Filch was a shabby-looking middle-aged man who seemed utterly worn out.
He had a ring of withered, grey-white hair around a bald patch, the classic "Mediterranean" hairline. His back was hunched, as if he suffered from arthritis or something similar.
His body was skinny, his skin loose, his eyes bulging like light bulbs, and his gaze was dark and sharp. Even sitting there in the Great Hall, he kept casting wary looks all around.
His clothes were terribly threadbare— even Ron's hand-me-down robes looked better than what he was wearing.
But the Maine Coon at his feet was beautiful. It was a bit on the thin side, yet its fur was kept very clean.
From the unremarkable Mr Filch, Harry could sense scattered traces of magic. A small part belonged to Filch himself—disordered, chaotic, impossible for him to wield. Most of the residue clinging to him came from spells cast by other people.
Harry quickly concluded that Mr Filch was the wizarding world's version of a Squib—someone born into a wizarding family but unable to perform magic. A pitiable soul.
He worked at Hogwarts, a school of magic, yet couldn't cast so much as a spark. All he could do was watch the young witches and wizards around him use magic, and he was quite likely looked down on by some of them.
And if things were really bad, pranksters like Ron's brothers, Fred and George, might even hex him for fun or play tricks on him.
What the students saw as a harmless joke could be a very big deal to Mr Filch.
Harry suspected that, for the chance to gain magic, this Mr Filch would probably be willing to pay with his very soul.
Harry, on the other hand, wasn't asking for much: loyalty, the freedom to roam the corridors at night, and a few insignificant Galleons. That would be enough.
He didn't expect Filch to develop any particularly powerful magical talent. A Squib's aptitude could hardly match a proper wizard's, after all.
So what kind of magic could he give this poor man?
The most basic telekinesis was a must—convenient for everyday use and with some combat potential besides. It was a practically perfect kind of magic.
Perhaps he could also grant him a magic-tracking charm and a spiritual-sight detection spell.
Those would be the perfect tools for dealing with naughty little students sneaking about after curfew.
An unconscious smirk tugged at the corner of Harry's mouth.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore was continuing his speech: "And finally, I would like to say a few words. And they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
The other students all looked confused, not understanding what those four words were supposed to mean.
Hermione, seeing the mischievous look on Harry's face, assumed he knew the answer and leaned over to ask:
"Harry, do you know what Headmaster Dumbledore meant by that?"
Harry blinked, then immediately realised that he did.
"They're the insults the four Houses use for the others.
Ravenclaw thinks everyone else is a nitwit, Gryffindor thinks everyone else is a crybaby, Slytherin thinks everyone else is rubbish, and as for the most easy-going little badgers—Hufflepuff feels that all three of the other Houses are hopelessly awkward and twisted.
Of course, that's just my guess."
"I see," Hermione breathed, her eyes shining as she looked at him.
Harry was amazing—this wasn't in any of the books.
Dumbledore finished his remarks as briskly as they'd begun, and Harry's fondness for the kindly old wizard only grew.
He was very much like the Sorcerer Supreme—decisive and to the point. If the Sorcerer Supreme saw demons invading Earth, he wouldn't waste time talking; he'd start casting a forbidden spell on the spot.
And Dumbledore didn't nag like Muggle headmasters tended to. He must be the same sort of man.
With Dumbledore's speech over, the feast officially began.
Harry felt a subtle ripple in space, and an instant later, vast quantities of food appeared on the plates.
Roast lamb, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, steaks, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, pea shoots, carrots, gravy, tomato sauce…
He had to admit, even if the raw firepower of wizarding magic wasn't much to write home about, it was incredibly convenient. Many of the most basic spells touched on knowledge that drilled all the way down to Kamar-Taj's deepest theories.
Take the Mending Charm, Reparo (Return to Original), for example—it involved the mysteries of time itself, a kind of magic only the Sorcerer Supreme and a handful of veteran masters could normally use.
As for the sudden appearance of all this food—no one without truly profound magical attainments could pull that off.
Harry was slowly realising that magic in the wizarding world had its own unique flavour. Compared to Kamar-Taj, which had to contend with incursions from dimensional demon gods, wizarding magic clearly focused much more on everyday life.
That might well be why the food here tasted so good. Even though Harry had sampled delicacies from many different places, the fare at Hogwarts still felt fresh and surprising to him.
Ron was happily gnawing on two chicken legs, while the other students chatted to each other, talking about their families and the spells they knew, making new friends.
Many students came over to greet Harry—even Slytherins, who normally didn't get along with Gryffindors, were no exception.
Harry answered every greeting one by one, his manners impeccable. Because he'd had to attend dinners with the Sorcerer Supreme and powerful mages from other dimensions, he had studied etiquette very carefully. No matter which student he was speaking to, he could make them feel warm and welcome.
Every student who'd exchanged even a few words with Harry ended up liking him. By the time he'd finished dealing with them all, he was feeling a bit tired.
Only then did he have a moment to ask the question that had been lurking in the back of his mind:
"Percy, who's the teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?"
Percy followed his gaze to the man beside Quirrell and answered:
"That's Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin."
"What subject does he teach?"
"Potions. I don't like him, but he's a Potions master. He's more than qualified to teach the subject.
But everyone knows he's most interested in the Dark Arts. He's had his eye on Quirrell's job for years."
Harry nodded and thanked Percy for the explanation, then mused to himself:
"A Potions master… If I remember correctly, my mum was a Potions master too. He was her friend, but my dad bullied him. Maybe that's why he both loves and hates me?"
Harry felt he'd probably hit on the right answer. Later on, he could ask Hagrid to confirm—since Hagrid had been his parents' friend, he ought to know the truth.
Ron seemed to have a special fondness for chicken legs. After polishing off two of them, he reached out for more—only to nearly jump out of his skin when a transparent head suddenly appeared beside him.
It was the head of a male ghost dressed in old-fashioned clothes, with a ruff around his neck, like some long-ago gentleman.
Seeing that he'd frightened the first-years so badly, the ghost beamed.
"Hello there! Welcome to Gryffindor!"
Ron squinted at him for a moment, then something clearly clicked. He pointed at the ghost and blurted out:
"I know who you are! My brothers told me about you—you're Nearly Headless Nick!"
Nick's face darkened. "I would prefer it if you called me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington!"
A boy named Seamus Finnigan asked curiously:
"Nearly headless? How can you be nearly headless?"
Harry immediately guessed what was coming next and ducked his head so he wouldn't have to look at Sir Nicholas.
Sure enough, a chorus of shrieks rang out a moment later. Hermione was so startled she clutched tightly at Harry's arm.
One glimpse of that gory, half-severed neck was enough to kill everyone's appetite—everyone except Harry, that is.
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