*Bang!
Bang!
Bang!*
Three resounding thuds echoed from the castle doors, and Professor McGonagall stepped inside, leading a gaggle of tiny first-years behind her.
The new arrivals stood in a line between the staff table and the long house tables, facing the older students with their backs to the professors.
Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool on the floor before the new students and set an old, frayed wizard’s hat upon it.
Under the bewildered gazes of the first-years, the hat twitched.
A wide rip opened near the brim like a mouth, and it burst into song:
“You may not think I’m pretty, But never judge by what you see, If you can find a smarter hat, I’ll eat myself for free.”
…
“That is the Sorting Hat,” Professor Flitwick whispered from Tver’s side, worried that the younger wizard might not understand the tradition.
“It reads the minds of young witches and wizards, discerns their innate qualities, and sorts them into their houses.”
“Fascinating.
Though at Durmstrang, anything that can peer into your mind and think for itself is usually considered rather…” Tver paused for a moment to find the right word.
“…abnormal.”
Professor Flitwick chuckled at the remark.
“Best not let the Sorting Hat hear you say that,” he whispered merrily.
“Legend has it that Godric Gryffindor himself once wore it.
Having spent centuries cooped up in the Headmaster’s tower, bored out of its wits, it has little else to do all year except compose songs for the start-of-term feast.
As for how it gained the ability to think, well, only the four founders could tell us.”
When the song came to an end, the Great Hall erupted in thunderous applause.
The Sorting Hat bowed to each of the four tables in turn, then resumed playing the part of an ordinary hat, sitting perfectly still as it awaited the students.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward toward the stool, unfurling a long roll of parchment.
“When I call your name, you will come forward, put on the hat, and sit on the stool to be sorted!” she announced in a clear, carrying voice before reading the first name from the scroll.
“Hannah Abbott!”
A young girl with two blonde pigtails stumbled out of the line.
Tver did not recognize the girl, but he recognized the surname Abbott—one of the old pure-blood families.
A moment later, the Sorting Hat shouted its verdict.
The table on the far right, boasting the largest crowd in the hall, burst into enthusiastic cheers and applause.
Several older students even stood up to shake Abbott’s hand as she went over.
The cheers did not disrupt the ceremony; if anything, the clamor was an integral part of it.
Watching the young witches and wizards take their turns, Tver felt rather like a tourist witnessing an iconic spectacle of the magical world.
One particularly round-faced boy got so excited when the hat shouted “GRYFFINDOR” that he bolted toward the table without even taking it off, only to sheepishly scurry back amid a wave of laughter to return it.
Applause rolled across the Great Hall in wave after wave until one specific name rang out.
“Harry Potter!”
The entire Great Hall instantly fell dead silent.
As Harry stepped forward from the shrinking queue, nearly every pair of eyes in the room fixed upon his thin, diminutive figure.
Muffled whispers immediately broke out along all four tables.
“Potter?
*The* Harry Potter?”
“Did you see the scar on his forehead?”
“Which house do you reckon he’ll be in?”
Knowing the answer already, Tver watched Albus Dumbledore with interest.
The moment Harry’s name was called, the old headmaster’s expression subtly shifted, and he leaned forward ever so slightly.
He clearly attached immense importance to this particular sorting.
Harry’s sorting took a remarkably long time—far longer than any of the students before him.
No one knew what conversation was passing between Harry and the Sorting Hat.
All they knew was that after what felt like an eternity—perhaps nearly half an hour—the hat finally broke its silence.
“GRYFFINDOR!”
Harry, beneath the brim, let out a visible breath of relief.
His legs trembled slightly as he stood, his mind seemingly blank, though he still remembered to place the hat back on the stool.
“I imagine you know the name,” Professor Flitwick murmured with a hint of disappointment.
“Though I hadn’t expected Potter would pass up Ravenclaw.”
“Regardless of which house he calls home, he will still be your student, won’t he?” Tver replied with a smile.
Once the sorting concluded, Dumbledore offered everyone just four parting words—”Nitwit!
Blubber!
Tweak!”—and the start-of-term feast officially commenced.
Before Tver could even begin to analyze those cryptic words, he was delighted to see the previously empty golden dishes suddenly overflowing with sumptuous food.
“That is food magic left behind by Helga Hufflepuff,” the considerate Professor Flitwick explained, anticipating Tver’s curiosity.
“It doesn’t conjure food out of thin air; rather, it teleports the dishes with absolute precision from the kitchens straight to the tables.”
Tver truly knew little about such magic.
Food magic?
Could it enhance one’s combat prowess?
Even so, Hogwarts was unveiling its deep mystical heritage before Tver in full display today.
Watching it in person as an accomplished wizard was nothing like watching it on a movie screen; only by being here could one appreciate the subtle brilliance woven into every enchantment.
The feast had been prepared by the castle’s house-elves.
While traditional British staples like fried fish, chips, and fried fish with chips were present, there was also an abundance of roast beef, roast chicken, and other delicacies.
It was far better than he had anticipated.
The food at Durmstrang could hardly be described as delicate; their meals were predominantly heavy, salty, or cured.
Coming to Hogwarts, Tver had braced himself for a full year of fish and potatoes.
No wonder Hogwarts enjoyed a grander international reputation than Durmstrang; the culinary superiority alone gave it far wider appeal.
After the main courses came the desserts—Tver’s personal favorite.
He had possessed a sweet tooth in his previous life, and crossing over had not changed that habit in the slightest.
He sampled every variety of ice cream, every tart, and every pudding with genuine relish.
As long as a dessert wasn’t sickeningly sweet, it was bound to be delicious.
Just as he savored the final bite of a lemon pudding with utter satisfaction, Tver’s keen senses told him someone was staring intently at him.
Tracing the gaze, he saw Harry staring straight in his direction, clutching his forehead in sudden agony.
Tver lifted his goblet, taking a sip of wine to mask his reaction, but his eyes cut toward Professor Quirrell beside him.
*Is it the influence of Voldemort’s soul fragment?*
It seemed the connection between Harry and the Dark Lord ran deeper than he had imagined.
The soul was truly a profound and murky field of study.
Tver let out a quiet inward sigh.
When Harry looked back over, his eyes were no longer locked onto Quirrell, nor on Severus Snape, but squarely on Tver himself.
Raising his goblet, Tver exchanged a polite, warm smile with the inquisitive boy.
It seemed Harry had realized who the new professor was.
Yet he had already developed an instinctive aversion to Snape—a pair of teacher and student bound by fate indeed.