Harry had no need for the Sorting Hat to show him the way.
It might sound a bit bizarre, but he remembered Percy’s scent and could easily find the Gryffindor common room by following it. Ron and the others were still waiting up for him.
"Harry, you went to find Dumbledore..." Ron started to say as he stepped forward, but before he could finish, he caught sight of the hat tucked into Harry's belt and recoiled in shock. "Oh, no, did you actually steal the Sorting Hat?"
"I borrowed it. I borrowed it fair and square," Harry corrected earnestly, pointing out the error in Ron's phrasing.
The Sorting Hat muttered, "Harry, you're a good lad, but could we make a deal? Do you mind not hanging me upside down?"
"Besides, hats are meant to be worn. I'm a wizard's hat, and you're a wizard—we make a great pair."
Harry shook his head, his tone resolute. "No, wearing you on my head is a bit inconvenient. This way is handier."
The Sorting Hat paused, its tone drooping. "I think you're treating me like a scabbard."
"Isn't a scabbard better than a hat?" Harry countered.
The Sorting Hat spat—had it possessed the means to do so, it would have spat right in Harry's face. "Bah! A hat is obviously much better than a scabbard!"
"You've got a far worse personality than Gryffindor ever did, you stinking brat!"
It grumbled curses the entire way as Harry carried it into the dormitory.
Having rushed about all day, Harry was somewhat tired and fell into a deep sleep.
He woke up before dawn the next morning, ran two laps around the castle, and then, taking the Sword of Gryffindor with him, practiced his swordsmanship against a tree stump for a while.
After finishing breakfast in the Great Hall, he returned to the dormitory, woke his roommates, and headed off to class with them.
The first day of the term—Monday, September the second—brought lessons that excited Harry immensely. History of Magic in the morning, and Herbology in the afternoon.
History of Magic inevitably left many of the new students feeling disappointed. Professor Binns was a ghost who droned on from the textbook in the hollow, unfeeling tone peculiar to the dead, only occasionally dropping in a sudden, detached observation.
Most of the class listened in a state close to sleep.
Only Harry and Hermione paid close attention.
The words of the long-lived were always worth hearing—and a ghost could be considered a form of the long-lived.
Herbology proved far more interesting.
The professor was the Head of Hufflepuff, a plump witch named Sprout. She looked utterly ordinary, almost dismissive at first glance, yet her mastery of Herbology was profound. Every question Harry raised was answered clearly and simply.
Classes ended at three o'clock.
Harry stubbornly pursued her with questions until four. The only reason it stopped at one hour was that she had to teach the older students; otherwise, Harry would have kept right on asking.
He even shamelessly tried to sit in on the next class.
Professor Sprout had fended him off by awarding "five points to Gryffindor." She liked this hardworking, clever little lion, but the advanced classes were somewhat dangerous, and she dared not let Harry get involved.
Tuesday brought two new subjects: Charms and Transfiguration.
The Charms professor was Flitwick, the man with goblin ancestry, who spent the entire period teaching them magical theory.
When the class ended, most of the students hurriedly packed their bags and rushed off to the Transfiguration classroom.
Harry stayed behind.
Flitwick looked at him with undisguised delight, asking eagerly, "I heard from Professor Sprout and Professor Binns that you're a young wizard with a real thirst for questions. You really ought to be in Ravenclaw."
"Did you run into some sort of problem?"
Harry nodded. "I heard from Hagrid that you have goblin ancestry. Do you happen to know any master blacksmiths?"
Flitwick blinked, his thoughts tangling into a knot as he asked dryly, "So you didn't stay to ask me a question about Charms?"
"I don't have time today; I have a Transfiguration class shortly," Harry replied expressionlessly.
Flitwick looked somewhat disappointed. "Oh, very well."
"I do know a master metalworker, but goblins... well, they all have certain personality issues. Their craftsmanship is superb, but they are terribly greedy."
"Professor, would you mind helping me get in touch with one?" Harry unclipped the Sorting Hat from his belt and pulled a pouch of Galleons from its interior. "This is your compensation."
Flitwick's expression softened, and he shook his head. "A professor should help his students."
"Besides, you are exceptional. Albus told me you seem to have mastered a novel charm. If you have time this Friday afternoon..."
"Let's make it Saturday. If you have time on Saturday, you can come to my office."
Harry placed the Galleons on the desk and turned to leave. "Thank you, professor!"
Others might refuse payment, but he could not simply offer none.
Flitwick shook his head and flicked his wand, sending the money pouch flying straight back into the hat.
The Sorting Hat spat twice and protested, "Hey! I can understand Harry doing it, but Filius, why are you treating me like a pocket too? This is ridiculous!"
"I am a hat! The hat of the great Gryffindor!"
First-year students were hardly experts at navigating the castle.
The stairs at Hogwarts were thoroughly troublesome—resembling a labyrinth whose paths shifted at any moment.
Fortunately, with Ron following Harry, aside from a slight delay caused by the recalcitrant stairs, their journey went fairly smoothly.
They were the first to arrive at the Transfiguration classroom.
"Harry, your sense of direction is simply amazing," Ron said, deeply envious of the talent. The capricious nature of Hogwarts had been amusing at first, but once the novelty wore off, it became a massive headache. "If I were by myself, I'd probably still be wandering in circles out there."
Harry remained silent, staring fixedly at the cat sitting upon the lecture desk.
"Why is there a cat here?" Ron followed his gaze, muttering in confusion. "Professor McGonagall's pet?"
"Wait, Harry!" His tone suddenly turned delighted. "Look at the markings around its eyes—don't they look just like Professor McGonagall's spectacles?"
Harry stepped forward, grabbed the cat by the scuff of its neck, turned its ears over, and began inspecting it. "It doesn't just look like her. This cat *is* Professor McGonagall."
He marveled inwardly. Such fur, such skeletal structure...
This cat was Professor McGonagall?
The declaration left Ron momentarily stunned. He recalled his parents mentioning that Professor McGonagall was a master of Transfiguration and one of the seven registered Animagi at the Ministry of Magic.
A tabby cat.
Oh, no!
Ron's face drained of color, his eyes widening in alarm as he grabbed Harry's sleeve.
"Harry, stop! What are you doing?!"
He couldn't hold Harry back; the Witcher youth stubbornly continued inspecting the tabby cat's paws, bones, and tail...
His exclamation finally provoked a reaction from the tabby cat in Harry's grip. It struggled free, dropped to the floor, and transformed into an elderly woman wearing green robes—their Head of Gryffindor and Professor of Transfiguration, McGonagall.
"Mr. Potter, you recognized me from the start?" McGonagall narrowed her eyes, her tone severe.
Harry nodded. "Yes."
"Then you..." McGonagall's tone grew even sterner.
Harry put on a look of absolute sincerity. "I was merely curious, Professor. Your Animagus form carries no magical aura at all. If not for your scent, I would have mistaken you for an ordinary cat."
"Upon inspection, it feels no different from a real cat—the spine, the muscles, the claws can all be extended."
Without prior contact with McGonagall, no one would ever be on guard against such a lovely little cat.
McGonagall's voice remained even. "An Animagus is a Transfiguration that truly transforms a person into a specific animal. In reality, it is very dangerous. Some immature practitioners can even suffer mental confusion, truly believing they have become beasts."
"If you are so interested in it, perhaps by your fifth or sixth year—or perhaps even earlier—you may attempt to study this spell."
Harry nodded. "Thank you for your guidance, Professor McGonagall."
"There is one more matter." McGonagall's expression did not soften in the slightest; if anything, it grew graver. "Is my scent really that strong?"
Harry shook his head. "No, you don't have a distinct odor. It's simply that my senses are sharper than most, allowing me to catch scents that ordinary people cannot."
McGonagall's expression eased somewhat, and she glanced at Ron.
Ron was frozen stiff. Catching her gaze, he nodded frantically like a pecking chick.
"Is that so? Very well then," McGonagall exhaled. "Mr. Potter, I will let it pass this time, but remember: no matter how curious you are, you must not go manhandling a professor."
"Yes, professor," Harry answered with feigned docility.
"Gryffindor loses fifty points!" the hat suddenly chimed in, shouting out loud.
The declaration turned Ron's face pale with dread as he stared in panic at the Sorting Hat.
A murderous aura began to rise around Professor McGonagall.
"Hey, Minerva, don't be angry, I was only joking," the hat hastily explained, swaying back and forth. "I'm just a hat; I don't have the authority to dock points."
Ron breathed a sigh of relief. He had been terrified to the core, genuinely believing Harry was about to go down in history as a sinner against Gryffindor.
"You Gryffindors are always like this," the hat muttered. "Either you're far too humorous, or you haven't the slightest sense of humor at all."
"Why can't you be properly humorous, like Albus?"
Harry and Ron found seats and sat down.
Professor McGonagall did not transform back into a tabby cat. Instead, she stood strictly beside the desk, and while the two young wizards weren't looking, quietly cast several "Scourgify" charms on herself.
The remaining students arrived in due course. Transfiguration proved to be a fascinating subject, though somewhat daunting in difficulty.
After teaching the magical theory, Professor McGonagall handed each student a match and instructed them to try turning it into a needle.
By the end of the lesson, only Harry and Hermione had managed to produce any change in their matches. Harry successfully turned his match entirely into a needle, while Hermione fell just short, producing only a needle's head with the wooden stick of the match still forming the tail.
A trace of a smile appeared on Professor McGonagall's face, and with complete justification and natural grace, she awarded five points to Gryffindor—three for Harry, and two for Hermione.
Wednesday's Defense Against the Dark Arts class left Harry bitterly disappointed.
Professor Quirrell lacked the peculiar presence that had made his scar ache, but... the man was utterly incompetent. He stuttered, rambled endlessly, and his descriptions of the Dark Arts were far less useful than simply reading a textbook.
A mere ghoul, and he couldn't even draw a standard structural diagram or clearly explain its weaknesses. He just stammered through a few defensive measures that made Harry frown deeply.
Lighting a fire, making a racket, or tossing it a piece of rotting meat—did he call that driving away a dark creature?
It sounded more like he was teaching people how to keep pets.
Ron, however, completely agreed with Professor Quirrell—his family kept a ghoul, and when his mother dealt with it, those were precisely the methods she used. Indeed, his family practically treated the ghoul like a pet.
Thursday brought more Transfiguration and Charms.
Harry finally satisfied Flitwick, firing off a barrage of questions after class that nearly caused him to be late for his next year's lecture.