“Mr.
Hat?
Are you still there?” Seeing that the Sorting Hat had gone silent for a long time, Harry asked in confusion.
“Don’t disturb me, I’m thinking!” the Sorting Hat replied offhandedly before lapsing back into deep thought.
It never imagined that after merely sitting out a single school year, it would already be unable to understand the minds of today’s young wizards.
To actually want to see its brain—in a whole thousand years, it had never heard such an absurd request.
Harry had no idea how much trouble his question had caused the Sorting Hat, but he did know that he had already taken up quite a lot of time.
“Maybe you can show me your brain later and just sort me for now?” Harry offered a reasonable suggestion.
“…” The Sorting Hat felt that having someone constantly worrying about its brain wasn’t a very pleasant experience, but Harry was right.
It took a deep breath—how a hat accomplished that motion was anyone’s guess, but if a hat could talk, there wasn’t much else left to find unbelievable.
“Hmm, difficult…
very difficult,” the Sorting Hat’s voice sounded in Harry’s ear, laced with a hint of indecision.
“Courage, I see, and not a bad heart, either.
Plenty of talent, oh, my goodness, yes—and a healthy desire to prove yourself…
So, where shall I put you?” Harry had no idea how the Sorting Hat could see all of this, but he held his breath as thoughts flashed rapidly through his mind: Not Slytherin, please not Slytherin…
“Not Slytherin, eh?” the voice said with a touch of banter, almost as if paying Harry back.
“You have Slytherin traits: talent, intelligence, and a thirst to prove yourself—and Slytherin could help you on the way to greatness.” “There is no doubt…” Hearing the Sorting Hat say this, Harry’s heart tightened.
Due to Ian, he already didn’t have the highest opinion of Slytherin to begin with.
Besides, he remembered that Malfoy had just been sorted into Slytherin, which made him want to join it even less.
Most importantly, his parents had been Gryffindors.
Just as Harry was filled with anxiety, the hat opened its “mouth” wide, and a resonant shout echoed through the Great Hall: “GRYFFINDOR!” Harry instantly breathed a sigh of relief.
Thunderous cheers and applause erupted from the Gryffindor table on the right side of the hall, with many students standing up to cheer at the top of their lungs.
“We got Potter!
We got Potter!” The Weasley twins, Fred and George, were shouting particularly loudly.
Ron’s face flushed red with excitement as he clapped furiously, while Hermione let out a sigh of relief, smiling as she joined in the applause.
Over at the Slytherin table, however, a wave of disappointed boos broke out, and Malfoy’s face grew so dark it looked as though it could drip ink.
At the staff table, seeing that Harry had ultimately chosen Gryffindor, Ian wasn’t particularly surprised.
Originally, he had thought about steering Harry into Hufflepuff; after all, with Harry there, Ian was confident Hufflepuff would surely take the House Cup for the next few years.
This wasn’t because Ian remembered the original storyline where Dumbledore gave Harry points “like crazy,” but rather out of sheer trust in Harry’s role as the main character.
What was more, he now had Ian as his uncle to back him up.
Looking at it now, though, the boy clearly preferred to follow in his parents’ footsteps.
Ian found himself amused by his own little scheme, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle as he watched Harry surrounded by the young lions.
Harry seemed to feel Ian’s gaze.
He looked back, his eyes meeting Ian’s soft glance.
He could tell Ian was genuinely happy for him, which alleviated a little bit of the guilt in his heart.
But who is that sitting next to Ian, and why is he looking at me like that?
“Ah!” Suddenly, Harry felt a burning, sharp pain burst from the scar on his forehead.
The sensation came and went quickly, vanishing in a mere fraction of a second.
Even so, he couldn’t help but cry out, clutching his forehead.
“Harry, what’s wrong?” Hermione noticed Harry’s reaction immediately and asked with concern.
Harry’s face was somewhat pale.
He looked back cautiously at the professor next to Ian, only to find that this time there was no reaction at all—as if what he had just felt was merely an illusion.
What was that just now?
Why did it feel so much like what happened back at Gringotts?
Harry’s brows knitted tightly together as the question flashed through his mind, his right hand unconsciously tightening around the sword at his waist.
“Harry, Harry?
What’s the matter with you?” Hermione’s voice snapped Harry back to reality.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady his rapid heartbeats.
He shook his head slightly and managed a weak smile for Hermione.
“Nothing, I think I was just too nervous earlier.” Hermione’s eyes were clearly filled with suspicion.
She scrutinized Harry’s pale face with her large eyes, puffing out her cheeks slightly in displeasure.
Ron leaned in close as well, dropping his voice to whisper, “Mate, are you really alright?” “I’m fine, really,” Harry forced out, even though the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead was still throbbing with a dull pain.
Subconsciously, he glanced back at the staff table again, only to meet a cold, complex pair of eyes.
This time, Harry’s scar didn’t react, but he could feel a chill rising up his spine, as though something icy had lightly brushed against his skin.
“Who’s that?” Harry asked Ron and Hermione in a low voice.
Ron followed his gaze.
“Oh, that’s Professor Snape, the Potions master and Head of Slytherin House.
My brothers say he’s extremely biased toward Slytherin and exceptionally harsh on Gryffindors.” “Snape?” Harry nodded, though a strange feeling lingered in his heart.
He recalled what Ian had told him during the holidays about what this professor had gone through, and an inadvertent trace of sympathy and pity entered his eyes as he looked at Snape.
At the staff table, Snape—whose mood had been complex ever since Harry appeared—naturally noticed Harry’s gaze.
The tight line of his mouth pulled even tauter.
And all of this fell squarely into Ian’s view.
Quirrell’s abnormality, the burning pain in Harry’s forehead, and the shift in Snape’s expression—such a lively scene brought a slight curve to the corners of Ian’s lips.
He was finding that coming to work at Hogwarts was altogether too interesting.
Suddenly, Ian felt a gaze landed on him.
Looking back along that line of sight, he realized it was none other than Dumbledore, sitting in the head seat.
Caught in the act, Dumbledore didn’t show a hint of fluster.
He merely raised his goblet toward Ian in a silent gesture.
Ian smiled, raising his glass in return as he drank a toast across the space between them.
Is the old man plotting something again?
Putting down his glass, Ian lowered his eyelids, musing over the subtle meaning in Dumbledore’s eyes just now.
Unfortunately, the old man had lived through far too much.
Even if Ian racked his brain, he couldn’t figure out what that look was supposed to mean.
The Sorting Ceremony continued, with new students sorted into their respective houses one after another.
When the last freshman was sorted into Hufflepuff, Dumbledore stood up.
The Great Hall instantly fell silent.
Ian lifted his head as well, looking toward the tall frame of Dumbledore.
“Welcome!” he said, his voice echoing loudly and warmly.
“Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!
Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words…” Perhaps every school leader liked to give long speeches at the start of a term, but Dumbledore seemed to be an exception.
He said only a few simple words before concluding his address with “Let the feast begin.” He clapped his hands, and in an instant, the long tables were stacked high with food: roast chicken, steaks, pies, mashed potatoes, salads, along with puddings and cakes of every color.
Ian looked down at the spread on the table, giving another mental nod of praise to the house-elves of Hogwarts.
If there was anything about Hogwarts that satisfied Ian the most, aside from the library, it was these meals.
The young wizards, who had been starving all day, couldn’t hold back any longer.
For a time, the Great Hall was filled only with the sound of chewing and the clatter of forks against plates.
Once everyone had eaten their fill, Headmaster Dumbledore tapped his glass, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Now that we are fed, I have a few notices to give you all.” “First of all, we once again welcome a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year.” Dumbledore’s very first sentence drew a wave of laughter from the crowd.
It was common knowledge that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts ran into misfortune every single year, giving Dumbledore an annual headache over finding a replacement.
Dumbledore cleared his throat, waiting for the laughter in the hall to die down before continuing: “I am pleased to announce that Professor Quirrell will be taking over as this year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” Dumbledore nodded in Quirrell’s direction.
Wrapped in a purple turban and looking rather pale, Quirrell stood up somewhat timidly, offered a small bow to the students, and then hurriedly sat back down, staring down at the plate in front of him.
This professor seems a bit introverted!
That was the first impression all the students formed upon seeing Quirrell.
However, they didn’t care much, having long given up hope on this particular subject anyway.
“Furthermore,” Dumbledore continued, his gentle gaze sweeping across the hall, “I would like to make a special introduction for another new colleague—Professor Ian Evans, who will be serving as Professor Sprout’s assistant and taking charge of Herbology for students in their third year and below.” Ian rose poisedly and nodded in greeting to the students.
Young and handsome, Ian was visibly far more popular than Quirrell, a fact made obvious by the thunderous applause that followed.
Over at the Gryffindor table, Harry clapped with all his strength, a proud smile beaming across his face.
Beside him, Ron couldn’t help whispering in Harry’s ear, “Harry, that’s your uncle!
When the time comes, we can get him to dock a ton of points from Slytherin.” “Ron,” Hermione, whose sharp ears caught Ron’s “terrible idea,” instantly rounded on him with a glare.
“That’s not right!
Besides, I’m sure Professor Ian wouldn’t do something like that.
Have you forgotten he docked points from both Harry and Malfoy earlier?” As she said it, Hermione suddenly realized that she was in the same house as Harry now—which meant those fifty points were coming out of her house, too.
At the thought, Hermione’s face soured, and the gaze she directed toward Ian turned decidedly unfriendly.
Ron opened his mouth to say more, but Harry noticed the shift in Hermione’s expression and quickly pulled him back.
Naturally unaware that he had already been targeted on his very first day, Ian merely bowed slightly before taking his seat again.
“Additionally,” Dumbledore’s voice took on a firmer edge, “I must remind you all that the Forbidden Forest on the school grounds is strictly off-limits to all students.
This is especially important.” “Particularly for our first-year students.” As he spoke, his eyes pointedly swept over the Gryffindor area, lingering noticeably on two individuals in particular.
His blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles.
“Furthermore, our caretaker, Mr.
Filch, has asked me to remind you that the corridor on the right-hand side of the fourth floor is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” This statement sparked a ripple of hushed whispers throughout the room.
Ian glanced at Dumbledore, a thoughtful look dawning on his face as he noticed the Headmaster’s eyes resting on Harry.
“Finally,” Dumbledore’s tone turned lighthearted once more, “Quidditch trials will take place in the second week of term.
Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact their Head of House.” “Now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” Ian watched as most of the teachers wore expressions that clearly read, Not this again.
And just like that, the Start-of-Term Feast drew to a complete close amidst a choir of agonizingly out-of-tune howling.