At the Gryffindor table, a burst of cheers erupted.
"We've got Potter!"
"We've got Potter!"
The news that the Boy Who Lived was coming to Hogwarts had already sparked interest among the students—everyone had their own image of the famous hero.
But none of them had imagined he'd look like this—small, scrawny, with an unusual intensity in his amber, cat-like eyes that was his only standout feature.
A hero should have some legendary qualities.
Every House had a history of outstanding students searching for the Founders' relics.
Slytherin's Chamber, Ravenclaw's Diadem, Hufflepuff's Cup…
And Gryffindors were no exception.
They had long sought the legendary Sword of Gryffindor, yet no one had ever found it.
Until today—
Who could have guessed that Gryffindor's Sword was hidden within the Sorting Hat?
Not even the most daring Gryffindor would try sneaking into the Headmaster's office to confirm such a rumor.
Harry nodded to them in acknowledgment and started walking to the table, silver sword in hand.
But the hat's voice called out in haste: "You impudent lion, return the sword to me."
McGonagall added, "Yes, Mr. Potter, the Sword of Gryffindor isn't yours."
"I just wanted to have a good look," Harry said, expression unchanging as he spun a quick excuse. "The Sorting Hat said that only those in need could pull it out, which proves I must need it right now."
Professor McGonagall was taken aback.
It did make…a bit of sense.
The Sorting Hat grumbled, "It only shows you're a Gryffindor, dear boy. Now put it back—I feel terribly empty without it."
"I could find you a stick about the same size," Harry tried to bargain. Given how hard it was to find a blacksmith in this world, he wasn't eager to part with a master-crafted sword.
The Sorting Hat would've jumped if it could. "A stick is hardly the same as a sword! You haven't passed the trial, so the sword isn't yours yet."
Harry was about to argue further.
"All right, Harry," Dumbledore interjected with a knowing smile, adjusting his glasses. "Return the sword to the poor old hat. It's the only friend it has."
The hat sighed. "Albus, you're still a friend too."
"I remember your Sorting ceremony well," it murmured nostalgically.
"You've got seven years to find a way to earn that sword," Dumbledore said with a smile, "isn't that right, young Mr. Gryffindor?"
From the teachers' table, a louder, unmistakable scoff rang out.
Harry looked over.
A professor in black robes with greasy, seaweed-like hair stared directly at him, eyes brimming with disdain.
As their gazes met, the professor's disgust grew even more pronounced, almost visibly filling the air between them.
"Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore glanced at the professor, who then shifted his gaze elsewhere.
Harry nodded. "Fine, Professor, since you ask."
He reluctantly returned the sword to the Sorting Hat.
The hat sighed in relief. "Ah, that's better. Come find me again when you're ready."
Harry dragged his feet to the Gryffindor table.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "All right, let's continue. Next, let me see…"
"You were incredible!" As Harry took his seat, the Gryffindors around him were buzzing with excitement.
Two red-haired, freckle-faced twins gave him knowing looks. "Stealing the spotlight during the Sorting!"
"We never even thought of that!"
"Oh, a born Gryffindor."
"You're our mighty Lion King."
"Thanks," Harry replied flatly, not bothering to hide his irritation. "Skip the 'king' stuff—I'm not interested."
"True royalty never reveals their ambition," the twins said in unison.
"Until it's time to claim the throne."
"For now, he's just a young cub…"
Wham!
A fist slammed down on the table.
"Enough clowning." Another redhead, more serious-looking than the twins, glared at them. "They're the biggest troublemakers in Hogwarts. You don't need to take them seriously."
"Hello, Potter, I'm Percy Weasley, Gryffindor's Prefect."
Harry rubbed his temple. "Thank you, Prefect Weasley. I have a question."
The title "Prefect Weasley" brought a proud smile to Percy's face.
He raised his head confidently. "Of course. It's my job to help first-years."
"Who's that greasy seaweed over there?" Harry nodded toward the teachers' table, where the black-haired professor was still glaring at him.
Was that the Seaweed-Headed Professor?
Could there be a Hogwarts professor with such a name?
Percy followed his gaze, locking eyes with the professor as well.
"Greasy seaweed!" The twins' eyes lit up. "What a perfect name."
"You're a genius, Harry. Join us."
"With you around, we'll be the biggest stars Hogwarts has ever seen."
Percy lowered his voice, glancing nervously toward the teachers' table. "That's Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin and Potions Master. He's never been a fan of us Gryffindors."
Harry nodded, his gaze still fixed on Snape.
"He doesn't seem to like you much, Harry," Ron muttered.
Snape sneered, then looked away and began speaking to the professor beside him.
"You're not wrong," Harry replied with a smile. "He doesn't like me and seems to…"
Harry raised a hand to his face. "…really hate the way I look, especially my eyes."
"Oh? Your eyes are pretty cool." Ron shook his head.
"Of course! A lion king should have lion eyes!" Fred chimed in.
"Yes! They're a mark of royalty!" George joined in, singing, "Oh, Great Lion King, take the throne tonight!"
Harry reached into his robe and placed a long-necked, round bottle on the table. "Say another word, and I'll pour this down your throats."
"A potion?"
"Our lion king is already brewing potions for his brave followers?"
The twins continued their antics.
Percy, being a model student, immediately recognized it. "That's a Forgetfulness Potion! Did you brew it yourself, Harry?"
"Yep. I tried it out before school started, and it went pretty smoothly." Harry nodded.
Fred opened his mouth to say more, but Ron tugged his brother's hair—payback, maybe—and started telling the others about Harry's "feat" on the train.
Taking down each of the two "hulking lads" with a single punch.
Fred and George exchanged glances, eyeing Crabbe and Goyle at the Slytherin table. Comparing themselves to those two, they suddenly fell silent.
Forgetfulness Potion wasn't exactly a pleasant substance.
Just as Harry was about to put the potion away, he felt a sharp pain in his scar and looked up to meet the gaze of Snape and… the professor next to him.
Harry furrowed his brow.
His scar hurt?
This was the first time.
All the years in the witcher's world, and his scar had remained perfectly dormant. Powerful sorceresses like Yennefer, Triss, and even Keira Metz, the alchemy expert, had examined it thoroughly, finding nothing extraordinary beyond its shape.
So, was something here triggering it?
Snape?
A look of loathing couldn't possibly cause pain, and he hadn't sensed any magic directed at him.
Besides, he'd met Snape's eyes several times now.
Was it that other professor?
"Who's the one talking to Snape?" Harry asked. Since learning that Snape was the Potions Master, Harry's view of him had softened a bit—even with the glares. Vesemir had been far harsher back in his training days.
"That's Professor Quirrell," Percy answered. "Last year, he taught Muggle Studies. Now he's our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
Harry nodded, a faint smile on his face. "Oh, he seems…interesting."
Percy gave Harry a curious look.
What could be so interesting about the turban-wearing professor who looked like he came straight out of India?
After the Sorting ended, they had their feast.
Then Dumbledore stood up, giving the usual reminders—don't enter the Forbidden Forest, no magic in the hallways, and avoid the right-side corridor on the fourth floor.
After leading everyone through the school song, the magical aura Harry had felt earlier finally settled within him, establishing a bond between him and the castle.
Percy raised his hand. "First-years, follow me. I'll lead you to the dormitories."
Harry stepped up beside him. "Prefect Weasley, I have something I need to do."
"You'll get lost if you wander off." Percy's tone softened. "It's your first night. What could be so important?"
Harry answered confidently, "Don't worry. I'll find my way back."
"I need to see Headmaster Dumbledore about something."
All witchers were skilled trackers.
He could follow a scent across all of London, from east to west, with tracking abilities far superior to the finest hunting hounds.
"Oh, Headmaster Dumbledore." Percy nodded, understanding. "All right, then. But remember, the password to the dormitory is 'Dragon Dung.'"
"The entrance is the portrait of the Fat Lady. Just say the password to her."
Harry committed
it to memory, then turned to follow Dumbledore.
Beside the old wizard walked the professor with the seaweed-like hair—Snape.
"Oh, Harry," Dumbledore chuckled, seeing him approach. "Not going to the dormitory? Here to see me?"
"Yes, I have a few things I'd like to discuss," Harry said, nodding and trying to give Snape a friendly smile.
Snape's face twisted in what seemed like barely concealed disdain.
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Very well. I also have a few things to talk over with you."
"Severus, care to join us?"
Snape sneered, and Harry could swear he heard his teeth grinding. "I'll leave you to it, Dumbledore. But remember—you owe me an explanation!"