Twenty minutes later, Hermione finally learned what Harold meant by "transportation."
Not in her wildest dreams had she expected that the first-years would be crossing a lake by boat. And it was then she saw, rising tall at the far edge of the water, that magnificent castle.
Its many windows shimmered under the starlit sky, mysterious and beautiful.
Like most of the other first-years, she stood rooted to the spot, mesmerized by the sight.
"Come along now, first-years! If you want to sit in a warm hall and enjoy a nice big feast, you'd best get moving!"
"But mind you—only four to a boat!"
"Harry, over here! Everyone else, follow up!" Hagrid called, expertly guiding the new students.
"Hey, I know you."
Harold looked up to see the boy speaking to him.
Platinum blond hair, pale complexion, wearing a look of arrogance tinged with spite.
He seemed to have just been in an argument—probably lost, too—judging by the sharpness in his voice.
"I remember you," the boy repeated. "You were at the wand shop, right?"
"I was," Harold replied, glancing at the two boys standing beside him—big and stocky, like a pair of walking tree stumps.
"Oh, that's Crabbe and Goyle," the boy said. "I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. I'm guessing you're like us."
Harold raised a brow. "If you mean pure-blood, sure."
"Then you must know who I am, don't you?" Malfoy pressed. "Or are you one of those clueless, dim types?"
His voice suddenly grew louder, like he wanted someone specific to hear it.
Harold guessed it was the neighboring boat—and more precisely, the boy sitting on the left with the lightning-shaped scar: Harry Potter.
Still, what kind of idiot tries to show off their family name in front of an Ollivander?
"Allow me to introduce myself. Harold Ollivander." Harold looked at the mildly smug Malfoy and couldn't help but chuckle a little.
"Fact is, when the first Malfoy rose to prominence, the Ollivanders had already been around on this land for 1,800 years. You follow?"
Silence fell over the boat.
Then came a clear, unmistakable snort of laughter from the next boat over.
Malfoy's pale face turned beet red in an instant.
Not even when Harry had brushed him off on the train did he look this embarrassed. He hadn't expected to get "humiliated" here—but the worst part was, the guy wasn't even wrong.
Harold also felt like laughing, but he held it in.
All he could say was—Malfoy had brought it on himself.
Sure, if we're talking gold, the Ollivanders probably ranked near the bottom of the pure-blood families.
But if we're talking legacy and family history? Sorry, there wasn't a single pure-blood house in all of Britain that could compare—not even Hogwarts or Merlin himself.
Hogwarts was founded a thousand years ago, in the tenth century.
Merlin's era, the time of King Arthur, was the sixth century.
But the Ollivanders? The date's right there on the shopfront: 382 BC—nine centuries before Merlin.
Harold looked at Malfoy's flushed face and shrugged. "Tsk. You saw me in the wand shop—why start this?"
Maybe it was just his imagination, but the air around them seemed to warm a little.
Still, Harold didn't mean to make it too harsh. He offered a hand and said:
"Proper introduction this time: Harold Ollivander. And yes, I know who you are… Hawthorn, unicorn hair, ten inches, right?"
Harold's gesture came just in time. Malfoy's face quickly returned to normal.
He wanted to slap that hand away, but after a brief hesitation, he gave up on the idea and reached out instead.
"Draco Malfoy."
"You already said that once."
"You'll be in Slytherin for sure," Malfoy said, quickly changing the subject.
"Maybe." Harold smiled.
Again—did no one get how old 382 BC really was?
If the Ollivanders cared about anything beyond wandmaking, then when it came to bloodline bragging, even Salazar Slytherin himself would have to step aside.
But all that stuff was meaningless. Trace your roots back far enough, and everyone's a half-blood.
While the handshake smoothed things over here, the neighboring boat was far less pleased.
"I really thought Malfoy was about to get torn apart," Ron sighed. But he soon broke into a grin. "Still, not bad. Did you see Malfoy's face? Redder than the train engine!"
"Yeah, I saw it," Harry nodded.
"Wait a second." Hermione, sitting across from them, suddenly spoke. "Did that Ollivander family really go back 1,800 years?"
"P-possibly," Ron scratched his head.
Honestly, he wasn't sure.
He just knew the name Ollivander was a big deal. His whole family had used their wands—his granddad, and his granddad's granddad too.
But how many years exactly?
Who goes looking that stuff up?
The four kids on the boat fell into collective silence... no one quite knew what to say. Meanwhile, Harold and Malfoy actually seemed to be getting along well.
In just a short while, Malfoy had already asked three times if it was really possible to make a wand turn silver and green.
To this, Harold—having "accidentally" let that slip earlier—just shrugged and said it was still in the works. Early stages. Needed patience.
"I'll pay extra! No matter how many Galleons!" Malfoy thumped his chest.
Silver with green trim—same colors as the Slytherin crest. He had to have it. Otherwise, what was the point of being a Slytherin?
The boat drifted toward the center of the lake, moonlight casting a faint blush across Malfoy's face—though this time it was from excitement.
Harold glanced at the thirty Galleon deposit in his hand and smirked slightly.
As he'd thought—coming to Hogwarts really was a profitable idea… easy money, honestly.
…
In this strange mix of tension and enthusiasm, the boats finally reached the opposite shore.
Hagrid took the lead, walking up the stone steps and raising one massive fist to knock three times on the castle's front doors.
The doors opened to reveal the stern face of Professor McGonagall, ready to lead the new students into the Great Hall.
Harold stayed at the back, and just as he stepped into the castle, Hagrid—who was about to leave—suddenly stopped.
"What you said at the wand shop… was that true?" he asked in a low voice, glancing nervously inside, as if afraid McGonagall might've heard.
But she was already inside the hall and hadn't caught a word.
"What was?"
"You know… about my umbrella…" Hagrid looked even more nervous, instinctively patting his coat pocket.
"Oh, of course it was true," Harold replied. "If you ever need the help."
"I live right next to the Forbidden Forest," Hagrid blurted out, clearly relieved.
(End of Chapter)
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