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HRA# Chapter 23: Snape’s Concern and the Sorting Ceremony
🕑 Added 2025-01-21 13:52:01 +0000 UTCThe most important point was Harry’s exceptional talent in Transfiguration. He could conjure weapons for himself anytime, anywhere—a skill that rendered confiscation meaningless.
Professor McGonagall, frustrated, simply returned the items to Harry, albeit with a sterner warning.
"I promise, Professor, unless it’s absolutely necessary," Harry assured her earnestly, understanding her concerns.
“You’d better,” Professor McGonagall said, giving Harry a long, piercing look. “And by the way, don’t think you’re escaping punishment. Detention has been arranged for you, starting in the third week of term.”
With those words, she turned to push the door open and re-enter the Great Hall. However, she paused briefly before stepping inside.
“…Impressive Transfiguration.”
The faint praise reached Harry’s ears.
With a loud clang, the castle doors shut behind her.
"…That was amazing, Harry," Ron finally whispered, peeking out from behind Harry after McGonagall left. "I could barely breathe while she was talking, and you just spoke to her so naturally."
“She’s a good professor,” Harry explained to Ron. “She has responsibilities to fulfill. After all, student safety is very important, and I understand her concerns. But I also have my own principles and things I need to do, so small conflicts are inevitable.”
“It’ll get better over time. Right now, it’s just that she doesn’t know us well, and we don’t know her either. If she were too kind, she wouldn’t be able to maintain discipline.”
Harry saw things very clearly.
"Hey, you’re still just a kid, Harry," Hermione couldn’t help but tease.
"Consider yourself lucky, Potter," came a cold snort from the first-year crowd before Harry could respond.
Harry turned and saw Draco Malfoy glaring at him with hatred.
As one of the instigators of the initial conflict, Draco had taken the brunt of the beatings. Ron and Neville, in particular, had targeted him, ignoring their own injuries to land punch after punch. Now, Malfoy was a mess.
His eyes were bruised black, his nose looked slightly crooked, and worst of all, someone had yanked out a clump of his hair, leaving him looking almost bald. Any trace of the refined elegance of a noble was utterly gone.
Of course, Ron and Neville didn’t look much better.
Perhaps as a lesson, Professor McGonagall had sent the severely injured students to the hospital wing, while those with minor injuries—like Malfoy—were left to endure the feast in their disheveled state.
At eleven, appearances mattered deeply.
This feud had only deepened.
“You’ll pay for this, Potter!” Draco spat venomously. “Even if Professor McGonagall doesn’t expel you, my father will! He’s a school governor! You’ll be back with your Muggle relatives, playing house-elf!”
The childish threat, laced with misplaced confidence, nearly made Harry laugh.
But Ron and Neville didn’t find it amusing.
“What did you say, Malfoy? Say that again if you dare!” Ron shouted.
Draco immediately shrank behind his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, who stepped forward as if ready to fight.
Unfortunately for them, when Harry stepped closer, all three instinctively backed away.
On the train, Harry had been the last one standing in the brawl, his clothes splattered with his opponents’ blood—a scene that had left an indelible mark on Malfoy and his gang.
“...Cowards,” Harry scoffed, his disdain cutting deeper than any blow. His tone was quiet but audible to all, and his mocking expression was honed to perfection.
Malfoy’s face turned crimson, and even some of his fellow Slytherins stifled laughter.
Though sorted into Slytherin, Draco’s dignity had taken a massive hit.
Unable to stomach the humiliation, Draco opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, the castle doors creaked open again. A figure in black robes stepped out.
“Professor!” Draco’s eyes lit up as if spotting salvation in the darkness. It was none other than Severus Snape, his personal hero.
“What’s going on here?” Snape’s voice was low and smooth, each word dripping with menace. “Perhaps Professor McGonagall’s punishments were too lenient, giving you all the impression that you can run wild without consequence...”
“Professor, it’s all their fault!” Draco quickly began to tattle. “They provoked me—”
“I’ve told you before, Draco,” Snape interrupted, his silky voice cutting through Draco’s complaints. “Address me by my title at school.”
“…Yes, Professor,” Draco muttered, swallowing his indignation.
But his spirits rose again when Snape turned toward Harry.
Was the big moment coming? Draco watched with bated breath.
“Hold out your hand,” Snape said coldly, his expression unreadable.
Harry obediently extended his hand, feeling something being placed into it.
“The castle is colder at night than you might expect,” Snape said cryptically before turning and walking away.
Draco was left devastated, his brief hope crushed.
“…What is it, Harry?” Neville whispered after Snape departed.
“Chocolate,” Harry said, breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth. “It’s definitely chocolate.”
“So, he came all the way here just to give you a piece of chocolate?” Ron’s jaw dropped. “And what was that supposed to mean?”
“I think he meant I should dress warmer to avoid catching a cold,” Harry guessed.
“Oh my God, did you see Malfoy’s face just now? He looked like someone punched him all over again,” Ron exclaimed, still in disbelief. “Remember what Fred said on the train? About the head of Slytherin? This doesn’t match at all!”
“Seeing is believing, Ron,” Harry replied with a shrug.
Fred’s description painted Snape as an oily-haired bat of a man, utterly biased toward Slytherin students and constantly punishing Gryffindors—a true villain.
But unlike the bewildered Ron, Harry understood the reason for Snape’s contradictory behavior.
It all stemmed from the promise Snape had made to Lily Potter’s soul a month ago—the vow he had taken.
Of course, Snape’s awkwardness in expressing himself didn’t help. Coupled with Harry’s resemblance to his father, the man’s gestures became even clumsier.
After all, his father had once stolen someone else's love with a blade... Harry understood—oh, he understood too well.
At that moment, the castle’s grand doors finally opened.
Even among all the Hogwarts Welcoming Feasts in history, tonight’s banquet would undoubtedly be remembered.
Unprecedentedly, two long house tables were barely half-full—some seats were completely empty. Even the other two houses had plenty of vacancies.
Many Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students had tried to take advantage of the Gryffindor-Slytherin brawl to settle some scores, only to find themselves swept deep into the fray, unable to escape.
The expressions of the four house heads were grim. Or rather, they couldn’t possibly look cheerful in front of the students under these circumstances.
Only after the older students, having received a thorough scolding and their punishments, slunk back to their house tables did things settle down—except, of course, for those with broken bones or severe injuries.
Those unlucky few would have to spend the night in the hospital wing, nursing themselves with potions.
By the time Professor McGonagall led Harry and the first-years into the Great Hall, the tables were already packed with people.
Though most of the students looked disheveled, when they saw the group beside Harry—faces adorned with dark circles and swollen bruises—the laughter began.
At first, it was just a chuckle, but it quickly grew, spreading through the entire hall until it became a roar of unrestrained laughter.
They were laughing at the first-years, but also at themselves and the state they were in.
Thousands of candles floating mid-air flickered and swayed with the laughter. Harry looked up at the enchanted ceiling, which reflected the night sky instead of solid stone. The projection of the stars outside was fascinating.
Unfortunately, what came next was far less amusing.
Harry watched as Professor McGonagall pulled out a hat—the Sorting Hat—which, he’d been told, would decide where each young wizard would live for the next seven years.
What happened next was a blur to Harry.
He only vaguely remembered the hat breaking into song, though the words all blended into a buzzing noise in his mind.
It was incredibly off-key.
Afterward, all he could recall was Professor McGonagall’s voice calling, “Hannah Abbott!”
The Sorting Ceremony had officially begun.
“Not Hufflepuff, not Hufflepuff...”
Harry could hear Neville muttering under his breath, eyes squeezed shut in prayer.
Was it really that bad? Harry quite liked what the books had said about Hufflepuff.
“Actually, the Sorting doesn’t affect our courses at all, Neville,” Harry whispered. “As long as it doesn’t stop you from learning any particular branch of magic, it doesn’t matter which house you’re in.”
It wasn’t like they were choosing between elemental paths—fire, frost, or arcane magic—that would dictate their entire magical career. Hogwarts’ houses only determined where they lived.
“But if I don’t get into Gryffindor, my gran will kill me!” Neville whispered back, even more distressed.
Ah, family pressure. Harry nodded in understanding and decided not to press further.
The Sorting took longer than Harry had expected. For some students, the hat immediately shouted their house upon touching their head, but for others, it seemed to deliberate endlessly, sometimes for ten or even twenty minutes.
Take Hermione, for example—the hat sat on her head for over ten minutes before it reluctantly shouted, “Gryffindor!”
Hermione, however, looked even more reluctant than the hat. Her face had turned green.
Especially when Ron yelled, “Knew it! You’re a Gryffindor!”
Hermione looked like she might strangle him on the spot.
As someone who had read many books and admired Dumbledore, Hermione did like Gryffindor in theory. But when she thought of Harry’s divination… that scene of herself crying in the bathroom…
Hermione felt like she was going insane.
If Harry’s prophecy was true, why would she be crying?! What could possibly happen in Gryffindor?!
When the hat touched Ron’s head, it instantly declared him a Gryffindor as well. But even amidst the cheers of his brothers at the Gryffindor table, Ron’s expression was far from happy.
After all, if Hermione’s vision was accurate, he’d end up punished and standing in some creepy classroom corner…
This was going to be a nightmare.
“Harry Potter!”
Finally, Harry’s name was called. By now, only a few first-years were left in line.
As the most famous new student—and the one who had caused quite the uproar earlier in the day—Harry walked toward the Sorting Hat amidst cheers and whistles, like a king approaching his throne.
“...Hufflepuff? I never imagined the child Dumbledore speaks of so often would want to go to Hufflepuff. How curious,” came a voice in Harry’s mind as the hat settled on his head.
“Legilimency?” Harry frowned.
“Of course not,” the hat replied sharply. “I only see surface thoughts—what you’re currently pondering. Sorting has nothing to do with memories. I judge based on your personality traits and mental qualities. You humans lack that kind of insight.”
“So, where do you think I belong?” Harry asked with interest.
“Gryffindor, without a doubt!” the hat declared without hesitation. “Kid, you were born for adventure! Your courage is unmatched—even grown wizards pale in comparison. I can’t detect a single ounce of fear in you!”
“You nearly drove Minerva mad today, you know!”
