Do You Know Snape?
Compared to the joyful excitement of the other young wizards, Hermione was reluctant to part with Harry.
Essays, notes…
The gap between herself and Harry, the top student of their year, was vast.
There were still so many things she hadn't figured out.
Once they separated, she would have to muddle through these subjects on her own, with no one to guide her at critical moments. It felt unfair.
In the final two or three days, she couldn't even find time to focus on her books—Hermione had become the busiest person in Gryffindor.
Every single first-year Gryffindor had promised to write to her over the summer, begging her to reply.
And even…
Some Hufflepuffs, somehow hearing about her, came to ask for her correspondence.
Hermione silently scoffed at them.
All of them were just after her homework.
Hmph. She saw right through them.
The Last Night of Term.
The Great Hall was lively, though the Slytherin table felt notably subdued. The hall was decorated in Gryffindor's red and gold colors, and behind the staff table hung an enormous banner of a roaring lion, vivid and lifelike.
Professor McGonagall was smiling so much her face felt warm.
Seven years.
It had been seven whole years since the House Cup didn't belong to Slytherin.
This year, it was Gryffindor's.
Third-year Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff had stood out as an exceptional student, much like Harry in first year.
Gryffindor, however, boasted not just Harry but also Hermione.
Even Ron—who seemed like he was just along for the ride—had managed to rank fifth in their year.
The Slytherin era was over. Sixth- and seventh-year Slytherins could no longer rely on classroom points to maintain their dominance. Their advantage was gone.
Dumbledore was the last to arrive. As he took his seat, the hall gradually quieted. Even the ever-rowdy Weasley twins fell silent, looking expectantly at him.
"Another school year has passed," Dumbledore began, standing up and speaking with emotion. "Watching you grow and thrive brings me immense joy."
"A new era has begun, hasn't it?"
"I'm sure you don't want to hear an old man ramble on, so let's get straight to the awarding of the House Cup!"
With a wave of his wand, golden text appeared in the air:
Fourth Place: Hufflepuff, 352 points.Third Place: Ravenclaw, 426 points.Second Place: Slytherin, 472 points.First Place: Gryffindor, 491 points.
Harry's nightly escapades, though never caught, had earned him far more points than he had lost.
The Hufflepuffs cast envious glances at Harry but soon refocused on their own table, where a brown-haired, bright-eyed young wizard sat proudly.
"Gryffindor performed outstandingly this year," Dumbledore said with a smile. "I can hardly remember the last time Gryffindor lifted the House Cup."
"But—"
"At the very last moment, there are still some points to be awarded."
"Harry Potter—"
"He corrected an oversight of mine, an old man's mistake, and protected the Philosopher's Stone from Professor Quirrell—or rather, perhaps he shouldn't even be called 'Professor' anymore."
"From this dark wizard, Harry not only defended the Stone but also defeated him."
"I believe many of you have heard? Quirrell is still lying in the infirmary."
"For this, I award our brave young lion an additional fifty points!"
Harry squinted at Dumbledore.
The headmaster's enthusiastic words and dramatic gestures, openly elevating Harry's reputation, felt exaggerated.
Harry didn't like it.
Neither did Snape, who was glaring daggers at Dumbledore, his wand clenched tightly.
But few noticed the subtle undertones of Dumbledore's actions.
The Gryffindors, in particular, didn't think it was over-the-top—they loved Dumbledore's words. Led by the Weasley twins, they banged on the table, chanting, "Potter! Potter!"
Students from the other Houses turned their heads, especially the fourth-years and above.
They were stunned.
Sure, Potter was said to be outstanding, but… to this degree?
Quirrell's teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts had been abysmal, but the older students remembered him in his prime—as the professor of Muggle Studies.
He had been undeniably talented.
Even in his current erratic, unstable state, his magical prowess was undeniable.
Could a first-year wizard really rival a top graduate?
Even the Hufflepuffs looked a bit grim.
Seven years under Slytherin dominance—and now it was Gryffindor's turn?
That Night.
The celebration became Gryffindor's personal carnival.
Oliver Wood brought out his entire stash of vodka—only to realize he was missing two bottles. Furious, he cornered the Weasley twins and pummeled them.
Harry faced off against all the Gryffindors in a drinking contest.
He downed fifteen bottles of vodka by himself.
Drunk and exuberant, Harry dragged everyone to the Black Lake to dance and howl. The merfolk popped their heads out of the water, screeching along—whether they were singing or shouting curses, no one could tell.
The witches covered their eyes, unable to bear watching.
The End of Term.
Harry arranged for Professor Flitwick to pick him up in the third week of July. He also had a crucial task before leaving: returning the Sorting Hat to Dumbledore.
Before that, he emptied everything he'd stashed inside: rare magical ingredients from the Forbidden Forest, half a bottle of vodka, essays, books, and even half a leftover muffin.
The Sorting Hat was livid. "Good heavens, how much stuff did you cram into me?"
"I'm a hat!"
Harry calmly organized his belongings. "I thought you'd gotten used to it."
The Sorting Hat tilted its pointy tip indignantly. "I haven't! I'm just a hat—I can't hit people!"
"Can I take Gryffindor's sword with me?" Harry asked.
The Sorting Hat refused outright. "No."
Harry didn't push the issue. This summer, he would visit the master blacksmith Professor Flitwick had mentioned.
The Gryffindor sword was excellent but designed for ordinary humans—it was too short and too light. While it suited him now, as a growing boy, it would eventually become inadequate.
The first-years, unlike the older students, didn't leave through the main gates. They returned to the train station the same way they'd arrived—by boat across the Black Lake and along the mountain path.
As they gazed back at the castle, it felt much more welcoming now.
The train whistled as it pulled into London in the evening.
Hermione, teary-eyed, grabbed Harry's hand. "Promise you'll write to me over the summer!"
Harry hadn't even responded when Ron chimed in eagerly, "I'll write to you, Hermione!"
"If it's not to copy homework, I'll be thrilled," Hermione replied with a stony expression.
Ron froze, lowering his head as he muttered, "I have brothers… Percy…"
"Even if you ask us, you'll need to use your brain," Fred said, patting Ron's shoulder. "And Percy's stricter than Hermione."
"Percy would never let anyone copy his work," George added.
"He'd just say—"
"Ron, you should write it yourself! Look at Hermione and Harry—they're so brilliant," Fred said in a mocking, pompous tone.
Percy appeared behind them and kicked Fred to the ground. "If you're going to badmouth someone, at least check if they're nearby!"
After bidding farewell to his friends, Harry met Uncle Vernon, who grumbled as he roughly loaded Harry's trunk into the car.
"I thought you weren't coming back!" Vernon snapped.
Harry calmly replied, "The headmaster insists I spend at least a month at your house every summer."
Vernon groaned, slamming the horn. "Wonderful. A whole month of living with a freak."
On the drive home, Harry suddenly said, "Uncle Vernon, have you ever thought about losing some weight?"
The car screeched to a halt.
"What are you planning?" Vernon asked, pale and sweating.
Harry frowned, puzzled by his uncle's terror. "I've learned a potion for weight loss."
"No!" Vernon yelled, flooring the gas. "I'll never drink your freakish brews!"
When they reached home, Harry turned to Aunt Petunia.
"Aunt Petunia, do you know Severus Snape?"
Hearing the name, Petunia froze, memories flooding back of an afternoon when she was eleven years old.
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Powerstones?
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