"I think Malfoy must feel as much pressure as I do," Ron said again. "You know, the Malfoys have always been in Slytherin."
Harry thought for a moment and couldn’t help but laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Ron asked.
“Just think about it,” Harry said, suppressing his laughter, as he spoke to Ron and Hermione. “Malfoy asking his father, ‘Dad, what if I’m not sorted into Slytherin?’ Then his father would definitely pull out his wand, point it at him, and say, ‘Draco Malfoy, you better be!’”
Hearing Harry’s imagined scenario, the two burst into laughter.
At that moment, the sorting ceremony came to an end.
Albus Dumbledore stood up, his face beaming as he looked at the students. He spread his arms wide as though nothing delighted him more than seeing them all gathered together.
“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! Before the feast begins, I’d like to say a few words—and they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”
The hall burst into applause and cheers—even Harry clapped along.
“Thank you all!” Dumbledore sat back down.
If it had been Headmaster Phineas Black, he would have spoken for an hour before letting them eat.
Though this slightly eccentric new headmaster was amusing, Harry couldn’t help but feel that Dumbledore was more like a quirky schoolmate than a principal.
Hmm… An eleven-year-old upperclassman and a hundred-plus-year-old junior. That was certainly a rare combination.
As Dumbledore sat down, the four long tables immediately filled with towering piles of delicious food.
Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, steak, boiled potatoes, roasted potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, sprouts, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and even mint humbugs.
Harry used his fork to stab a piece of steak and placed it on his plate.
It was well-done, signifying top-quality beef—he remembered hearing that the Muggle Queen also preferred her steak well-done.
“This looks amazing,” said a ghost wearing a ruffled collar as he sadly watched Harry cut into the steak.
Harry looked up at the ghost and nodded in greeting.
He almost addressed him as Sir Nicholas but held back.
“You look… familiar,” said Sir Nicholas, staring at Harry with a dazed expression. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
Just as Harry thought Sir Nicholas was about to recognize him, the ghost suddenly clapped his hands. “I’ve got it! James Potter—you must be his son! You look almost exactly like him!”
“You knew my father?” Harry asked with interest.
“Of course, young Mr. Potter! James was one of Gryffindor’s finest students,” Sir Nicholas replied with a smile.
“Oh, I remember now! You’re Nearly Headless Nick!” Ron suddenly shouted, pointing at the ghost.
“I’d prefer it if you called me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington,” the ghost said uneasily. But Seamus Finnigan, who had light brown hair, interjected, “Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?”
Sir Nicholas seemed upset—he clearly didn’t want to talk about this.
“,” he said irritably, grabbing his left ear and pulling downward. His head wobbled, sliding off his neck and onto his shoulder as if it were hinged.
It seemed that whoever tried to behead him hadn’t done a thorough job. Watching everyone’s stunned expressions, Nearly Headless Nick looked quite pleased.
He gently popped his head back onto his neck, cleared his throat, and said, “Well, Gryffindor’s new students! I hope you’ll help us win the House Cup this year, won’t you? Gryffindor hasn’t won in so long—Slytherin’s had a six-year winning streak! The Bloody Baron has been insufferable—he’s Slytherin’s house ghost.”
Harry wasn’t paying attention to the Bloody Baron; instead, he turned to look at the staff table.
At that moment, his scar suddenly throbbed with intense pain.
This was the first time his scar had hurt since seeing Sebastian cast the Killing Curse at his uncle, Solomon Sallow.
That incident had infuriated Velatia, who restrained Sebastian with a spell and used Transfiguration to save Solomon.
Harry hadn’t forgotten the effort it took to cast Obliviate on Solomon afterward. Solomon’s obnoxiousness reminded Harry too much of Headmaster Black—he couldn’t let his friend end up in Azkaban.
After a while, the pain in his scar subsided.
He pressed his hand to his forehead, making sure no one noticed anything unusual.
However, Ron caught on. With a chicken leg in each hand, he turned to Harry and asked, “Mate, what’s wrong? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” Harry said with a smile. Then he asked Percy, “Percy, who’s that teacher?”
Percy assumed he meant Snape, so he smiled and answered, “That’s Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he’d much rather teach Defense Against the Dark Arts—everyone knows he’s got a knack for it.”
Harry wasn’t asking about Snape. He’d already locked eyes with Snape in the hut earlier, and his scar hadn’t hurt.
“No, not Professor Snape,” Harry clarified. “I mean the one next to him, wearing a turban and talking to someone.”
“Oh, that’s Professor Quirrell,” Percy replied. “He teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts. He used to teach Muggle Studies, but for some reason, he switched subjects. Snape was furious about it—he’s been taking it out on Gryffindor ever since.”
“Why would Snape being upset lead to Gryffindor losing points?” Harry asked, unable to connect the dots.
“Because Snape doesn’t like Gryffindor—that’s no secret,” Percy said with a shrug. “Maybe it’s because he’s the head of Slytherin? You know, Slytherin and Gryffindor have always been at odds.”
Harry didn’t argue. He wasn’t sure about the current dynamics, but a century ago…
With Headmaster Black in charge, relations between Gryffindor and Slytherin had been quite cordial.
Harry glanced at Snape again and found that Snape was also staring at him.
His gaze seemed complex. Harry wondered, Could he have been close to my parents?
With that thought, Harry gave Snape a polite smile.
But Snape merely huffed, his face expressionless, and looked away.
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