The famous savior attracted most people's attention, but only a few were still pursuing the answer to another mystery.
For instance, Hermione, whose thirst for knowledge was practically overflowing.
"Sir Poppington, why did you say that Ollivander couldn't possibly be sorted into Gryffindor?" she asked earnestly.
"Huh? Did I say that just now?" the ghost replied, puzzled, as he shook his head back onto his neck.
When the Sorting Hat shouted earlier, his head had toppled off—thankfully, a thin strip of skin had kept it connected. He was known as Nearly Headless Nick, after all, so naturally, it didn't fall completely.
"You did!" Hermione insisted, nodding firmly and even pulling in witnesses.
"I testify!"
"That's right!"
Fred and George, the twins, chimed in from either side. They were curious, too. Though they didn't know the backstory, judging by the professors' expressions, it had to be interesting.
"Well… actually, it's nothing," Nearly Headless Nick replied, casting a glance toward Robert, who sat at the far end of the long table. He lowered his voice.
"As far as I know, from the time Hogwarts was founded until now, not a single Ollivander has ever been sorted into Gryffindor—not one."
"Wow!" Fred exclaimed. "Over a thousand years? Is that really true?"
"I believe so. I've been at Hogwarts for five centuries and have never seen it happen."
"Why?" Hermione pressed, her curiosity piqued.
"I'm not certain," Nick admitted after a moment's thought. "But there's a legend."
"What kind of legend?" she asked eagerly.
"It's just a rumor—nothing confirmed," the ghost clarified, and then went on:
"They say it has to do with one of the four Hogwarts founders, Godric Gryffindor. Though a wizard, he strongly preferred using a sword instead of a wand."
"He even had a sword forged by goblins and frequently declared that swords were superior to wands. The relic he left behind was none other than the Sword of Gryffindor."
"And the Ollivanders are a family of wandmakers. Naturally, they wouldn't look kindly on Gryffindor."
"Then what about Robert? How did he end up in Gryffindor?"
"I don't know," the ghost replied, his head swaying slightly on his neck. "Either he isn't truly an Ollivander, or there's something different about him."
With that, Nearly Headless Nick floated away, but his words lingered. The students remained intrigued.
A thousand years ago, the relationships and rivalries between the four founders of Hogwarts still stirred fascination. Everyone's attention drifted back to Robert. Not even Harry Potter's placement into Gryffindor could distract them.
At the Gryffindor table, Robert sat in the seat closest to the teachers' table, staring expressionlessly at the Sorting Hat.
He hadn't expected to be sorted into Gryffindor. Even Hufflepuff would have been better, in his mind.
The ragged old hat hadn't hesitated for a moment—it shouted its decision the instant it touched his hair. It had shown the same decisiveness with Malfoy. Efficient, yes, but baffling.
Why Gryffindor?
Robert didn't figure it out until the ceremony ended.
Professor McGonagall removed the Sorting Hat and stool. In the blink of an eye, the once-empty long tables were now overflowing with food.
The aroma awakened Robert's empty stomach—he hadn't eaten since boarding the train.
Well, since things had turned out this way… may as well eat.
The golden roast chicken and rich cream soup revived him instantly. As he filled his plate, Robert began to calm down and reflect on the words he'd heard inside the Sorting Hat—during his second time wearing it.
It had said he was well-suited for Gryffindor.
His fork paused mid-cut into a pork chop.
Thinking back, some of his earlier plans did seem rather Gryffindor-like when taken individually.
But he hadn't acted on any of them yet. They were only plans—did that still count?
Robert sighed.
He supposed that in Harry Potter's world, rare things happened all the time.
Like Fluffy. The Basilisk. Both were exceptional wand cores. Missing the chance to study them would be a shame.
With that thought, Robert gradually came to terms with his sorting.
After all, what choice did he have? Hogwarts didn't allow students to change houses.
Besides, being in the same house as Harry Potter might make some things easier down the line.
That line of reasoning helped him settle his thoughts—enough to enjoy the food before him.
He wasn't sure if old Ollivander could accept this development, though.
As he bit into a piece of steak, he thought of his grandfather.
It should be fine, he told himself. His grandfather had never shown any bias against Gryffindor, and he'd always just encouraged Robert to get into Hogwarts—never demanding a specific house.
…
Lost in thought, Robert didn't notice when dessert was served or finished. He barely heard Dumbledore's speech.
He remembered something about avoiding the Forbidden Forest, and a warning about a certain classroom on the Fourth Floor.
Oh, and something about Quidditch tryouts. Robert frowned.
Quidditch? What respectable wizard played Quidditch?
Eventually, after the school song was sung, Robert stood with the rest of the first-years and exited the Great Hall.
As they walked upstairs, he spotted Neville ahead.
He recalled that at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Madam Longbottom had mentioned wanting both him and Neville sorted into Gryffindor.
She had been right, apparently.
Maybe the Longbottoms had a knack for prophecy.
"Robert?"
Neville turned around, as if sensing something.
"How are you? Are you alright?" he asked.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"It's about the Sorting," Hermione chimed in. "I heard the Ollivanders and Gryffindor have a long-standing feud."
"Really?" Robert blinked, momentarily wondering if he was a fake Ollivander. "How come I've never heard of that? Who told you that?"
"Sir Poppington," Hermione answered. "He's the Gryffindor house ghost—most people call him Nearly Headless Nick."
"He said Godric Gryffindor's preference for swords clashed with the Ollivanders' devotion to wands. So, their relationship had always been tense."
She proceeded to relay the ghost's entire explanation.
"Maybe that happened," Robert said casually once she'd finished. "But that was a thousand years ago. Can such a petty issue really last that long? It's not worth worrying over."
"That was a clash of ideologies. You're calling it petty?" Hermione eyed him with suspicion.
"How could that be?" Robert replied with a grin. "You're reading too much into it. Do you remember what my grandfather said to you when you bought your wand?"
"Which part?"
'The wand chooses the wizard.'"
"Oh, yes. I remember."
"That's the key," Robert said.
"We believe the wand chooses the wizard. As for how the wizard chooses… it doesn't matter."
"But I think the so-called ideological conflict is meaningless. Take Neville, for example."
"He loves his toad—carries it everywhere. But when he needs to send a letter, he still chooses an owl. The owl is like the wand."
"Is that so?" Hermione said, nodding, though she seemed unsure. "I always thought that line—'the wand chooses the wizard'—was just there to add mystery."
"You can take it that way too," Robert said with a smirk.
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