Getting Handsy

Harry didn't need the hat to show him the way.

It might sound odd, but he remembered Percy's scent and could track it straight to Gryffindor's common room.

Ron and the others were still waiting for him to return.

"Harry, you went to see Dumble—" Ron started, stopping short as he noticed the Sorting Hat tucked into Harry's belt. "Oh no, did you steal the Sorting Hat?"

"I borrowed it," Harry replied firmly, correcting Ron's mistake.

The hat muttered, "Harry, you're a good lad, but could we talk about keeping me right-side up?"

"Hats are meant to be worn, you know! I'm a wizard hat, and you're a wizard. We're a perfect match."

Harry shook his head. "No, it's more convenient this way," he said flatly.

The hat seemed to sigh. "I feel like you're using me as a sword sheath."

"Isn't a sheath more useful than a hat?" Harry countered.

If the hat could spit, it probably would have. "Bah! A hat is far superior to a sheath, you little troublemaker!"

Still grumbling, the hat let Harry carry it into the dorm.

After the exhausting day, Harry fell asleep quickly.

The next morning, before dawn, he was up, running two laps around the castle, then practicing his sword skills on a tree stump with the Gryffindor sword.

After breakfast, he returned to the dorm to wake the other boys, and they headed off together to their classes.

The first day of school, September 2nd, Monday, already had Harry eager for more.

The morning began with History of Magic, followed by Herbology in the afternoon.

While most new students found History of Magic disappointing—Professor Binns droned in a ghostly monotone from the textbook, adding his own dry commentary here and there—Harry and Hermione paid close attention.

Old souls held wisdom, and in Harry's mind, ghosts counted as another form of longevity.

Herbology was much more interesting.

Their professor, a short, plump woman named Professor Sprout, was also the Head of Hufflepuff House. Although she appeared laid-back and somewhat absentminded, her knowledge of herbology was profound. She explained everything Harry asked in a simple, straightforward manner.

Class ended at three, but Harry followed her with questions until four. If upper-year students hadn't needed the classroom next, he'd have kept going.

He tried his luck at joining the older students' lessons, but Sprout dismissed him, rewarding his enthusiasm with "five points to Gryffindor," and kindly explained that advanced Herbology could be dangerous.

Tuesday brought two new classes: Charms and Transfiguration.

The Charms professor, Professor Flitwick, who had goblin ancestry, devoted the entire class to magical theory.

When class ended, most students packed up hurriedly, heading for Transfiguration.

Harry, however, stayed behind.

Professor Flitwick's eyes gleamed with delight as he looked at Harry. "I've heard from both Professors Sprout and Binns that you're a particularly inquisitive student. You would have made an excellent Ravenclaw!"

"So, do you have a question for me?"

Harry nodded. "I heard from Hagrid that you have goblin heritage. Do you happen to know any master blacksmiths?"

Professor Flitwick blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question. "Wait, you didn't stay behind to ask about Charms?"

"I don't have time today; I have Transfiguration next." Harry's tone was flat.

Though disappointed, Flitwick conceded, "Very well. I do know a goblin blacksmith of considerable skill, though goblins…are particular. Their work is exquisite, but their nature is rather greedy."

"Could you contact him for me?" Harry took the Sorting Hat from his belt and retrieved a small pouch of Galleons. "This is payment for your help."

Flitwick, charmed, shook his head. "Helping students is part of my duty."

"Besides, you're a remarkable student," he added warmly. "Professor Dumbledore told me you've mastered a rather unusual spell. If you have time this Friday afternoon—"

"Saturday would be better," Harry interjected, placing the Galleons on the desk before heading to Transfiguration. "Thank you, Professor!"

The professor could refuse payment, but Harry wouldn't leave without offering it.

Flitwick sighed, waved his wand, and the pouch of coins floated back into the Sorting Hat.

The hat scoffed. "Hey! Harry I can understand, but really, Filius? I'm not a purse! I'm a hat! A grand Gryffindor hat!"

Most first-year students had a hard time finding their way around.

Hogwarts' moving staircases made navigating the castle feel like a maze, but with Harry leading the way, and Ron following, they arrived at Transfiguration early, even if the unpredictable stairs caused a few delays.

"Harry, you've got an incredible sense of direction," Ron remarked, envious. "The whole changing-staircase thing was fun at first, but it's getting old fast. I'd be stuck somewhere if I had to find my way alone."

Harry didn't respond. He was staring intently at the tabby cat on the desk.

"What's a cat doing here?" Ron followed his gaze, puzzled. "Maybe it's Professor McGonagall's pet?"

"Wait, Harry!" Ron's eyes suddenly lit up with realization. "Look at the markings on its face—doesn't it look like Professor McGonagall's glasses?"

Without another word, Harry stepped forward, grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck, and started examining its ears. "Not just looks like her. This is Professor McGonagall."

The structure, the fur…

This was Professor McGonagall?

Ron froze, remembering that his parents had mentioned McGonagall was a skilled Transfiguration master, one of the seven Animagi registered with the Ministry.

A tabby cat.

Oh no!

Ron's face paled as he watched, horrified. "Harry, stop! What are you doing?"

But it was too late.

The tabby cat squirmed out of Harry's grip, landing gracefully on the floor before transforming back into Professor McGonagall herself, standing sternly in a green robe.

"Mr. Potter, you recognized me?" she asked, her eyes narrowed.

Harry nodded. "Yes."

"So why…" she pressed, her voice growing colder.

Harry's expression remained sincere. "I was curious, Professor. Your Animagus form doesn't emit any magical aura. If I hadn't caught your scent, I'd have mistaken you for an ordinary cat."

"When I checked, everything—from the spine, to the muscles, to the retractable claws—was exactly like a regular cat's."

Who would suspect such a cute little tabby?

"Animagus is a transformation into an actual animal form," McGonagall explained curtly. "It's dangerous, and inexperienced Animagi can suffer mental confusion, thinking they really are animals."

"If you're that interested, perhaps by fifth or sixth year—or sooner—you can start studying the spell."

"Thank you, Professor." Harry nodded.

"One more thing," she said, her sternness unyielding. "Do I…have a strong scent?"

Harry shook his head. "No, Professor. But I have a heightened sense of smell that lets me pick up what others miss."

McGonagall's expression softened, and she turned her gaze to Ron.

He sat frozen, barely managing a stiff nod.

"Very well," McGonagall sighed. "I'll forgive you this once, but next time, Mr. Potter, curiosity doesn't excuse getting handsy with your professors."

"Yes, Professor," Harry replied obediently.

"Five points from Gryffindor!" the Sorting Hat announced.

Ron turned pale and looked around in alarm.

Professor McGonagall's expression turned steely.

"Relax, Minerva," the Sorting Hat chuckled. "I was only joking. I don't actually have authority to dock points."

Ron exhaled in relief.

The hat muttered, "Gryffindors, honestly. Either too serious or too unserious."

"Why can't they all have Albus's sense of humor?"

Harry and Ron found seats.

McGonagall remained at the lectern, transforming back into a cat only to surreptitiously cast a few "Scourgify" spells on herself.

Once the class had arrived, she taught them their first spell—a difficult one.

After a brief introduction, she handed each student a matchstick, instructing them to turn it into a needle.

By the end of the class, only Harry and Hermione had made any progress. Harry's match had transformed completely into a needle, while Hermione's had only partially changed, leaving a wooden tail.

McGonagall gave them a small smile and awarded Gryffindor five points—three for Harry, two for Hermione.

Wednesday's Defense Against the Dark Arts class disappointed Harry.

The strange sensation he'd felt with Quirrell before, that made his scar hurt, was gone, and frankly, Quirrell himself seemed incompetent. His stuttering, rambling lectures on dark creatures fell far short of useful information.

He failed to sketch a proper diagram of a ghoul or point out any specific vulnerabilities. Instead, he described loud noises, fire, and throwing rotten meat as deterrents, making Harry raise an eyebrow.

Was this "defense against dark creatures" or "how to keep a pet ghoul?"

Ron, however, seemed to agree with

Quirrell's advice—his family had a ghoul in their attic that his mom handled in much the same way, and to them, it was almost like a pet.

Thursday's schedule was back to Charms and Transfiguration, with Harry finally giving Flitwick the attention he'd hoped for, staying after class to ask a battery of questions. He nearly overstayed and delayed the next class.