While Charles was lost in thought, staring into the flickering yellow flames, Dumbledore's calm voice brought him back to the present.
"I'm glad to see you attending the feast tonight, Charles. I haven't seen much of you this past month," Dumbledore said softly. "How is the Nature Reserve coming along?"
"It's mostly finished now," Charles replied. "Nearly two hundred species of Pokémon have settled there. If you have the time, you should come and see it."
"I would be delighted to," Dumbledore said, his crescent-shaped glasses glinting as he spoke. "By the way, after the feast, could you come to my office? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."
Although the headmaster's eyes were on Charles, Charles knew his true focus was on Quirrell. From the very start, Dumbledore had known there was something wrong with him.
Charles nodded. He could already guess what Dumbledore wanted. Most likely, it was to have him design a challenge to protect the Philosopher's Stone—something for the so-called savior boy to overcome later.
The thought of making things difficult for young Harry was, of course, quite entertaining to him.
Not long after, the returning students filed into the Great Hall, taking their seats according to house. The new first-years, who had to cross the lake by boat, would arrive a little later. Professor McGonagall was already waiting for them at the entrance.
"George, look! That man there—he's our new professor," Fred said the moment he sat down, fidgeting like he had ants crawling on him. "He's the one from the Daily Prophet! The paper said he single-handedly took down several pure-blood wizards and only released them when the Aurors arrived. But—"
Before Fred could finish, George jumped in eagerly, "But Dad said those Aurors were the ones who got beaten black and blue! And it wasn't just a few pure-blood wizards—it was more than twenty! Dumbledore himself had to show up before he'd stop. Brilliant, isn't he? I hope he's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year!"
Lee Jordan's jaw nearly dropped. He'd read that article, of course—but he hadn't believed a word of it. The Daily Prophet had sunk so low it was no better than The Quibbler for sensational nonsense.
"Wait—hold on. You two aren't serious, are you?"
"Of course we are," Fred said. "You think the paper dares print the full truth? Look at the Slytherin table—half of them look ready to strangle him already."
Lee turned to look. Sure enough, several Slytherins were glaring daggers at the man seated at the staff table, their faces dark with barely concealed hostility—but none of them dared to do anything about it.
It was deeply satisfying to watch.
"You know, Charlie was in the same year as him," Fred continued. "And Bill knows him, too. He said that when this guy was only in second year, he challenged every single Slytherin to a one-on-one duel—and won."
"What? But if he's the same age as your brother Charlie, then he only just graduated, right? How could he already be a professor?" Lee asked incredulously.
"Why not?" George grinned. "If you could knock out twenty Aurors by yourself, people would probably let you be Minister for Magic if you wanted—let alone a teacher. Still, I'd prefer if he just teaches us how to flatten those Slytherin gits."
"But how come I've never heard of him before now?" Lee asked.
"Simple," Fred explained. "Charlie and Bill said he was expelled in third year. The Ministry even broke his wand. Everyone thought that was the end of his magic career. Clearly, they were wrong."
The twins exchanged a mischievous look, then burst out laughing.
"I think we could give that a try too—"
"Better not. Mum would kill us."
Lee had no idea what they were plotting, but before he could ask, Professor McGonagall entered with a group of wide-eyed first-years trailing behind her. He immediately fell silent.
The young students looked both nervous and excited—some whispering anxiously, others staring in awe at the enchanted ceiling and the glittering candles floating in midair.
"I told little Ron that they'd have to fight a troll before they could be sorted," Fred whispered gleefully. "Look at him—he's terrified."
Professor McGonagall stepped forward and set a small stool in front of the hall. Then, to everyone's surprise, she placed on it a tattered, dirty old hat.
The Great Hall fell silent.
Then, to the astonishment of the first-years, the hat suddenly began to sing:
You may not think I'm much to see,But don't judge by appearance, please.If you can find a finer hat,I'll gladly eat myself for that.
You can place me on your head and find,Where dwell your heart, your soul, your mind—The brave and bold, the pure and true,I'll find the house that fits for you!
Charles barely resisted the urge to cover his ears. The Sorting Hat's song was painfully bad. Next time, he decided, he'd have to treat these rustic wizards to a true performance—from a Jigglypuff.
When the song ended, the new students finally relaxed, realizing that all those rumors about battling trolls, dragons, or performing magic tests were utter nonsense. The Sorting Ceremony was simply—wear the hat, and let it decide.
"I'm going to kill Fred," Ron muttered angrily to Harry. "He made it sound like we'd have to fight a troll!"
Professor McGonagall unrolled a long parchment.
"When I call your name, put on the hat and sit on the stool to await your House," she said. "Hannah Abbott!"
A rosy-cheeked girl with two golden pigtails stumbled forward and placed the hat on her head. It slipped down over her eyes as she sat nervously. After a brief pause—
"Mmmmm—HUFFLEPUFF!"
The hat bellowed the last word. The Hufflepuff table erupted into cheers and applause.
After the first student, the rest of the process went much more smoothly. The new students' tension turned into eager excitement as they craned their necks to see who would be called next.
Harry, however, was still nervous. He wasn't sure if he had any of the qualities the hat had sung about. What if the Sorting Hat decided he wasn't fit for any house—and sent him straight back to Privet Drive before term even began?
That would be mortifying beyond words.
He watched as the snide boy he'd met in Diagon Alley—who'd also tried to pick a fight with him on the train—strode up. The Hat had barely touched his hair when it shouted:
"SLYTHERIN!"
Harry's stomach dropped. He prayed harder than ever not to end up in that house.
Moments later, Professor McGonagall's voice rang out again:
"Harry Potter!"
The Great Hall fell completely silent. Then, in an instant, whispers spread like wildfire.
"Potter? Did she say Potter?"
"Is it the Harry Potter?"
Charles noticed Snape's eyes snap toward the boy—sharp, unblinking, and fixed on him with unnerving intensity, as though he couldn't tear them away.
(End of Chapter)