“Mr Cress, may I ask why you’re gathering information about Gryffindor?” Dumbledore sounded genuinely curious.
A thousand years was an extraordinarily long span of time.
Witt’s ability to cross twenty years without apparent difficulty had already surprised him.
This, however, raised Dumbledore’s expectations of the boy’s strange ability to an entirely new level.
Witt didn’t think there was any reason to hide the answer.
If he was going to ask someone for help, he had to tell them at least part of the story.
“The goblin king asked me to steal Gryffindor’s sword.” Before Dumbledore could react, the Sorting Hat spoke up.
“Hey, did Gryffindor happen to give you one of his punches straight down on the top of your head?” “How did you know?” Witt turned towards the Hat in surprise and rubbed his head.
Gryffindor’s punches had been heavy and painful.
Even now, his skull still seemed to ache faintly.
“Mr Sorting Hat, it wasn’t one punch.
It was three.” The Sorting Hat chuckled.
“Gryffindor loved using that move to discipline disobedient students.” “I’m starting to believe your story now.
The place you just touched is exactly where Gryffindor liked to hit people.” “He used to tell me that striking a student there caused the least actual harm, produced the most pain, and felt the best on the fist.” Witt rubbed his head and muttered, “No wonder he looked so practised.
His hand moved so fast I nearly saw afterimages.” “You should be grateful you’re still a child.” The Sorting Hat lowered its voice ominously.
“Gryffindor was no soft-hearted fool.
He never showed mercy to his enemies.” “Against wizards, he used his wand.” “Against Muggles, he drew his sword.” “Only against young wizards like you did he use his fists.” “But his punches really hurt,” Witt complained.
He was convinced Gryffindor had used some sort of magic.
Otherwise, how could a single punch hurt that much?
Witt had experienced more than his fair share of painful deaths inside dungeons, and if they were ranked purely by pain, Gryffindor’s fists would place surprisingly high.
Beside him, Dumbledore asked thoughtfully, “Are you hoping to use information known only to Gryffindor to convince him that you’re telling the truth?” Given Witt’s strength, Dumbledore absolutely refused to believe he could defeat Godric Gryffindor.
Not even with an ambush.
“No.
This is purely for my own amusement.” Witt solemnly rejected Dumbledore’s theory, then gave a sinister little smile.
“I want to see the expression on Gryffindor’s face when I reveal embarrassing secrets nobody else knows.” “That stunned look when he realises I’ve exposed him, followed by the panic when he tries to cover up his past…” “That would be hilarious.” Witt planted his hands on his hips and burst out laughing.
“That’s what he gets for hitting me so hard.” Dumbledore’s expression turned distinctly constipated.
You woke me up at the crack of dawn for this?
Looking at Witt still laughing with his hands on his hips, Dumbledore suddenly felt his fist itch.
“Ow!” One punch sent Witt sprawling onto the floor.
“What was that for?!” Dumbledore ignored him and instead examined his own hand with a grave expression.
“The feel really is quite good.” “…” Witt was certain his forehead must be covered in black lines.
If he weren’t painfully aware that he couldn’t beat Dumbledore, he might already have launched himself at the old man.
“All right, Witt.” Dumbledore reached down and helped him back to his feet.
“My apologies.
That was merely an accident.” (;￢＿￢) “So you’re telling me your hand suddenly stopped obeying you, crossed three metres of empty space, and landed on my head?” Who are you trying to fool?
Faced with Witt’s stare, Dumbledore guiltily looked away.
“Ahem.” “Perhaps we should return to the subject of Gryffindor.” The moment Gryffindor’s name came up, Witt’s attention was immediately diverted.
After all, Dumbledore had only punched him once, and not particularly hard.
Gryffindor had hit him three times.
The difference in hatred was obvious.
“Does Gryffindor have any embarrassing secrets?” Witt blinked expectantly at the Sorting Hat.
“As far as I know…” “No.” The Sorting Hat answered bluntly.
“Gryffindor certainly made plenty of minor mistakes, but none of them would be useful for threatening him.” “His only real regret may have been Slytherin’s departure.
The two of them were once very close friends.” “You mean Gryffindor deeply regretted Slytherin leaving and often blamed himself for it?” “And he never told anyone else?” Witt immediately seized on the important part.
Even if the information wasn’t enough to threaten Gryffindor, it was certainly enough to convince him that Witt knew things he shouldn’t.
The Sorting Hat sighed softly.
“Yes.
Gryffindor deeply regretted Slytherin’s departure, but he did not feel guilty.” “He once said that if he had the chance to choose again, he would still make exactly the same decision.” At that point, the Sorting Hat fell silent and reverted to the appearance of an old, dusty, battered hat.
Clearly, it didn’t want to discuss the matter any further.
Compared with the Sorting Hat, which had personally lived through that era, Dumbledore had very little useful information to offer.
Godric Gryffindor had lived more than a thousand years ago.
Entire ages had risen and fallen since then, and the surviving written records were far too brief to reveal much.
Still, learning even this much from the Sorting Hat had made the trip more than worthwhile.
The only downside was that Witt had taken a punch from Dumbledore.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ That afternoon— Transfiguration.
The moment Witt entered the classroom, he saw Professor McGonagall sitting on the teacher’s desk.
In the form of a cat.
One glance was enough for Witt to understand what she was doing.
She was obviously planning to give the new students a little shock.
Thanks to Lily’s reminder, Harry and Ron had arrived well before the lesson began.
“Where’s Professor McGonagall?
She’s not late, is she?” Ron glanced around as the lesson time arrived without McGonagall apparently appearing and muttered under his breath.
Witt gave him a sidelong look.
So this is what they mean by having eyes but failing to see.
Professor McGonagall was sitting right there.
She had arrived before every student in the class.
And Ron, seated right at the front, was complaining about McGonagall being late directly in front of her face.
There were easier ways to court death.
Sure enough— The instant Ron finished speaking, the cat on the desk sprang into the air and transformed into Professor McGonagall, landing directly in front of him.
Yet her severe expression did nothing to intimidate Ron.
“Whoa!
That was brilliant!” “Thank you for the compliment, Mr Weasley,” McGonagall replied.
“But I think you should close your mouth now and pay attention.” Ron immediately straightened his back and sat with perfect posture, looking every inch the model student.
With Ron dealt with, McGonagall began the lesson.
First, she transformed the teacher’s desk into a pig, giving the students a vivid demonstration of just how fascinating Transfiguration could be.
Then she began teaching them how to turn a match into a needle.
Witt stared at the match in his hand.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to him.
He raised his hand.
“Professor McGonagall, I have a question.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Hidden_Quill Thank you so much for reading!