Minerva McGonagall had never, in all her years at Hogwarts, witnessed a student refuse the Sorting with such raw defiance.
Certainly not with this much venom and fury.
A few children in the past had hesitated out of fear of the Hat, but young Mr. Potter showed no trace of fear—only burning rage.
“Excuse me, Mr. Potter?” she asked, stunned.
“I said no!” Harry snapped back, his voice sharp and unyielding.
“I will not be sorted. I have no intention of attending this school.”
“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall exclaimed.
“You must!”
“Bullshit, lady!” Harry snarled, his voice rising louder.
“The only reason I came here was to look the arseholes in the eye—the ones who dumped me as a baby on the doorstep of the people who spent the next ten years abusing me. Well, I’ve seen you now. And you disgust me!”
A deathly silence fell over the Great Hall.
Most faces stared in open horror at the venom pouring from the Boy Who Lived.
Harry spun on his heel and stormed off the platform, shoving his way through the line of waiting first-years.
He marched furiously back down the aisle between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, heading straight for the double doors he had entered only minutes earlier.
Then he stopped.
He turned slowly, glaring toward the staff table.
The old fool had risen to his feet and was lifting his wand.
Without hesitation, Harry yanked his robe over his head and hurled it to the floor.
He pivoted toward the Hufflepuff table, where students wore black and yellow ties.
Stepping onto the bench between two startled students—who quickly scooted aside—he climbed onto the tabletop.
Standing tall above them, he began tearing off his v-neck jumper, tie, and shirt.
As he did, he shouted in a voice that echoed across the hall:
“You all think I’m some kind of hero! I’m supposed to be the great Boy-Who-Lived, the one who supposedly defeated Voldemort. Well…”
Down to his thin undershirt, he ripped it off and flung it aside, leaving his torso bare.
He spread his arms wide and roared:
“Take a good look at what your supposed hero has endured since that night! Forget all the bedtime story bullshit your parents fed you!” He turned slowly in a circle so the entire hall could see the network of scars covering his skin.
“And these are only the ones you can see! Only the ones that never healed properly!”
Harry heard none of the gasps, none of the horrified cries, none of the sobbing.
The world had narrowed to the pounding in his skull.
The pain was excruciating.
He clenched his jaw, forcing it down through sheer willpower as he continued his tirade.
He didn’t notice the little red-headed girl near the head of the Hufflepuff table—Susan—stand up with tears streaming down her face and bolt from the room.
His own eyes burned with tears of agony.
The suffocating pressure inside him tightened like a vice around his chest, worse than it had ever been.
But he didn’t care.
For the first time in his life, he was unleashing everything he had bottled up against the people responsible for abandoning him to the Dursleys.
“Is this how you thought your hero should be treated?!” he screamed.
“Was it?! Did you want your precious savior beaten, whipped, fed nothing but table scraps—if he was lucky?! Treated like a slave while my fat uncle and whale of a cousin stuffed themselves and tormented me?! WELL?!”
“And who was responsible for dumping me in that house where I was abused for nearly my entire life, you ask?!” He jabbed a furious finger toward the staff table.
“It was none other than the so-called all-powerful Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Rubeus Hagrid!” He lowered his arm and bellowed at them, “Arseholes!”
The pain in his head exploded.
It felt as though he were being crushed into a tiny ball.
He could barely breathe.
His vision blurred.
With a scream of pure agony directed at the ceiling, a blinding white light erupted from him.
He felt as if he had exploded from the inside out.
Then… nothing.
Blackness.
The sweet peace of unconsciousness.