Chapter 10: The Sorting Hat

When the carriage fell silent, Harry gently touched his scar again. Perhaps this scar had forged some kind of connection between him and Voldemort.

Zhang Qiu seemed burdened by guilt over nearly causing trouble, and her spirits had dipped. Ron offered Harry sporadic commentary on Quidditch, but Harry’s thoughts remained fixed on his parents and Voldemort—he had little interest just yet in this “most popular sport in the wizarding world.”

After disembarking from the train, Hagrid prepared to lead the children to the boats. He immediately spotted Zhang Qiu among the crowd and asked curiously why she hadn’t taken the second-year train. Zhang Qiu merely smiled and said she had misremembered the time.

After this exchange, the first-years now knew there was a second-year prefect, and they chattered excitedly, asking what the Sorting Ceremony was like.

Zhang Qiu’s improvised trials were quickly proven false, for no sooner had they entered the Great Hall than the tattered Sorting Hat loudly sang out its own purpose.

Then a witch in emerald robes gestured for the children to line up; Harry learned this was Deputy Headmistress Professor McGonagall. McGonagall pulled out a long list and began calling out students’ names in order.

“Abdullah Abbas!”

A boy stepped forward; Harry was surprised—Hogwarts accepted Arabians?

The Sorting Hat rested on his head for several seconds, then shouted, “Slytherin!”

“Fascinating,” Harry thought. “So the Hat decides the house purely by whim. No wonder Zhang Qiu said you could go wherever you wanted.”

“Hannah Abbott!”

Another little girl was sorted into Hufflepuff.

Harry waited patiently, and soon McGonagall called, “Hermione Granger.” For some reason, he couldn’t help but glance at her twice.

Harry’s pupils shrank sharply. The girl’s features were unmistakable: hair too wild for the Hat to cover, and two large front teeth that made her look like a squirrel at first glance. But it wasn’t her appearance that mattered—it was that Zhang Qiu’s prediction had once again been indirectly confirmed.

Ron would become a prefect in fifth year, Harry thought. Several of his brothers had been prefects too. The Weasleys were clearly an old noble family—even if they seemed poor, their aristocratic connections still held power. Or perhaps, from this contradictory household, the magical world didn’t operate on a market economy at all.

Amid such idle musings, McGonagall called Harry’s name. The moment it echoed through the hall, a stir rippled through the crowd.

“Oh, my, you’re a tricky one,” the Hat whispered the instant it touched his head. “Slytherin would do… or Gryffindor.”

Harry remembered Zhang Qiu was in Ravenclaw. He whispered, “What about Ravenclaw?”

“ Mianqiangyexing ，” the Hat replied. “But you wouldn’t be happy there. I’d recommend Slytherin or Gryffindor—perhaps Sly…”

“Then Gryffindor, then,” Harry decided. He recalled Draco had been sorted into Slytherin.

After sitting at the Gryffindor table, Harry waited quietly for the Sorting to end. Soon, Ron was sorted into Gryffindor too. He greeted his brothers, then took a seat beside Harry.

When all were sorted, Headmaster Dumbledore rose to deliver a few welcoming remarks, ending with an inexplicable string of nonsense.

Then food appeared automatically on their empty plates. Harry cut a piece of beef—tender, juicy, as delicious as the meals at Tang Dun. But here in Hogwarts, he could eat freely without worrying about etiquette, and that felt wonderfully comfortable.

As he ate, Harry joined the children’s lively chatter. He found it utterly delightful.

“My dad’s a Muggle. He didn’t find out the truth until right before he got married. He must’ve been shocked—and furious.”

“What about you, Neville?” someone asked amid laughter.

Harry turned to the boy—he seemed to have said almost nothing so far.

“My grandmother once said, dining is a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Every meal deserves to be cherished.” With that, he resumed eating his pudding slowly and deliberately.

“So Neville’s closest relative must be his grandmother,” Harry said, sensing the awkward silence and steering the conversation. “Oh, by the way—look at that teacher with the headscarf. I saw him over the summer. His name’s Quirrell.”

“Another new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” one of the Weasley twins leaned in. “How many have we gone through, generation after generation?”

“Does it even matter?” the other chimed in. “Same soup, different pot. Next it’ll be Snape replacing Quirrell, then Snape replacing Peeves, then no one left to replace—face completely gone.”

“Do Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers change often?” Harry asked.

“Almost every year,” Percy said. “Sometimes less than six months. They say the position is cursed.”

Before Harry could ask more about the curse, he noticed dinner was nearly over. Dumbledore rose again.

“Ah, now that we’re all well-fed and content, let me add a few more words. I have several Kaixue notices to announce.”

“First-year students, pay special attention: the forest beyond the grounds is strictly off-limits. Upperclassmen, remember this too. Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, reminds you that magic is forbidden in the corridors between classes. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week; those wishing to represent their house must sign up with Madam Hooch.”

“Lastly, I must warn you: anyone who wishes to avoid a gruesome death must not go to the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side this year!”

“Gruesome death?” Harry muttered. “I thought we came here to study.”

Ron burst out laughing at this, but few around him laughed—it made him feel embarrassed.

Fortunately, as soon as the school song began, no one paid attention to the laughter anymore.

When Harry began to feel drowsy, he finally found his dormitory under the prefect’s guidance. He looked around and realized he shared a room with Ron. Another roommate, the cool boy named Neville, was also there, along with two others he didn’t know well.

“Hello, Harry,” Neville said, stepping forward. “I’m Neville Longbottom.”

“Hello,” Harry smiled, extending his hand to shake.

“I need to tell you,” Neville didn’t shake it—instead, he gripped Harry’s shoulder firmly. “I have a blood feud with Voldemort too. Ten years ago, you defeated him. If he dares return to this world, I will kill him myself and send him back to hell!”

Hearing this, Harry felt uneasy. He always believed it was his parents’ final spell that had defeated Voldemort—not him. Yet everyone kept attributing the victory to him. More than that, he wanted to be just an ordinary student, learning and making friends in the wizarding world, not constantly tied to Voldemort in everyone’s mind.

What disturbed him more was Voldemort’s dying words: “With this scar, you are like my son.” He hadn’t taken it seriously before, but now every wizard insisted on linking him to Voldemort—and it made him feel sick.

“Do as you please,” Harry said, refusing to respond, and began making his bed.

Neville frowned. Neither spoke again. Ron didn’t want to join the conversation, but seeing Harry’s expression, he knew it wasn’t the time for jokes.

But Ron had no talent for quiet solitude. He didn’t want to read textbooks, and his only non-academic book was the ancient Tales of Beedle the Bard. He flipped through it twice, then grew bored of the plot he could recite by heart.

Then he noticed Harry leaning against his bed, reading a book that didn’t look like a textbook.

“Hey, Harry,” Ron said. “What are you reading?”

“A Muggle novel,” Harry said, slightly embarrassed. “I brought it in case I got bored on the train.”

“Can I borrow it?” Ron asked. “Uh, in exchange, I’ll let you read a wizarding storybook.”

“Great idea,” Harry perked up. “I’ve never read a wizarding novel before.”

Ron blushed. The book he handed over was just a children’s fairy tale.

“How Steel Is Tempered?” Ron opened the book. “Is this a Muggle alchemy book? Amazing—this Paul guy must be an alchemist. Steel Alchemist?”

“Uh, you’ll find out as you read,” Harry muttered awkwardly, then opened his own Tales of Beedle the Bard.

“Once there was a kind old wizard who generously and wisely used his magic to help his neighbors. He never told anyone where his power came from, instead claiming his potions, spells, and remedies simply jumped out of a small cauldron. He called it his Lucky Cauldron. People from miles around came to him with troubles, and the old wizard would happily stir his cauldron and solve every problem…”

Harry finished the short story “The Wizard and the Hop-Pot” with delight. He turned the page to “The Fountain of Good Fortune,” then “The Wizard’s Heart of Hair,” then “Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump,” and finally “The Tale of the Three Brothers.”

When he reached the last page of the thin book, a faint drowsiness crept into Harry’s mind. He glanced at his schedule—Transfiguration first thing tomorrow. He pulled the bed curtains shut and prepared to sleep.

That night, he had a strange dream: he was brewing a potion to cure a poor woman. But the potion failed. The woman’s husband was heartbroken—he kept turning a stone, trying to summon his dead wife—but three dark, menacing men appeared instead. Amid the hissing of snakes, Harry panicked and realized one of them was Voldemort. He frantically shoved his son (he had no idea why he had a son) and shouted, “Run, Potter, run!”

But his foolish eldest son refused to run—he clung tightly to the cauldron. Then the cauldron suddenly sprouted legs and dragged the young man away at full speed—when a flash of green light struck, and Harry jolted awake, drenched in sweat, trembling uncontrollably.

Harry recalled the dream and told himself it was surely because of the bizarre bedtime story. He rolled over and fell asleep again, paying no further attention to the odd dream.