"Hannah Abbott!"
In the wondrous and magnificent Great Hall, countless candles floated in midair, illuminating the long tables crowded with people and casting a golden glow on the plates and goblets. The enchanted ceiling sparkled with stars, forever mirroring the sky outside. The walls were adorned with intricate magical runes, where shimmering light occasionally danced.
Dozens of eager young witches and wizards stood in two neat rows, their eyes fixed on the woman in an emerald-green cloak standing at the front.
Her expression was stern, her square glasses perched on her nose, and her jet-black hair was tied into a tight bun.
Professor McGonagall held a parchment list and called out the first name.
A rosy-cheeked girl with two golden braids stepped forward and placed an old, tattered pointed wizard's hat on her head.
"Hufflepuff!" Moments later, the brim of the hat split open, and a voice rang out.
The Hufflepuff table erupted in applause and cheers for Hannah.
"Susan Bones!"
…
One by one, the line of young witches and wizards dwindled as they were sorted into their respective houses.
Professor McGonagall looked up and called out:
"Harry Potter!"
No one stepped forward.
"Harry Potter?"
McGonagall's gaze fell on a boy nearby, whose eyes were closed as if dozing off. Her voice rose uncontrollably. She made up her mind—if Harry was sorted into her house, she'd make sure he faced some consequences.
How dare he sleep through such a sacred moment?
"Harry?"
Ron Weasley, standing beside Harry, caught the piercing glare from Professor McGonagall and started to panic. He nudged his friend, equally puzzled.
What the heck? They were just chatting before Hermione was sorted into Gryffindor. How did Harry fall asleep like a Thestral wart-hog in just two minutes?
"Harry Potter!"
By the third time his name was called, the Gryffindor lions could hear the anger creeping into McGonagall's voice. They couldn't help but admire the infamous boy.
No one dared to casually provoke Professor McGonagall.
Truly the Chosen One—effortlessly doing what they could never dream of!
As McGonagall approached with a deceptively calm demeanor, Ron panicked and pinched Harry's arm.
…
Harry opened his eyes.
He surveyed his surroundings, his gaze filled with confusion and wariness.
[Where am I? Is this still Cassel College?]
As the ace operative of the Execution Department, an S-rank hybrid on par with Lu Mingfei, the destined dragon slayer, the bloodline arbiter, and Principal Angers' chosen successor, Harry's mind raced after a moment of bewilderment.
[Last night, I was up late playing Street Fighter 3 online with Eri. Why did I wake up in this place? Who's responsible?]
[Fingel? Possible. I've always known that deadbeat senior isn't as simple as he seems.]
[Lu Mingfei? Nah, that guy's too busy gaming and fawning over his senior sister. If he pulled this off, I'd have to give him credit for stepping up.]
[Chu Zihan? That cold-faced killer would just come at me with Murasame if he wanted me dead.]
[Dragon Kings? The Bronze and Fire King died in White Emperor City, the Earth and Mountain King fell in the Nibelungen of Beijing's subway, and the White King was obliterated by Tokyo's orbital weapon… Could it be the other two Dragon Kings reviving? Or perhaps the Black King Nidhogg reclaiming his throne?]
[This looks like a medieval wizard gathering… Another Nibelungen?]
[Wait, wizards?! This is…]
Harry froze. A breeze seemed to stir in the depths of his soul, lifting a corner of the sealed memories in his mind, which began to glow faintly.
[Hogwarts?!]
…
"It seems our much-anticipated Chosen One is ready to make his grand debut by showcasing his… uniqueness. What's it going to be? A clown act from a circus troupe? Or a country troll seeing an English town for the first time?"
The speaker was Professor Snape, a gaunt man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy black hair that fell to his shoulders.
A cold smirk played on his lips, his words dripping with sarcasm, as only a master of shade could deliver.
The Slytherin table burst into laughter, with Draco Malfoy, his pale blond hair gleaming, pounding the table and jeering with unrestrained glee.
Hermione shot them a glare before turning her worried gaze back to Harry.
Harry followed the voice, startled.
Who's this Batman wannabe? The greasy version, no less.
As the two-year roommate of Fingel and Lu Mingfei, Harry instinctively fired back: "Professor, did you wash your hair in the Ganges River? Or did you glue bat wings to your head?"
The Gryffindor table exploded into laughter. Two redheaded boys led the cheers, somehow producing a firecracker ribbon, shooting it into the air, and shouting, "Harry, we love you! You're definitely Gryffindor material!"
The smirk vanished from Snape's face. His lips trembled with rage, and he instinctively wanted to dock points from Harry, only to realize he hadn't even been sorted yet.
[He's exactly like his arrogant, insolent, conceited father—carved from the same mold!]
Snape fumed silently, his cold, venomous gaze locked on Harry like a serpent's.
"Enough! This is Sorting time!"
McGonagall's face was ashen. "Mr. Potter, do I need to call your name a fourth time?"
"Sorry, Professor."
Harry spoke softly, his thoughts a tangled mess.
He remembered now.
After seven years in that fast-paced, blade-and-blood-filled world, he had nearly forgotten where he truly came from.
Eleven years old when he left, eleven years old when he returned. Those seven years in between felt like a distant dream, yet so vivid.
Harry slowly walked forward, picked up the wizard hat, and placed it on his head.
A pungent smell hit him, like Fingel's months-unwashed underwear left to ferment, mixed with the head oil of dozens of young witches and wizards before him. It reminded Harry of the miserable time he got food poisoning from a roadside stall while chasing a hybrid in India.
The brim of the hat covered his eyes.
The Sorting Hat began its work, a ritual it had performed for over a thousand years. Its power seeped into Harry's mind, muttering to itself:
"Dumbledore asked me to sort this kid into Gryffindor… Hmph, who does he think he is? A mere headmaster, daring to meddle in the sacred Sorting process?"
"But this is the first time in years Dumbledore's made such a request… Fine, let's see what makes this kid so special to warrant his attention…"
"Hmm, why is there such a vast fog in his memory?"
"Wait…"
The Sorting Hat probed the fog in the depths of Harry's soul but found nothing. Cautiously, it ventured deeper, catching only a glimpse of the truth, yet it was enough to make its pointed tip tremble.
A thick scent of blood wafted out, laced with the stench of rust and death. The ground was littered with the corpses of strange, unrecognizable creatures—dark, twisted, half-dragon, half-serpent, covered in scales.
A scarred boy stood with a sword in hand, atop a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, surrounded by the roars of unknown, mighty beings.
"Merlin's suspenders…"
The Sorting Hat was terrified. A single word nearly slipped out instinctively—
"Azkaban!"