A Chilly Arrival at Hogwarts

The damp British climate.

Even in September, the night air was biting cold.

Hagrid swung his massive lantern. "First years! First years, this way! Oh, Harry, you doing all right? Come over here."

They followed Hagrid down a path to the lake, where they boarded small boats that swayed as they headed toward Hogwarts.

Each boat held four people—Harry, Ron, the bucktoothed girl with the bushy brown hair they'd met on the train, and a shy, chubby boy named Neville who looked as round as an owl.

"Hello again, everyone," said the girl.

Ron replied with a distracted, "Hi."

Harry nodded, even less interested.

His focus was elsewhere—on the strange aura emanating from beneath the water, one particularly strong, and on the faint trace of magic that had enveloped him and every other first-year since stepping off the train.

As the mist lifted, Hogwarts castle became clearer in Harry's vision, and somehow…felt strangely familiar.

A bond with the castle itself?

Perhaps this was some sort of ritual, mimicking the founders' discovery of Hogwarts? Nothing in his books had mentioned this, so he would have to wait until he was inside to explore further.

Under Hagrid's lead, they reached the castle gates, where they were met by Professor McGonagall, the stern-looking deputy headmistress, and taken into a small chamber to wait.

"How do they know which House we belong in?" the bucktoothed girl asked, frowning.

Ron tightened his fists and looked at Harry. "Fred—one of my brothers—told me we'd have to do some kind of test. Said it could be really dangerous…but I think he was probably just messing with me."

"My uncle said we'd have to fight a troll," muttered Neville, clutching his toad, which squirmed desperately in his grip.

Harry shook his head.

He didn't believe any of that.

Even witchers, with all their brutal training, wouldn't throw untrained kids in front of ghouls and specters.

"Don't worry, we've already signed a bond with Hogwarts," Harry said, patting Ron on the shoulder. "Maybe… it's just a spell to assess your personality and place you in a House accordingly."

According to his readings…

The brave but reckless go to Gryffindor, the studious to Ravenclaw, the cunning to Slytherin, and everyone else to Hufflepuff.

Neville's face crumpled. "Oh no, that means I'll end up in Hufflepuff."

"Does the House really matter?" Harry asked, puzzled. "We all learn the same skills."

Unlike witchers' schools, he thought.

The various witcher schools each focused on different skills.

The School of the Wolf was the most disciplined, focusing on Signs, swordsmanship, and battle preparation, much like the Griffins. The Bears valued physical strength, favoring thick armor and resilience, while the Cats were more like assassins—unstable madmen lurking in shadows, carrying out shady dealings.

At Hogwarts, though, it seemed the four Houses only embodied different values, with all students taught the same skills by the same professors.

Neville tightened his grip on Trevor, who gave a feeble, mournful croak.

"If you're timid, you'll always be timid, no matter where you are," Harry said bluntly, looking at Neville. "Only when you strengthen yourself from within are you truly strong."

Neville looked down.

"You shouldn't talk to him like that!" The girl's voice was sharp, her face contorted in indignation. "He—he…"

"Did I say something wrong, Miss Otter?" Harry asked calmly, tilting his head.

The girl pressed her hand to her mouth, glaring at Harry with wide eyes. "Otter? You didn't listen on the boat, did you? My name is Hermione, Hermione Granger."

"Oh, right, Miss Granger." Harry nodded and repeated his question. "Did I say something wrong?"

Hermione clenched her jaw in frustration.

This wasn't how she'd imagined the Boy Who Lived would act!

Professor McGonagall soon returned and led them into the Great Hall—its ceiling seemed transparent, allowing them to see the stars and night sky above.

From the outside, the castle looked about the same size as Kaer Morhen, the Wolf School's keep, and Harry had expected Hogwarts to feel cramped.

But inside, it was vast.

The Great Hall alone soared to dizzying heights.

Yet another example of space-altering magic.

Professor McGonagall set up the Sorting Hat, and after enduring a short, noisy song, the first years understood that they didn't need to fight a troll—they only had to put on a rather dirty hat.

"When I call your name, come forward, put on the hat, and wait to be sorted," McGonagall said, her expression serious as she unrolled a long parchment. She then called the first name.

"Hannah Abbott!"

Harry waited a while before McGonagall finally called his name.

A murmur rippled through the hall.

"Potter? Is that the Potter?"

"He doesn't look much like a hero, does he? Isn't he a bit…thin?"

"Merlin, look at his eyes! Just like my cat's."

At the teachers' table, a professor in black robes snorted audibly.

Harry placed the hat on his head.

The wide brim blocked his view, and an overwhelming smell of old sweat filled his nose…

"Oh no, Mr. Potter, that's vintage essence," the Sorting Hat whispered in his ear. "I'm only a hat. I'd love a trip to the washroom, but no one takes me."

"Can you read minds?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Only surface thoughts," the hat said, sounding almost innocent. "After all, I'm not an object of Dark magic. Gryffindor never granted me Legilimency."

"Now let's see…"

"Justice, bravery, intelligence," the hat mused in a tone of surprise. "So many admirable qualities for the prophesied hero."

"What a dilemma."

"Hufflepuff…yes, Hufflepuff would be ideal for you—a truly warm and sincere heart. Helga Hufflepuff would have adored you."

"But if you seek greater accomplishments, then Slytherin or Gryffindor may be your home."

"I mean no disrespect to Hufflepuff, but, you see—or perhaps you don't know—Hufflepuffs are talented, but they don't fight for the spotlight."

"Slytherin and Gryffindor, on the other hand, are always clamoring for attention."

Harry interrupted, "Do you only get to speak to people during the Sorting?"

The hat hesitated. "No, I sometimes chat with Fawkes—Dumbledore's phoenix."

"A bird? That explains why you talk so much," Harry nodded thoughtfully.

"You cheeky little Slytherin!" the hat grumbled. "So, Slytherin it is?"

Harry shook his head. "I heard Gryffindor had a sword?"

"Yes, actually, it's within me," the hat explained eagerly. "Gryffindor placed a charm so that any courageous Gryffindor in need could pull it out from within me. It feels like having my throat yanked out."

"A hat with a throat?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

The hat groaned in frustration. "It's a metaphor, just a metaphor. Can't you take a joke, Mr. Literal?"

Harry asked, "So if I pull out Gryffindor's sword, does it become mine?"

"No, it's only borrowed," the hat said decisively. "The sword belongs to Gryffindor, or rather, to Hogwarts now."

"So how could I truly possess the Sword of Gryffindor?" Harry pressed.

The hat went silent. "To truly earn the Sword of Gryffindor—now that's an interesting question."

"You've heard of…the Chamber of Secrets, haven't you?"

Harry nodded, recalling that Slytherin was rumored to have left a chamber hidden within the castle, which only his true heir could open to access his legacy.

"All four founders left behind their legacies," the hat said, sounding wistful. "Anyone who draws Gryffindor's sword is eligible to undertake Gryffindor's trial. If you succeed, the sword becomes yours."

"Of course, the hat isn't eligible. I belong to Hogwarts now."

"It's a protection measure—Gryffindor had the sword forged by goblins, and after his death, the goblins tried more than once to reclaim it."

"If you don't have the strength to keep it, even owning the sword means it'll be snatched away by goblins."

Harry interrupted, "So drawing the sword qualifies me to take the trial?"

"Yes, but only when in need—" The hat began, but Harry whipped it off his head mid-sentence.

Professor McGonagall stared, puzzled—she'd assumed Harry would have an extended conversation with the hat, given how chatty it seemed with him.

But who takes off the hat halfway through Sorting?

McGonagall glanced up at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with curiosity as he watched Harry.

Ignoring the murmurs and stares, Harry reached into the hat, his fingers brushing against something cold and metallic. Gripping the hilt, he pulled it free.

A silver sword nearly a meter long emerged, emanating powerful magic. Despite its age, it gleamed as sharply as ever.

Harry's eyes lit up as he twirled

it with a flourish.

An excellent sword.

He instantly fell in love with it.

"All right, boy, stop ogling and put it back," the hat grumbled, sounding queasy. "The sword doesn't belong to you yet. Return it to me."

"I have no idea how you pulled it out; only those truly in need are supposed to."

Harry pursed his lips, reluctant to let go—a witcher always needed a sword at hand.

The hat continued to grumble.

"And as for your House…"

"Anyone who draws the Sword of Gryffindor belongs to Gryffindor!"