What startled Harry even more was that this unkempt, greasy-haired professor seemed to "care" about him even more than Aunt Petunia ever had.
Harry was a little baffled. This was…
Could he be yet another poor soul his father had mocked and bullied?
From Aunt Petunia's stories, Harry had long since "learned" that his father James Potter hadn't exactly been a good person.
At that thought, Harry couldn't help giving the professor a sympathetic look.
Poor bloke, you must've taken a lot of flak from old Potter back then.
The professor froze for a second at Harry's reaction; he clearly hadn't expected that. Then he seemed to be enraged by it and glared at Harry with even greater disgust.
Harry could only sigh inwardly, but he had no intention of going over to apologize or ask for anyone's forgiveness.
This was a mess from the previous generation; it wasn't something he should have to carry.
He was just a poor, small, helpless Sorcerer Supreme in training, after all.
Giving the greasy-haired professor one last mild smile, Harry simply stopped paying him attention and let the man fume on his own.
The other figure that drew Harry's eye was Professor Quirrell, whom he'd met a month earlier at the Leaky Cauldron.
Noticing Harry looking his way, Professor Quirrell gave him a friendly nod, and Harry returned it with an equally pleasant smile.
He was already thinking about when exactly he ought to take Professor Quirrell's head off with a single sword stroke.
Before that, however, he'd either have to prove Quirrell's evil beyond doubt, or find a way to act out of sight and clear himself of any suspicion.
Harry had no desire to have just started school and already be at odds with the entire wizarding world on a charge of murdering a professor.
Hermione tugged on Harry's sleeve and pointed up at the ceiling.
The velvet-black ceiling above them glittered with points of starlight; that, too, was some sort of magic.
Tilting her head back, Hermione explained proudly:
"There's a spell on it. It looks even more dazzling than the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."
Seeing Miss Otter practically begging to be praised, Harry couldn't help but chuckle. He reached over and ruffled her hair.
"As expected of you, Hermione. That's amazing—this is something I didn't know."
Having her little head rubbed like that, Miss Otter's face went scarlet. She forced herself to sound composed.
"Mm… a-ahem, you're amazing too."
Watching this little witch his own age getting so shy, Harry's smile grew even brighter.
The line of first-years came to a halt. Professor McGonagall stood at the front, and with a piece of Transfiguration conjured a four-legged stool, then placed a shabby wizard's hat on top of it.
The hat was covered in patches, filthy and frayed, and even had a greasy shine to it. Both Harry and Hermione thought it was absolutely revolting.
Professor McGonagall raised her hand slightly, and the hall fell instantly silent.
At that moment, a wide rip opened along the brim of the hat, its wrinkles shifting to form a lumpy approximation of a human face.
To everyone's amazement, the hat began to sing. Its voice was hoarse, like some medieval ballad, but it actually sounded rather good.
When the song ended, the hall erupted in applause. The hat gave a little bow in return—quite polite, really.
By now, all the first-years had learned from the Sorting Hat's lyrics how the ceremony really worked, and they started grumbling about the relatives who had scared them half to death.
Ron, in particular, puffed up with indignation:
"I'm going to kill Fred—he told me we'd have to fight a troll!"
Harry could only feel helpless. Wizards had such a twisted sense of humor. It seemed to be an unspoken tradition to frighten the life out of each new batch of first-years.
Still, it was a relief. At least Hogwarts wouldn't be drenched in blood tonight.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward a few paces, parchment scroll in hand, and addressed the nervous children:
"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Hannah Abbott!"
A rosy-cheeked little witch with two golden plaits walked up, sat on the stool, and pulled the hat over her head; it slipped low enough to cover her eyes.
After a moment, the Sorting Hat shouted, "Hufflepuff!"
The table on the right broke into cheers and applause, welcoming her to sit with them.
Hufflepuffs really were a friendly lot.
"Susan Bones," Professor McGonagall called next.
"Hufflepuff!" Susan hurried over to sit beside Hannah. The two little witches had shared a boat earlier and were already friends.
"Terry Boot!"
"Ravenclaw!" The second table to the left clapped as well, though the studious Ravenclaws applauded with a bit more restraint.
"Lavender Brown!"
"Gryffindor!" She was Gryffindor's first new student, and the brave lions gave the loudest cheer of all.
Several more students were sorted, and soon it was Hermione's turn.
"Hermione Granger!" Professor McGonagall called.
Hermione looked very nervous. Harry felt a small hand clutch his own, slick with cold sweat.
With his free hand, Harry once again patted Miss Otter on the head.
"Go on. There's nothing to be so worked up about."
Hermione gradually relaxed, gave Harry a small nod, and pulled the grimy Sorting Hat down over her curls.
"Gryffindor!"
Her sorting surprised Harry a bit. He'd thought Hermione would end up in Ravenclaw, given what a studious little witch she was.
He hadn't expected her to be placed in Gryffindor at all. It seemed this little otter was quite brave as well.
When the boy who was always losing his toad—Neville—was called up, the result caught Harry off guard again.
The hat spent a very long time making up its mind, but in the end it yelled, "Gryffindor."
That meant that no matter how weak he looked, Neville wasn't lacking in courage.
Harry thought Neville might make a good future follower—right now, the kid practically worshipped him.
When Malfoy's name was called, the blond boy swaggered up to the stool.
The hat had barely brushed his hair before it bellowed:
"Slytherin!"
Malfoy was clearly delighted with the outcome. He went off to join his hulking sidekicks, Goyle and Crabbe.
Harry was actually rather envious of the pants-wetting little brat—at least he didn't have to let that filthy hat mess up his hair.
After Malfoy, there weren't many students left.
Moon… Nott… Parkinson… then the Patil twins… Sally-Anne Perks…
Finally, at last, it was—
"Harry Potter!" Even Professor McGonagall's voice sounded a little excited.
Every eye in the hall swung toward Harry. Curious whispers rose as they all studied the Boy Who Lived.
The overlapping buzz of hushed voices hissed like a cluster of tiny flames.
"Potter—is that really Harry Potter?" whispered a curious Hufflepuff who'd been trying all evening to see the lightning-shaped scar under Harry's fringe, but was still too far away to make it out.
"Wow, our Harry is so handsome!" sighed a Slytherin girl in her third year, eyes shining as she drank in his face.
Thanks to the nourishment of his magic, Harry was clearly taller than the other first-years—almost the height of a second-year—and he was only growing more and more handsome, edging closer and closer to perfection.
There was no way these naive young witches could resist Harry's charm!