A burst of cheers erupted from the Gryffindor table.
"We've got Potter!"
"We've got Potter!"
The young wizards of Hogwarts had followed the news of the Boy Who Lived starting school with intense interest, and every single one of them had imagined what he would be like.
Yet none of them had pictured Harry as he was now—lean and looking rather forlorn, his presence the only thing that stood out, framed by those cat-like eyes.
The Savior ought to have a touch of legend about him.
Ambitious students in every house had tried at some point to track down the relics of the Founders.
Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, Ravenclaw's Diadem, Hufflepuff's Cup...
The lion house was no exception.
They were most obsessed with finding the legendary Sword of Gryffindor, though no one had ever heard of anyone actually uncovering the Founder's secret treasure.
Until today—
Who could have guessed that the Sword of Gryffindor was hidden inside the Sorting Hat?
Even the most daring little lion would never go night-walking into the headmaster's office just to throw their life away.
Harry nodded to them in polite acknowledgment, holding the silver sword as he walked toward the table.
The hat hurried to call out, "Hey, rude little lion, give me my sword back."
Professor McGonagall chimed in, "Indeed, Mr. Potter, the Sword of Gryffindor does not belong to you."
"I'm just borrowing it to admire," Harry said without changing expression, spinning a lie on the spot. "Mr. Sorting Hat said you have to pull it out when there's a need. That proves I need it right now."
Professor McGonagall paused.
That... sort of made sense.
The Sorting Hat clicked its tongue a couple of times. "That only proves your Gryffindor heritage, my dear young sir. Hurry up and shove it back in; it feels so empty in here, I'm not used to it."
"I can help you find a stick of about the same size," Harry tried to bargain. Master blacksmiths weren't easy to find in this world, and he didn't want to let go of a master-class weapon that would hold its own even in the Witcher's world.
The Sorting Hat looked ready to leap off the table and smack Harry over the head. "Can a stick be the same as a sword? You haven't passed the trial yet, so this sword doesn't belong to you."
Harry still wanted to put up a fight.
"Now, now, Harry," Headmaster Dumbledore broke in. He pushed up his half-moon spectacles, a fascinating glint in his eyes. "Give the sword back to this poor old hat. It only has its old friend left."
The hat muttered, "Albus, you're an old friend of mine, too."
"I still remember the days when you presided over the Sorting."
"You have seven years ahead of you, which is plenty of time to figure out how to truly make that sword your own," Dumbledore said with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Isn't that right, our born-and-bred young Gryffindor?"
From the staff table came a louder, unmasked snort of derision.
Harry looked over.
A man with greasy black hair and seaweed-like locks was staring straight at him, his eyes filled with utter loathing.
When their eyes met, that disgust only deepened, practically overflowing into something tangible.
"Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore glanced toward the greasy seaweed-head, prompting the man to pull back his expression and look away.
Harry nodded. "Oh, very well. For your sake, Headmaster."
He picked up the Sorting Hat and reluctantly shoved the sword back inside.
The Sorting Hat let out a long sigh of relief. "That feels much better. Whenever you're ready, you can come find me."
Harry turned back every three steps as he made his way to the Gryffindor table.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "Now then, the Sorting continues. Next... let's see..."
"You were absolutely brilliant!" Harry was greeted with enthusiastic cheers the moment he sat down.
Two red-haired, freckled twin boys identical to Ron winked at him. "Making a spectacle like that during the Sorting—"
"We never would have thought of it!"
"Oh, a true Gryffindor."
"You are the great Lion King himself."
"Thanks for the compliment." The sour note of envy from the surrounding students made everyone look rather uncomfortable. Harry's expression shifted, his tone as devoid of emotion as ever. "Forget the Lion King. I have no interest in that sort of thing."
"A true king never displays his ambition," the twins chorused seamlessly.
"Not until the moment of his coronation."
"Right now, he's just a cub..."
Thud.
A heavy fist came down on the table.
"Cut out the nonsense." Another red-haired boy, with a stricter and more serious demeanor than the twins, glared at them. "They're the biggest pranksters in all of Hogwarts, no need to take them too seriously."
"Hello, Potter. I'm Percy Weasley, a Gryffindor prefect."
Harry raised a hand and rubbed his temples. "Right, Prefect Weasley. I have a question for you."
That title—"Prefect Weasley"—left Percy slightly dazed.
He lifted his chin. "Of course. Helping younger students is a prefect's duty."
"Who is that greasy seaweed-head over there?" Harry raised his chin toward the staff table, locking eyes with Professor Snape's hostile glare once more.
Wu-long-hai-te-ke-pu?
Did any professor at Hogwarts have a name like that?
Percy followed Harry's gaze and ended up catching Snape's eye as well.
"Greasy seaweed-head!" The twins' eyes lit up. "What a brilliant description."
"You've got a real talent for this, Harry. You should hang out with us."
"We could pull off some truly magnificent spectacles together, over and over."
Percy lowered his head, dropping his voice in terror that it might carry to the high table. "That professor is the head of Slytherin House, and he teaches Potions. He's never liked us Gryffindors."
Harry nodded, still holding Snape's gaze.
Ron muttered, "I get the feeling Professor Snape doesn't like you much, Harry?"
Snape let out a cold grunt, turning his head away first to converse with the professor beside him.
"You're not imagining things," Harry said with a smile. "He doesn't just dislike me; he loathes me..."
As he spoke, he raised a hand to touch his face. "He hates my appearance, and he especially despises my eyes."
"Oh? What's wrong with your eyes? They're brilliant," Ron protested, shaking his head.
Fred chimed in, "Exactly! A Lion King ought to have lion's eyes!"
"And thus, they are also a symbol of the Lion King!" George echoed his brother, turning poetic. "Oh, Your Majesty, the Great Lion King, tonight you shall ascend the throne!"
Harry reached into his robes and pulled out a long-necked round vial, setting it on the table. "If you two keep talking, I'm going to force-feed this down your throats."
"Potion?"
"Has our Lion King already started brewing elixirs to reward his brave warriors?"
The twins were still playing the fool.
Percy, being a model student, recognized what the potion was at a glance. "A Draught of Forgetfulness? Did you try brewing this yourself, Harry?"
"Mm, tried it out before term started. It went pretty smoothly," Harry nodded.
Fred opened his mouth to keep joking, but Ron grabbed a handful of his brother's hair—fueled by a not-insignificant desire for payback—and began broadcasting Harry's exploits on the train.
One punch per kid.
Fred and George peeked out, casting a long-distance glance at Crabbe and Goyle at the Slytherin table. Comparing their own builds to those two, they obediently and quietly shut their traps.
A Draught of Forgetfulness was nothing to mess with.
Just as Harry was about to put the potion away with satisfaction, the scar on his forehead suddenly flared with a sharp pain. He jerked his head up, meeting the gaze of Snape—and the professor sitting next to him.
He furrowed his brow.
His scar hurt?
This was a first.
Through all his time in the Witcher's world, the scar had always behaved itself. Several powerful sorceresses, including Yennefer, Triss, and the alchemist Keira, had examined it for him; aside from its peculiar shape, there was nothing unusual about it.
So, something had triggered it?
Snape?
Malicious intent alone couldn't hurt anyone, and he hadn't sensed any magic directed at him just now.
Besides, he had locked eyes with Snape many times.
Was it the professor sitting next to him?
"Who is the one talking to Professor Snape?" Now that he knew Snape taught Potions, Harry felt a bit more favorably toward him—even if the man's gaze was malicious, back when Vesemir used to train him, the malice had been far greater than a mere glare.
"Professor Quirrell," Percy introduced. "He was the Muggle Studies professor last year, and just took over Defense Against the Dark Arts this term."
Harry nodded and offered a faint smile. "Oh, he's certainly interesting."
Percy gave Harry a strange look.
What was interesting about a professor whose head was wrapped in a turban like an Indian man?
The Sorting ceremony ended, and after dinner was finished, Dumbledore stood up to go over the usual reminders: no entering the Forbidden Forest, no casting spells in the corridors, and absolutely no entering the corridor on the fourth floor on the right hand side.
He led the students in singing the school song.
At last, that lingering pulse of magic settled completely, sinking deep into Harry's body and tying him firmly to the castle.
Percy raised his hand high. "First-years, follow me! I'll show you to the dormitory."
Harry sidled up to him. "Prefect Weasley, I need to step away for a moment."
"You'll get lost if you do that," Percy said, his tone softening slightly at the title of prefect. "You've only just arrived, what could you possibly need?"
Harry spoke in a low, resolute voice, "Don't worry, I'll find you."
"I need to go see Headmaster Dumbledore. There are a few things I need to discuss with him."
Every witcher was an expert tracker.
They could track a scent all the way from East London to West London, matching or beating the finest hounds.
"Oh, Headmaster Dumbledore." Percy blinked, realization dawning, and gave his permission. "Right, then. Just remember, the password to the dormitory is *Dragon Dung*."
"There's a portrait of the Fat Lady by the entrance. Just give her the password."
Harry stored the information away, turned on his heel, and hurried off after Dumbledore.
Walking alongside the old man was that greasy seaweed-head, Professor Snape.
"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said cheerfully, looking down at him. "Skipping off to bed, or coming to see me?"
"Yes, there are some things I'd like to talk to you about," Harry nodded, flashing what he considered a reasonably friendly smile at Snape.
Snape bared his teeth, practically grinding them in rage.
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Well then, I happen to have a few things I'd like to discuss with you, too."
"Severus, will you be joining us?"
Snape sneered—and it was definitely no illusion, he was genuinely grinding his teeth. "I wouldn't dream of interrupting your happy reunion, Dumbledore. Remember, you owe me an explanation!"