Manipulating Both Sides (Seeking Investment, Seeking Follow-up Reads)

Harry did not need the hat to show him the way.

It might sound a bit perverse—he remembered the scent of Percy, and by following that scent, he could find the Gryffindor common room.

Ron and the others were still waiting for Harry to return.

"Harry, you went to find Albus..." Ron hurried over, but before he could finish, he caught sight of the hat tucked into Harry's belt and jumped in shock. "Oh, no, did you go and steal the Sorting Hat?"

"It's a loan. I borrowed it," Harry corrected, serious about the error in Ron's words.

The Sorting Hat grumbled, "Harry, you're a good lad, but can we negotiate? Could you not keep me upside down, please?"

"Besides, hats are meant to be worn. I am a wizard's hat, and you are a wizard; we are a perfect match."

Harry shook his head, his tone firm and decisive: "No, wearing it on my head is inconvenient. This way is handier."

The Sorting Hat paused, its tone dejected: "I feel like you're treating me as a scabbard."

"Isn't a scabbard better than a hat?" Harry countered.

The Sorting Hat spat, or at least it would have if it could, and it certainly would have spat right in Harry's face: "Pah! A hat is obviously better than a scabbard!"

"You have a much worse personality than Gryffindor, you stinking brat!"

It grumbled and cursed as Harry brought it into the dormitory.

After a day of running about, Harry felt a bit weary and fell into a deep sleep.

By the next day, before the sky had even brightened, he was awake. He ran two laps around the castle, brought the Sword of Gryffindor along, and practiced his swordsmanship against a tree stump for a while.

After finishing breakfast in the Great Hall, he returned to the dormitory to wake the others and headed to class with them.

The first day of school, September 2nd—a Monday—had courses that left Harry quite excited.

History of Magic in the morning, Herbology in the afternoon.

History of Magic inevitably disappointed many of the new students. Professor Binns was a ghost, reciting from the textbook in that unique, hoarse, and cold, emotionless tone of the dead, only occasionally throwing in a sudden, sharp observation.

Most people listened until they were drowsy.

Only Harry and Hermione were very attentive.

The words of the long-lived are always full of wisdom—and ghosts, in a way, are another form of the long-lived.

Herbology was more interesting.

The professor was the Head of Hufflepuff, a short, stout lady named Sprout. She looked unremarkable, even a bit perfunctory, but her mastery of Herbology was profound. Every question Harry raised was answered by her with deep insight made simple.

Classes ended at three.

Harry doggedly chased her with questions until four—the only reason it was just an hour was because the older students had classes; otherwise, Harry would have kept on asking.

He shamelessly tried to sit in on the next session.

He was dismissed with a "Five points to Gryffindor" from Sprout. She liked this diligent, clever little lion, but the upper-year courses were somewhat dangerous, and she dared not let Harry participate.

Tuesday brought two new subjects—Charms and Transfiguration.

The Charms professor was that Professor Flitwick, who possessed goblin blood, and he spent the entire period teaching them magical theory.

When class ended, most of the students hurriedly packed their bags and rushed toward the Transfiguration classroom.

Harry stayed behind.

Flitwick looked at him with great joy, speaking with warmth and eagerness: "I've heard from Sprout and Professor Binns that you are a little wizard who loves to ask questions. You really should have been in Ravenclaw."

"Did you run into some problem?"

Harry nodded: "I heard from Hagrid that you have goblin blood, so do you know any master blacksmiths?"

Flitwick paused, his thoughts tangling in his head, and he asked dryly: "So you aren't asking me about Charms?"

"There's no time today; I have Transfiguration class in a moment," Harry said, his face expressionless.

Flitwick felt a bit disappointed: "Oh, very well."

"I do know a master smith, but goblins... their personalities are all a bit problematic. They are highly skilled, but very greedy."

"Professor, could I trouble you to help me contact one?" Harry took the Sorting Hat from his belt and pulled a bag of Galleons out from inside it. "This is your compensation."

Flitwick's expression softened, and he shook his head: "It is only right for a professor to help a student."

"Besides, you are quite exceptional. Albus told me you seem to have mastered a novel spell. If you have time on Friday afternoon..."

"Let's make it Saturday. If you have time on Saturday, you can come to my office."

Harry placed the Galleons on the table and turned to leave: "Thank you, Professor!"

Others might say they don't want it, but he could not fail to give it.

Flitwick shook his head and flicked his wand, and the money bag immediately flew into the hat.

The Sorting Hat spat and sputtered, shouting: "Hey! Harry is one thing, but Filius, why are you treating me like a pocket too? That's enough!"

"I am a hat! The great hat of Gryffindor!"

First-year students were not very good at finding their way around.

The staircases at Hogwarts were quite problematic—like a labyrinth whose paths shifted at any given moment.

Fortunately, Ron followed Harry, and aside from a slight delay caused by the disobedient stairs, their journey was relatively smooth.

They were the first to arrive at the Transfiguration classroom.

"Harry, your sense of direction is truly amazing." Ron envied this ability; the erratic nature of Hogwarts had been interesting at first, but once the novelty wore off, it became a real headache. "If I were alone, I'd probably still be wandering around somewhere."

Harry didn't speak, his gaze fixed intently on the cat sitting atop the teacher's desk.

"How is there a cat here?" Ron followed his line of sight, muttering in confusion. "Professor McGonagall's pet?"

"Wait, Harry!" his tone suddenly shifted to one of pleasant surprise.

"Look at the markings on its face—don't they look just like Professor McGonagall's glasses..."

Harry stepped forward, grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck, and began flipping its ears to inspect them. "It doesn't just look like her; this cat is Professor McGonagall."

Tsk, tsk, how marvelous, he thought. This fur, this structure...

This cat was Professor McGonagall?

The statement left Ron stunned, recalling his parents mentioning that Professor McGonagall was a master of Transfiguration and one of the seven Animagi registered with the Ministry of Magic.

A tabby cat.

Oh, no!

Ron's face turned deathly pale, his eyes widening in alarm as he let out a cry and grabbed Harry's arm.

"Harry, stop! What are you doing!"

He couldn't hold Harry back; the young Witcher persisted in examining the tabby's paws, skeleton, and tail...

But his exclamation finally caused the tabby in Harry's hands to react. It struggled to the floor and transformed into an elderly woman in green robes—their Head of Gryffindor and Professor of Transfiguration, McGonagall.

"Mr. Potter, you recognized me from the start?" McGonagall narrowed her eyes, her tone stern.

Harry nodded. "Yes."

"Then you..." McGonagall's tone grew even more severe.

Harry looked sincere. "I was simply curious. Professor, your Animagus form lacks any trace of magical aura. If not for your scent, I might have mistaken you for an ordinary cat."

"Upon inspection just now, it felt no different from a normal cat—the spine, the muscles, the claws that could extend and retract."

Without prior contact with McGonagall, no one would be on guard against such a cute little kitten.

McGonagall's tone remained unchanged. "Animagus is a form of Transfiguration that truly turns one into an animal. In fact, it is quite dangerous; some immature practitioners may even suffer from mental confusion, believing they have truly become the animal."

"If you are very interested in it, perhaps by your fifth or sixth year, or maybe even sooner, you might be able to attempt learning this spell."

Harry nodded. "Thank you for your guidance, Professor McGonagall."

"One more question." McGonagall's expression did not soften; if anything, it became more serious. "Is my scent that strong?"

Harry shook his head. "No, you have no scent. My senses are simply sharper than most, allowing me to pick up on things others cannot."

McGonagall's expression relaxed slightly as she looked at Ron.

Ron was frozen like a wooden chicken, and upon being caught in her gaze, he hurriedly nodded like a pecking chick.

"Is that so? That's good." McGonagall let out a breath. "Mr. Potter, I will forgive you this time, but remember for the future: even if you are curious, you must not lay hands on a professor."

"Yes, Professor," Harry replied obediently.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor!" the Sorting Hat suddenly interjected, shouting out.

The sound made Ron's face go white, and he looked at the Sorting Hat in terror.

A murderous aura began to rise from Professor McGonagall.

"Hey, Minerva, don't be angry, I was just joking." The Sorting Hat wobbled as it explained. "I'm just a hat; I don't have the authority to deduct points."

Ron let out a sigh of relief.

He had been scared to death, truly believing Harry was about to become a sinner in the eyes of Gryffindor.

"You Gryffindors are always like this," the Sorting Hat muttered. "Either you're far too humorous, or you have no sense of humor at all."

"Why can't you be like Albus, with just the right amount of wit?"

Harry and Ron found seats and sat down.

Professor McGonagall did not transform back into a tabby cat. She stood sternly by the lectern, and while the two young wizards weren't looking, she secretly cast several "Scourgify" spells on herself.

The other students arrived one after another; Transfiguration was a very interesting subject.

It was just a bit difficult.

After teaching the magical theory, Professor McGonagall handed each of them a matchstick and told them to try turning it into a needle.

By the time the lesson ended, only Harry and Hermione had managed to make the matchstick change. Harry had completely transformed his match into a needle, while Hermione had fallen just short, producing only a needle point with the wooden matchstick remaining at the tail.

A trace of a smile appeared on Professor McGonagall's face as she righteously and naturally awarded five points to Gryffindor—three for Harry and two for Hermione.

Wednesday's Defense Against the Dark Arts class left Harry feeling very disappointed.

Professor Quirrell no longer gave off that strange sensation that made his scar ache, but... the man was completely incompetent, stuttering and rambling, and his descriptions of the Dark Arts were far less useful than simply reading a book.

When it came to a mere ghoul, he couldn't draw a standard structural diagram, nor could he clearly explain its weaknesses; he just stammered through some countermeasures that made Harry frown deeply.

Setting a fire, making a loud noise, or throwing a piece of rotten meat.

He didn't even mention a single effective spell or targeted potion.

Is this how one repels Dark creatures?

Is he teaching them how to keep pets?

Ron, however, quite agreed with Professor Quirrell—his family had a ghoul at home, and when his mother dealt with it, she used exactly those methods; his family did, in fact, treat the ghoul more like a pet.

Thursday continued with Transfiguration and Charms.

Harry finally satisfied Flitwick, pestering him with so many questions after class that he nearly delayed the lesson for the following year group.

Gryffindor First Year Schedule:

Monday: Morning History of Magic, Afternoon Herbology

Tuesday: Morning Herbology, Afternoon Charms, Transfiguration

Wednesday: Morning Defense Against the Dark Arts, Afternoon Herbology

Thursday: Morning Transfiguration, Afternoon Charms (Once Flying lessons begin, they are scheduled after Charms)

Friday: Two morning periods of Potions, no afternoon classes

QAQ, the number of followers in the background is rising, but everyone could pop up and invest a bit more, come on, invest a little more; it's so quiet that I'm getting a bit nervous.