The young wizards stared at the petrified ghosts, their minds filled with confusion. Their parents had never explained what the Sorting test truly entailed. Would they have to duel these beings later?
If they were assigned such opponents, surrender would be the only option. Otherwise, they would undoubtedly end up on their knees in defeat.
Harry understood their fear. They were in no league with him. The magic he wielded against the ghosts was inconsequential for these children. A single punch, with twenty points of strength, could easily incapacitate them.
If the test involved multiple rounds or duels between students, Harry would have persuaded the weaker ones to surrender rather than fight. Avoiding a free punch of a "Stupefy—physical version" seemed the kind and righteous approach.
"Mr. Potter! Please explain what you have done!"
A sharp voice pierced the tense silence. "The Sorting Ceremony hasn't even begun, and you are already here—"
Professor McGonagall had returned.
Her words carried the same firmness Hermione had displayed on the train. Even in the presence of Harry's domineering aura, she dared to speak with authority. Harry, though, was momentarily confused.
"What do you mean, Professor? Didn't I pass? Weren't these ghosts part of the test?"
Professor McGonagall hesitated. "Ah… child, that's what you think? You—"
"Why would you make eleven-year-old children fight?" she scolded, shaking her head at the reckless boy.
Then, a black-haired, middle-aged wizard appeared silently, his presence carrying a ghostly weight. Though very much alive, he exuded gloom, as though clinging to a sliver of hope.
Harry noticed the greasy hair, a stark contrast in the wizarding world where magical shampoos were common—even patented by his own family long ago.
This wizard radiated malice. His danger index far surpassed McGonagall, who showed little intent to fight. The claim that children would not be made to fight felt absurd to Harry. He could sense the man's restrained desire to engage in combat—he could almost imagine a three-hundred-round duel with Harry inside the school.
And, strangely, a subtle, unsettling aura suggested he might be a perverse character. Harry's instincts tingled: he needed to remain vigilant.
Tightening his grip on his wand, he unleashed the King's Power above his head. The scar of the Red God on his right wrist glowed brightly, while Light Bringer, his last resort, shimmered faintly.
The ominous black-blue runes on his left hand spread, forming large sigils, while translucent javelins condensed in midair, chilling the corridor.
"Potter, your recklessness exceeds my imagination. Are you planning to fight me?"
The black-haired professor was taken aback. He had anticipated many outcomes, but not this one. The silent, wandless Harry from the Dursleys seemed ordinary, but here he stood, emanating formidable ice magic. Could he really defeat this boy?
Just then, another voice called out.
"Harry, what spell did you use?"
An old man, seemingly unreliable, was poking the ghost of the Fat Friar with his wand. Harry recognized him from cards and extracurricular books—the strongest wizard in the world in his mind's hypothetical list.
Dumbledore. When did he arrive?
Professor McGonagall quickly regained control. "First-years, form a single line. Follow me."
Harry had already lifted the petrification on the ghosts and offered his apologies. He realized he had misunderstood; McGonagall had genuinely been preparing the Sorting Ceremony, and the ghosts were merely passing through. Any apparent mischief was her subtle humor at play.
Harry thought wryly: adults always found ways to play jokes on children. Very playful. I will never reveal the sorting method to first-years in advance.
Fortunately, Harry's charm value was high. Even if he had cast Avada Kedavra, it would injure without killing—allowing him to use a killing curse like a controlled "Stupefy." The petrification, nonfatal from the start, had been lifted without harming a single ghost. His martial arts precision and control were impeccable.
Passing through the Great Hall doors, he saw students from older years already seated around four long tables. Thousands of floating candles illuminated the hall, casting a warm glow. The ghosts scattered among the students, avoiding him. Peeves, recently awakened, bowed to Harry: "Great Mr. Potter, you are the true King of Children." He flickered and vanished, presumably fleeing.
All eyes were on Harry Potter. Even before officially enrolling, he had caused a stir.
Harry's gaze lifted toward the ceiling. Stars twinkled on the velvety black expanse—space magic, no doubt. From the outside, the ceiling seemed low, but the interior had been magically expanded.
Water and fire magic felt commonplace here. Beyond Aguamenti and Incendio, Harry had knowledge of ice and fire magic cultivation, courtesy of his divine power. These were minor manifestations of the Red God and Cold God—powers whose cosmic struggle could influence winter and summer.
Space-time magic, however, felt advanced. Could it be used in combat? With his charm, Harry reasoned that if it seemed possible, it probably was.
Hermione whispered: "It's enchanted here—it looks just like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."
Harry decided then that Hermione would be his external brain, analyzing and advising. Ron, with his knowledge of gossip and Hermione's research combined, became his strategical ally—a Sleeping Dragon and a Young Phoenix, unstoppable together. Hogwarts was practically his domain.
Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool before the first-years and positioned a pointed Wizard's hat upon it. The hat was patched, old, and grimy. Anyone could believe it had been decades in use.
Then the hat stirred. A wide slit opened, forming a mouth. It began to sing:
"You may think I am ugly,
But never judge by appearance.
If you find a prettier hat than me,
I'll eat myself—because I'm a thinking magical hat!"
The lyrics, lengthy and whimsical, introduced the four houses. Gryffindor was praised as brave, courageous, spirited, and chivalrous. Slytherin, by contrast, was described as ambitious, cunning, and unscrupulous, though still loyal to its friends.
Harry frowned. Did the hat favor a particular house, or simply mirror its owner's stance? Why didn't Slytherin students tear it apart?
Go on, don't lose face, he thought mischievously. Kick that hat's butt with your boots!
He looked toward the Slytherin table, ready for whatever surprises awaited.