain, which was why Ollivander was so eager to go abroad. The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭⚑𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮⚑𝕟𝕖𝕥
Harold looked around. Luckily, the alley was secluded, with no Muggles nearby.
Tom seemed to understand and calmed down, curling back up on top of Harold's suitcase.
Harold entered King's Cross Station, grabbed a trolley, and made his way toward Platform 9.
It was his first time there, but Platform 9¾ was famous—Harold had no trouble finding it.
Within ten minutes, he reached his destination: the small, warded section between Platforms 9 and 10.
When he arrived, a round-faced boy was nervously approaching one of the walls, moving so cautiously it was like he feared he'd crack his skull.
That timid behavior didn't sit well with the oddly dressed older woman nearby.
"Don't act like a coward, Neville! Run through it—quickly!" Lady Longbottom barked.
Startled, the boy jolted forward and disappeared through the wall with his trolley.
Well, "charged through" wasn't quite right. To Harold, it looked more like Neville had tripped from the shock, stumbling face-first into the barrier.
But Lady Longbottom seemed unaware. She looked quite pleased with Neville's "decisiveness" and nodded with satisfaction.
Then her gaze shifted to Harold.
"You're here for the Hogwarts Express too, aren't you?"
Harold nodded, finding the question a little odd.
Who else would be at King's Cross at this hour if not someone heading to Hogwarts? Sightseeing?
"What year are you in?"
"First year," Harold replied honestly.
"Neville's in first year too." She looked him over again and finally noticed he was alone.
"Alone? Ah, another Muggle-born whose family couldn't handle the idea of magic? Hmph. Happens every year."
"Well then, child, if you're looking for the platform…" She raised a hand and pointed to the barrier. "Just run through it. Close your eyes if you're scared."
Clearly, she'd misunderstood something.
Harold opened his mouth to clarify—but after a moment's pause, he changed his mind.
It wasn't a big deal, after all. He put on a look of sudden realization, then pushed his cart straight toward the wall.
As he passed through the barrier—
"Hope you and Neville end up in Gryffindor! It's the best house!"
Then the world around him shifted in an instant.
Harold didn't care about the change in scenery.
His mind was still stuck on what she'd said:
Harold froze, mentally cringing.
Him, a wandmaker—to be sorted into Gryffindor? A house where people acted first and thought later? Where duels broke out over three words?
Sure, not every Gryffindor was like that… but calling it the headquarters of hotheaded brawlers wasn't far off.
To group him with that lot?
Harold turned back toward the barrier, wanting to go back and ask her to rephrase her blessing.
He seriously could not be sorted into Gryffindor. That would be a disgrace to his craft.
But before he could do anything, someone else came through the barrier behind him, forcing Harold to step aside.
"Oh, sorry—didn't hit you, did I?" A trolley brushed his arm as it passed.
"Ah, no." Harold stepped aside slightly, only to hear:
"You're a first-year, aren't you? As a prefect, I must remind you not to loiter at the entrance—it blocks others from coming through."
"I understand," Harold said, eyeing the red-haired boy with horn-rimmed glasses—who kept adjusting the prefect badge on his chest every half-minute.
Percy Weasley. An acquaintance, though it seemed he didn't recognize Harold.
He was already annoyed from being "blessed" into Gryffindor. Now here was someone who couldn't go ten seconds without saying prefect. He was even more annoyed.
Arguing was out of the question—Harold wasn't that type.
"Is 'prefect' another word for big-headed boy? Huh. Well, if you like it…"
Harold raised an eyebrow at his badge with a look one might give a troll, turned around, and walked off—barely stopping himself from pinching his nose.
After all, he was just a new student. He didn't even know what a prefect was. Totally reasonable!
Besides, the badge really did say "Big-Headed Boy."
Percy's face turned bright red. Worse, his twin brothers, Fred and George, had been watching the whole exchange at the platform entrance—and were now doubled over laughing.
"You two definitely tampered with my prefect badge!"
The platform became a circus of bickering, but none of it had anything to do with Harold.
By then, he was already dragging his luggage aboard the train.