Great Britain has a damp climate. Even in September, the night air remains biting and chilly.
Hagrid swung a massive lantern. "First-years, first-years! Over here, oh, Harry, are you alright? Come over to my side."
They followed Hagrid along a narrow path down to the lake and climbed into small boats. Bobbing gently, they made their way across toward Hogwarts.
Each boat held four people: Harry, Ron, and the other two being the brown-haired, buck-toothed otter with whom they had crossed paths on the train, and a timid, round-faced, Scottish fat-chicken-like little boy named Neville.
"Hello, we meet again," the otter girl greeted them.
Ron gave a perfunctory response. "Hello."
Harry nodded, even more perfunctorily. His attention was elsewhere—for instance, the chaotic magical signatures beneath the water, one of which felt exceptionally powerful; and for instance... the magical aura that, from the moment he stepped onto the path, had entwined itself around him and every other first-year.
As if the clouds had parted to reveal the sun, the magnificent castle of Hogwarts grew clearer and dearer in his eyes.
A contract with the castle itself?
Did they emulate the four founders' experience of discovering Hogwarts Castle, turning the very act into a ritual?
The books didn't mention it; these things would all have to wait until he got inside Hogwarts to figure out.
Led by Hagrid, they walked up to the castle doors, met the formidable-looking Deputy Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, and were ushered into a side chamber to wait.
"How on earth do they accurately sort us into our houses?" The brown-haired otter frowned, looking somewhat troubled.
Ron clenched his fists and looked at Harry. "Fred, one of my brothers, said there's a test involved that does a lot of damage to us, but I suppose he must have been joking with me."
"My uncle said we have to fight a troll," Neville said with a terrified expression, clutching his toad, which struggled incessantly.
Harry shook his head. He didn't believe any of it. Even in a brutal world of Witchers, nobody would throw an untrained child before wraiths, ghouls, or nekkers.
"Don't worry, we've already signed a contract with Hogwarts," Harry patted Ron on the shoulder. "Maybe... it's just a little charm to check your personality and decide which house to shove you into."
According to the books...
The bold and brainless were tossed into Gryffindor, the studious into Ravenclaw, the cunning into Slytherin, and the rest into Hufflepuff.
Neville wore a miserable expression. "Oh no, then I'm definitely going to Hufflepuff."
"Does which house you're in matter?" Harry was puzzled. "The skills you learn are all the same."
Unlike Witcher schools. There were many Witcher schools, but the skills you could learn differed among them. The Wolf School was the most disciplined Witcher school, much like the Griffin School, focusing on the application of Signs, pre-battle preparations, and solid swordsmanship. The Bear School emphasized a sturdy physique—stacking the heaviest armor and taking the hardest hits. The Cat School was more like assassins, a bunch of mentally unhinged madmen hiding in the shadows and doing dirty work.
The four houses of Hogwarts... seemed to correspond only to four qualities. As for the skills taught, everyone was treated equally and instructed by the exact same batch of teachers.
Neville tightened his grip on his toad, which let out a miserable, feeble croak.
"If you're a coward inside, no matter where you go, you'll only grow up to be a coward," Harry looked at Neville and said bluntly. "Only when your own heart grows strong are you truly strong."
Neville lowered his head.
"No, you shouldn't say that to Neville," the brown-haired otter bared her teeth at him. "He, he..."
"Is there something wrong with what I said, Miss Otter?" Harry shook his head.
The brown-haired otter covered her mouth, her eyes wide as she stared at Harry. "Who's an otter? Didn't you hear my introduction on the boat? I'm Hermione, Hermione Granger."
"Oh, right, Miss Granger. Is there something wrong with what I said?" Harry nodded, obediently changing his form of address, and repeated his question.
Hermione covered her mouth, grinding her teeth. This was nothing like the savior she had imagined!
Professor McGonagall soon returned and led them into the Great Hall. The ceiling seemed transparent, revealing the starry night sky outside.
From the outside, it was about the size of Kaer Morhen, the Wolf School castle, so Harry had expected to live somewhat cramped quarters. But stepping inside, it was vast. The Great Hall alone was toweringly high.
More magic—magic capable of altering spatial volume.
Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat down. After enduring that somewhat chatty little song, the first-years all understood that they didn't need to fight a troll; they just had to put on that dirty old hat.
"Whose name I call will come forward, put on the hat, and await sorting." Holding a roll of parchment that trailed down to the floor, Professor McGonagall said with a stern expression, then read the first name.
"Hannah Abbott!"
Harry waited for some time before Professor McGonagall called his name.
Chattering broke out across the dining hall.
"Potter? Is that the Potter?"
"He doesn't look like a savior at all. Isn't he a bit too thin?"
"Oh gods, look at his eyes. Just like my cat's."
At the staff table, the black-robed man with greasy hair let out an undisguised snort.
Harry placed the hat on his head.
The wide brim blocked his vision, and there was a heavy scent of pomade...
"Oh no, Mr. Potter, you should say this is a historically aged vintage," the Sorting Hat's voice echoed in his ear. "I'm just a hat, and I'd like to use the washroom too, but nobody helps me."
"Can you read minds?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Only some superficial thoughts," the Sorting Hat replied innocently. "I'm not a Dark Magic artifact, after all; Gryffindor didn't give me Legilimency."
"Let me have a look at you..."
"Justice, bravery, intelligence," a note of surprise laced the Sorting Hat's tone. "Truly worthy of the savior in the prophecy, possessing so many excellent qualities."
"It really puts a hat in a difficult position."
"Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff is the most suitable for you. What a warm and sincere heart! If Hufflepuff were still around, she would have loved you to death."
"But if you want greater achievements, Slytherin or Gryffindor—that will be your destination."
"I don't mean to discriminate against Hufflepuff, but you know—though maybe you don't—the badgers are very capable, but far too uncompetitive."
"Slytherin and Gryffindor are always so eager to show off."
Harry interrupted him. "Is the only chance you get to talk to people each year during the sorting?"
The Sorting Hat was taken aback. "No, sometimes I also chat with Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix."
"Chat with a bird?" Harry nodded thoughtfully. "No wonder you talk so much."
"Your mouth is entirely Slytherin!" the Sorting Hat scolded. "Well, then, shall it be Slytherin?"
Harry shook his head. "I heard Gryffindor has a sword?"
"Yes, and let me tell you, it's actually inside my body. Gryffindor cast a spell: any courageous person bearing the name of Gryffindor can pull it out from inside me whenever it's needed," the Sorting Hat introduced enthusiastically. "That feeling isn't pleasant—it's like pulling your throat up through your mouth."
"A hat has a throat?" Harry was somewhat surprised.
The Sorting Hat felt like dancing on Harry's head. "A metaphor, purely a metaphor. Why is your little mister-ship so lacking in humor?"
Harry asked again, "If I pull the Sword of Gryffindor out of your throat, does that sword belong to me?"
"No, it's just a loan," the Sorting Hat decisively vetoed. "The ownership of the sword has always belonged to Gryffindor, or perhaps now we should say Hogwarts."
"Then how can I truly obtain the Sword of Gryffindor?" Harry asked once more.
The Sorting Hat fell silent. "To truly obtain the Sword of Gryffindor... a good question."
"You must have heard... the legend of the Chamber of Secrets?"
Harry nodded. Rumor had it that Slytherin left behind a Chamber of Secrets in the castle, and only the true heir of Slytherin could open it and inherit his legacy.
"All four founders did something like that," the Sorting Hat said with a hint of nostalgia. "They all left behind their own inheritances."
"Anyone who can draw the Sword of Gryffindor is qualified to participate in Gryffindor's trial. If you can pass Gryffindor's trial, you can obtain the Sword of Gryffindor."
"Of course, a hat can't. I belong to Hogwarts now."
"It's a form of protection. Back then, Gryffindor had goblins forge the sword, but those goblin creatures... they're strange. After Gryffindor died, they tried more than once to take the sword back."
"Without strength, even if you get the sword, it will only be snatched away by the goblins."
Harry interrupted it. "As long as I draw the sword, does it mean I'm qualified to take the trial?"
"Yes, but you have to have a nee—" The Sorting Hat started to speak, but before it could finish, Harry pulled it off his head.
Professor McGonagall looked at Harry in astonishment—she had thought Harry would be another hat-stall, given how pleasantly the hat seemed to be conversing with him. But taking the hat off halfway through the sorting—what was the meaning of this?
McGonagall looked up at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes narrowed into slits, looking at Harry with deep significance.
Ignoring the murmurs and gazes, Harry reached straight into the hat, felt the hard, ice-cold hilt, gripped it, and pulled.
A silver sword nearly a meter long, radiating a rich magical aura, emerged. Time had left no mark upon the blade, and it still gleamed with a biting, chilling light.
Harry's eyes lit up as he executed a swift flash with the blade.
It was a fine sword. He instantly fell in love with it.
"Alright, kid, rein in that greedy look of yours," the Sorting Hat said with a tone resembling suppressed nausea. "This sword doesn't belong to you yet. Stuff it back in."
"I truly have no idea how you managed to pull it out, when it's supposed to only come out when needed."
Harry pressed his lips together, reluctant to part with the sword—a Witcher needed a longsword in hand at all times.
The Sorting Hat continued to clamor.
"And the sorting result—"
"He who draws the Sword of Gryffindor naturally belongs only to Gryffindor!"