Harry didn't need a hat to show him the way.
It might have sounded a little perverted—he remembered Percy's scent, and could find the Gryffindor Common Room by following it.
Ron and the others were still waiting for Harry to come back.
"Harry, did you go find Dumbled—" Ron went to meet him, but broke off when he saw the hat tucked into Harry's belt. His eyes widened. "Oh, no. You stole the Sorting Hat?"
"Borrowed. I borrowed it," Harry corrected Ron seriously.
The Sorting Hat grumbled, "Harry, you're a good lad, but could we discuss not hanging me upside down?"
"Besides, hats are meant to be worn. I'm a wizard's hat, and you're a wizard. We're a perfect match."
Harry shook his head, enunciating each word firmly. "No. Wearing it on my head would be inconvenient. This way, it's more handy."
The Sorting Hat was taken aback. "I think you're treating me like a sword sheath."
"Isn't a sword sheath better than a hat?" Harry shot back.
The Sorting Hat spat—or would have, if it could. It would have loved to spit right in Harry's face. "Pah! A hat is obviously better than a sword sheath!"
"You're much worse than Gryffindor ever was, you little brat!"
It continued to grumble as Harry carried it into the dormitory.
After a day of rushing around, Harry was tired too, and soon fell into a deep sleep.
The next day, before the sky had even begun to brighten, he woke up and ran two laps around the castle. He also brought the Sword of Gryffindor along and practiced with it against a tree stump for a while.
After breakfast in the Great Hall, he returned to the dormitory, woke the others in his room, and went to class with them.
The first day of classes—Monday, September 2—left Harry very excited.
History of Magic in the morning, Herbology in the afternoon.
History of Magic inevitably disappointed many of the first-years. Professor Binns was a ghost, and in the raspy, impassive voice unique to ghosts, he read from the textbook, occasionally adding a viewpoint out of the blue.
Most of the students were soon nodding off.
Only Harry and Hermione listened attentively.
The words of those who had lived a long time were always worth hearing—and ghosts were another kind of long-lived being, after all.
Herbology was more interesting.
Their professor was the head of Hufflepuff, a short, plump woman named Sprout. She looked quite ordinary, even a little unenthusiastic, but her knowledge of Herbology was profound. She explained every question Harry asked in clear, accessible terms.
Class ended at three.
Harry kept asking her questions until four. The only reason he stopped after an hour was that the older students had classes; otherwise, he would have kept right on asking.
He shamelessly tried to sit in on one.
Sprout brushed him off with "Five points to Gryffindor." She liked this hardworking, clever Little Lion, but the upper-year classes were a little dangerous, and she didn't dare let Harry join in.
On Tuesday, there were two new classes—Charms and Transfiguration.
Their Charms professor was Professor Flitwick, who had goblin ancestry. He spent the entire lesson teaching them Magical Theory.
When class ended,
most of the students hurriedly packed their bags and rushed to the Transfiguration classroom.
Harry stayed behind.
Flitwick looked at him with delight and asked warmly, "I've heard from Sprout and Professor Binns that you're a young wizard who loves asking questions. You really should have been in Ravenclaw."
"Is there something you're having trouble with?"
Harry nodded. "I heard from Hagrid that you have goblin ancestry. Do you know any master blacksmiths?"
Flitwick froze, his thoughts tying themselves into knots. He asked stiffly, "So you're not here to ask me about Charms?"
"I don't have time today. I have Transfiguration next," Harry replied expressionlessly.
Flitwick looked a little disappointed. "Oh, all right."
"I do know a master smith, but goblins... they all have their quirks. They're very skilled, but also very greedy."
"Professor, could I trouble you to get in touch with him?" Harry removed the Sorting Hat from his belt and pulled a bag of Galleons out of it. "This is for you."
Flitwick's expression softened. He shook his head. "It's a professor's duty to help students."
"Besides, you're very talented. Albus told me you seem to have mastered a novel spell. If you're free on Friday afternoon..."
"Actually, Saturday would be better. If you're free then, come find me in my office."
Harry left the Galleons on the desk and turned to go. "Thank you, Professor!"
Other people could say they didn't want payment, but he couldn't simply fail to offer it.
Flitwick shook his head and waved his wand. The money bag immediately flew into the hat.
The Sorting Hat gave a couple of offended sputters, then exclaimed, "Hey! Harry's one thing, but Filius, you're treating me like a pocket too? Enough already!"
"I'm a hat, the great hat of Gryffindor!"
First-years weren't very good at finding their way around.
Hogwarts's staircases were a problem too—they were like a maze whose paths could change at any moment.
Fortunately, Ron followed Harry. Aside from losing a little time when the stairs refused to cooperate, their trip went smoothly enough.
They were the first to reach the Transfiguration classroom.
"Harry, you're amazing at finding your way around," Ron said, envious. Hogwarts's strange, ever-changing layout had seemed fun at first, but once the novelty wore off, it became a real headache. "If I were on my own, I'd probably still be wandering around."
Harry didn't say anything. He stared straight at the cat on the desk.
"Why's there a cat here?" Ron followed his gaze and muttered in confusion. "Professor McGonagall's pet?"
"Wait, Harry!" His voice suddenly turned excited.
"Look at the markings on its face. Don't they look like Professor McGonagall's glasses?"
Harry went over in a single stride, grabbed the cat by the scruff, and checked its ears. "It doesn't just look like Professor McGonagall. This cat is Professor McGonagall."
He marveled inwardly. This fur, this structure...
This cat is Professor McGonagall?
Ron was stunned. Then he remembered his parents mentioning that Professor McGonagall was a Transfiguration expert, one of the seven Animagi registered with the Ministry of Magic.
A tabby cat.
Oh, no!
Ron's little face turned deathly pale. Eyes wide, he grabbed Harry's hand and cried out.
"Harry, stop! What are you doing?"
He couldn't pull Harry away. The young Witcher kept examining the tabby's claws, bones, tail...
But his cry finally got the tabby cat in Harry's hands to react. It struggled free and landed on the floor, transforming into an elderly woman in green robes: their Gryffindor head of house and Transfiguration professor, McGonagall.
"Mr. Potter, did you recognize me right away?" McGonagall narrowed her eyes, her voice stern.
Harry nodded. "Yes."
"Then why..." McGonagall's voice grew even sterner.
Harry looked completely sincere. "I was just curious. Your Animagus form has no trace of magic about it. If I hadn't recognized your scent, I might have mistaken you for an ordinary cat."
"Just now, when I examined you, you were no different from a normal cat either. Your spine and muscles, even your claws, all moved just like a cat's."
If they hadn't met McGonagall before, no one would have been wary of such a cute little cat.
McGonagall's tone didn't change. "An Animagus is a type of Transfiguration that truly turns a person into an animal. It's actually very dangerous. Some inexperienced users can even become confused and believe that they really are the animal."
"If you're interested in it, perhaps when you're in fifth or sixth year—or maybe even earlier—you'll be able to start learning the spell."
Harry nodded. "Thank you for the advice, Professor McGonagall."
"One more question." McGonagall's expression hadn't softened at all; if anything, she looked even sterner. "Do I smell very strongly?"
Harry shook his head. "No, you don't smell at all. My senses are just especially sharp, so I can pick up scents that most people can't."
McGonagall's expression relaxed a little. She looked at Ron.
Ron stood frozen, but when she turned her gaze on him, he quickly bobbed his head like a pecking chicken.
"Is that so? Good." McGonagall let out a breath. "Mr. Potter, I'll forgive you this time. But remember, next time, even if you're curious, you mustn't handle your professor."
"Yes, Professor," Harry said obediently.
"Fifty points from Gryffindor!" the hat suddenly interjected.
Ron's face went pale with fright. He looked at the Sorting Hat in terror.
McGonagall's gaze began to turn murderous.
"Hey, Minerva, don't be angry. I was only joking," the Sorting Hat explained, wobbling back and forth. "I'm just a hat. I don't have the authority to take away points."
Ron let out a sigh of relief.
That had scared him badly. He'd really thought Harry was about to become the bane of Gryffindor.
"You Gryffindors are always like this," the Sorting Hat grumbled. "Either you've got too much of a sense of humor, or you don't have one at all."
"Why can't you be like Albus and have just the right amount of humor?"
Harry and Ron found seats.
Professor McGonagall didn't turn back into a tabby cat. She stood sternly beside the lectern, and while the two young wizards weren't looking, she secretly cast Scourgify on herself several times.
The other students arrived one after another. Transfiguration was an interesting class too.
It was just a little difficult.
After teaching them the Magical Theory, Professor McGonagall handed each of them a matchstick and had them try to turn it into a needle.
By the end of the lesson,
only Harry and Hermione had managed to change their matchsticks. Harry had transformed his matchstick completely into a needle, while Hermione had fallen just short: she'd made a needlepoint, but the rest was still a wooden matchstick.
A hint of a smile appeared on Professor McGonagall's face. She naturally and quite justifiably awarded Gryffindor five points—three for Harry and two for Hermione.
Wednesday's Defense Against the Dark Arts class left Harry very disappointed.
Professor Quirrell no longer gave him that strange feeling that made his scar hurt, but... he was completely incompetent. He stammered and rambled, and his explanations of Dark Magic were even less useful than simply reading the book.
He couldn't even draw a proper diagram of a Ghoul, let alone explain its weaknesses. He stuttered through a few ways to deal with one, leaving Harry frowning.
Set it on fire, make a noise, or throw it a piece of rotten meat.
He didn't mention a single effective spell or any Potions specifically suited to the job.
Was this how you drove out dark magical creatures?
Or was he teaching them how to keep a pet?
Ron, on the other hand, agreed with Professor Quirrell. There was a Ghoul in his house, and when his mother dealt with it, she used those very methods. In fact, his family pretty much did keep their Ghoul as a pet.
Thursday was Transfiguration and Charms again.
Harry finally made Flitwick happy by asking him a whole lot of questions after class. He nearly delayed the next year's lesson.
Gryffindor first-year timetable:
Monday: History of Magic in the morning, Herbology in the afternoon
Tuesday: Herbology in the morning, Charms and Transfiguration in the afternoon
Wednesday: Defense Against the Dark Arts in the morning, Herbology in the afternoon
Thursday: Transfiguration in the morning, Charms in the afternoon (once Flying Class began, it would be scheduled after Charms)
Friday: two Potions lessons in the morning, no classes in the afternoon
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