Chapter 6 — How Can You Insult Someone Like That
August passed by quickly.
On the morning of September 1st, Ollivander sent Siron to an alley outside King's Cross Station via the Knight Bus.
"This is outrageous. It's your very first day of school, and Garian and Lila didn't even send a letter!"
This was already the third time Ollivander had complained about his son and daughter-in-law that day. It was obvious he was in a foul mood.
Siron, however, didn't really mind.
"That's just how botanists are. Waiting several months just to see a flower bloom for a single moment is completely normal for them. Haven't you gotten used to that already?"
"I just think it's unfair to you," Ollivander sighed. "Today is such an important day."
"You're overthinking it," Siron replied. He truly didn't care.
"It's good that you can say that."
Just as Siron was thinking about how to comfort his grandfather—who was clearly more upset on his behalf than he himself was—someone suddenly slapped his shoulder hard.
"Since that's the case, I'll see you off here."
Under Siron's incredulous gaze, Ollivander pulled out his wand.
"Mr. Dru wrote to me last night. He discovered a pine forest in Dorset with a colony of Bowtruckles living there—every tree is over three hundred years old. I need to hurry over and take a look."
"Then, good luck to you!"
Without giving Siron any chance to respond, Ollivander vanished on the spot the moment he finished speaking.
"Meow—ow!"
Tom had never seen a wizard Apparate before. The sudden disappearance frightened him so badly that his back arched high, every hair on his body standing on end.
By the way, Tom was the name Siron gave the pet tabby cat. There was no special meaning behind it—he simply felt that a foreign cat should obviously be called Tom.
"It's fine, relax." Coming back to his senses, Siron gently soothed his pet. "No wandmaker can resist the temptation of Bowtruckles, especially a newly discovered colony. This reaction is perfectly normal."
Strictly speaking, Ollivander wasn't interested in Bowtruckles themselves, but in the trees they lived in.
Not just any piece of wood could be made into a wand—magic was not that casual. There were many strict requirements.
Among them, the most important—and the one that could never be ignored—was the approval of Bowtruckles.
Only trees in which Bowtruckles had built their nests could have branches harvested for wandmaking. Otherwise, no matter how old the wood was, it was useless junk… oh, with the exception of dragonblood wood. That stuff could obtain Bowtruckle approval one hundred percent of the time—it's just that they didn't dare to live there.
Within Britain, trees of such high quality were already extremely rare. If Ollivander wanted materials, he usually had no choice but to go abroad.
That was why he was in such a hurry.
Siron glanced around. Fortunately, the alley they were in was fairly secluded, with no Muggles nearby.
Seemingly understanding Siron's words, Tom gradually calmed down and curled back up on top of the luggage trunk.
…
Siron entered King's Cross Station, found a trolley, and headed toward Platform Nine.
Although it was his first time here, Platform Nine was famous enough that Siron was hardly unfamiliar with it.
It took only ten minutes for him to find his destination—the small section between Platforms Nine and Ten that had been enchanted with a Muggle-Repelling Charm.
When he arrived, a round-faced boy was cautiously approaching one section of the wall. He moved very slowly, as if afraid of hitting his head.
This behavior, however, irritated the oddly dressed elderly woman beside him.
"Don't act like a coward, Neville! Run through—quickly!"
Mrs. Longbottom scolded sharply. The boy was startled, then suddenly charged at the wall and disappeared.
No—rather than charging through, Siron felt it was more like he had been so frightened that he lost his footing and fell in along with the trolley.
But Mrs. Longbottom didn't seem to notice. She appeared quite satisfied with the boy's decisiveness and nodded approvingly.
At the same time, she noticed Siron standing nearby.
"You're going to Hogwarts as well, aren't you?"
Siron nodded, finding her a little confused.
At this time of day, coming to King's Cross—if not for Hogwarts, was one here to go sightseeing?
"What year?"
"First year," Siron answered honestly.
"Neville is a first-year too." Mrs. Longbottom looked him over again and only then noticed that he was alone.
"By yourself—so you're from a Muggle family that can't accept magic? Ha, this happens every year."
"Well then, child, if you're looking for the platform…" She raised her hand and pointed at the wall in front of them. "Just run straight through. If you're scared, close your eyes."
She had clearly misunderstood something.
Siron opened his mouth, wanting to explain, but after hesitating for a moment, he changed what he was going to say:
"Ah, thank you."
It really wasn't a big deal. Siron put on a look of sudden realization and pushed the trolley straight toward the wall.
At the instant he passed through the platform—
"I hope you and Neville are both sorted into Gryffindor. That's the best House."
Immediately after, the scenery before his eyes changed completely.
Siron couldn't care less about any of that. Her words were still echoing in his mind.
Sorted into Gryffindor…
That sounded awful.
Siron felt absolutely miserable.
He was a wandmaker, for Merlin's sake! Whether carving runes into the wand body or shaping materials into a wand core, everything he did was delicate, meticulous work.
Patience, attentiveness, and calmness were all indispensable. Sometimes, spending an entire day indoors just to craft a single perfect wand core was completely normal.
But what kind of place was Gryffindor?
All brawn and no brains. Three sentences in and they'd already pulled out their wands to fight. Sure, not everyone was like that—but calling it the headquarters of reckless brutes wouldn't be wrong.
Putting him together with Gryffindor?
How could that not be an insult?!
It was unbearably offensive!
Siron turned around to look at the wall, wanting to go back and ask her to change her blessing. He truly could not go to Gryffindor—otherwise, he'd be laughed at by his peers in the trade.
But just as the thought formed, someone else came through behind him. Siron had no choice but to keep moving forward to make room.
"Oh, sorry—did I bump into you?"
A trolley brushed past Siron's arm.
"Ah, no," Siron replied, stepping slightly aside. Then he heard the other person continue,
"You're a first-year, right? As a prefect, I must remind you not to linger at the platform entrance. It obstructs other students."
"I understand." Siron looked at the red-haired boy with horn-rimmed glasses standing in front of him—and at the small habit of adjusting the prefect badge on his chest three times within half a minute.
Percy Weasley. A familiar face—though he clearly hadn't recognized Siron.
Siron said nothing.
Getting scolded for no reason was already annoying enough. Running into someone who constantly announced I'm a prefect made it even worse.
Arguing was out of the question—he wasn't a rude person.
"Is 'prefect' another word for 'Big-Head Boy'? Ha, as long as you like it."
Siron raised an eyebrow at the badge, gave him a look as if he were staring at a troll, then turned and walked away—just short of holding his nose.
He was only a new student who hadn't even enrolled yet. He didn't know what a prefect was—no problem at all!
Besides, the badge really did say "Big-Head Boy."
Percy's face flushed instantly.
What made it even worse was that the entire scene was witnessed by his two younger brothers, Fred and George, who were standing right at the platform entrance, laughing so hard they were practically doubled over.
"It must have been you two who tampered with my prefect badge!"
"Nonsense!"
"We didn't!"
"I'm telling Mum!"
The platform entrance immediately became lively and chaotic.
None of that had anything to do with Siron anymore. By then, he had already lifted his luggage and boarded the train.
(End of Chapter)