Chapter 7

The climate in Great Britain is damp.

Even in September, the night air carries a biting, piercing chill.

Hagrid shook a massive lantern: "First years, first years! Over here, oh, Harry, are you alright? Come over to me."

They followed Hagrid along a narrow path to the lake, where they boarded small boats.

Rocking and swaying, they headed toward Hogwarts.

Each boat held four people; Harry, Ron, the buck-toothed, brown-haired otter girl he had met briefly on the train, and a timid little boy who looked like a Scottish Round-Faced Fat Chicken named Neville.

"Hello, we meet again," the otter girl greeted them.

Ron responded perfunctorily: "Hello."

Harry nodded, even more perfunctorily.

His attention was elsewhere, for instance... the complex, chaotic auras beneath the water, one of which felt exceptionally powerful; and for another... the magical aura that had been entwined with him and every other first-year student since they stepped onto the path.

As if the clouds had parted to reveal the sun, the magnificent castle of Hogwarts became increasingly clear and intimate in his eyes.

A contract with the castle itself?

Was the act of following in the footsteps of the four founders to discover Hogwarts a ritual in its own right?

The books hadn't mentioned it; these were things he could only ponder once he was inside Hogwarts.

Under Hagrid's guidance.

They walked to the castle gates, met the formidable-looking Deputy Headmistress Professor McGonagall, and were led into a side chamber to wait.

"How will they accurately sort us into our houses?" the brown-haired otter frowned, looking troubled.

Ron clenched his fists and looked at Harry: "Fred, one of my brothers, said it involves a test that is quite painful, but I suspect he was just joking with me."

"My uncle said it involves fighting a troll," Neville said with a terrified expression, clutching his toad, which was struggling incessantly in his grip.

Harry shook his head.

He didn't believe any of it.

Even a group as brutal as the Witchers wouldn't throw a child without any training in front of wraiths, ghouls, or nekkers.

"Don't worry, we've already signed a contract with Hogwarts," Harry patted Ron on the shoulder, "Perhaps... it's just a small spell to examine your personality before deciding which house to shove you into."

According to the books...

The bold and brainless are thrown into Gryffindor, the studious into Ravenclaw, the cunning and ambitious into Slytherin, and the rest into Hufflepuff.

Neville looked crestfallen: "Oh no, then I'll definitely end up in Hufflepuff."

"Does it matter which house you're in?" Harry asked, puzzled, "The skills you learn are all the same."

It was different from the Witcher schools.

Witchers also had many schools, but the skills one could learn varied between them.

The School of the Wolf produced the most disciplined Witchers, much like the School of the Griffin—focusing on the use of Signs, pre-battle preparation, and solid swordsmanship. The School of the Bear emphasized physical strength, wearing the heaviest armor and taking the hardest hits, while the School of the Cat was more like a group of assassins—a bunch of mentally unstable lunatics who hid in the shadows to perform sordid deeds.

The four houses of Hogwarts... seemed to correspond only to four types of character traits, while the skills taught were uniform, all instructed by the same faculty.

Neville tightened his grip on Trevor, and the toad let out a miserable, weak croak.

"If you are cowardly, no matter where you are, you will only grow up to be a coward," Harry looked at Neville and spoke bluntly, "Only by becoming strong within can you be truly strong."

Neville lowered his head.

"No, you shouldn't say that to Neville," the brown-haired otter bared her teeth at him, "He, he..."

"Is there a problem with what I said, Miss Otter?" Harry shook his head.

The brown-haired otter covered her mouth, staring at Harry with wide eyes: "Who is an otter? Did you not listen to my introduction on the boat? I am Hermione, Hermione Granger."

"Oh, right, Miss Granger, is there a problem with what I said?" Harry nodded, obediently changing his address, and repeated the question.

Hermione covered her mouth, grinding her teeth.

This was nothing like the savior she had imagined!

Professor McGonagall soon returned and led them into the Great Hall—the ceiling appeared transparent, revealing the celestial bodies of the night sky outside.

From the outside, it was about the same size as Kaer Morhen, the Witcher castle, and Harry had assumed he would have to live a cramped life.

But walking inside, it was vast.

The Great Hall alone was impossibly high.

Magic again, magic capable of altering spatial volume.

Professor McGonagall set up the Sorting Hat, and after enduring that somewhat noisy little song, the first years understood that they didn't need to fight a troll; they only needed to put on that dirty old hat.

"When I call your name, you will come forward, put on the hat, and wait for your sorting," Professor McGonagall held a piece of parchment that trailed to the floor, her expression stern, and immediately read the first name.

"Hannah Abbott!"

Harry waited for quite some time before Professor McGonagall finally called his name.

A chattering buzz of discussion erupted throughout the dining hall.

"Potter, is that the Potter?"

"He looks nothing like a savior, isn't he a bit too thin?"

"Good heavens, look at his eyes, they're just like my cat's."

At the teachers' table, a black-robed man with greasy hair let out an undisguised sneer.

Harry put on the hat.

The wide brim obscured his vision, and there was a pungent smell of hair oil...

"Oh, no, Mr. Potter, you should call this a vintage with a long history." The Sorting Hat's voice rang in his ear, "I am but a hat; I would like to go to the washroom too, but no one helps me."

"You can read minds?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Only some shallow thoughts." The Sorting Hat sounded innocent, "I am not a Dark Magic artifact, after all; Gryffindor did not grant me the ability of Legilimency."

"Let me take a look at you..."

"Just, brave, intelligent." The Sorting Hat's tone carried surprise, "Truly worthy of the savior in the prophecy, so many excellent qualities."

"It makes a hat quite conflicted."

"Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff is the most suitable for you, what a warm and sincere heart; if Hufflepuff were still here, she would have loved you to death."

"But if you seek greater achievements, Slytherin or Gryffindor would be your destination."

"I don't mean to discriminate against Hufflepuff, but you know—or perhaps you don't—the little badgers are very capable, but they are just too uncompetitive."

"Slytherin and Gryffindor are always so fond of being in the spotlight."

Harry interrupted him: "Is the only chance you get to talk to people every year during the Sorting?"

The Sorting Hat was startled: "No, sometimes I also chat with Fawkes, that is, Dumbledore's phoenix."

"Chatting with a bird?" Harry nodded, thoughtful, "No wonder you talk so much."

"Your mouth is far too Slytherin!" The Sorting Hat grumbled, "So, are you going to Slytherin?"

Harry shook his head: "I heard Gryffindor has a sword?"

"Yes, let me tell you, it is actually inside me. Gryffindor cast a spell; a Gryffindor with courage in their heart can draw it from within me when they need it." The Sorting Hat introduced it enthusiastically, "That feeling is not pleasant, like pulling your throat out through your mouth."

"Hats have throats too?" Harry was a bit surprised.

The Sorting Hat wished it could dance on Harry's head: "A metaphor, just a metaphor; how is it that you, little sir, have no sense of humor?"

Harry asked again: "If I draw the Sword of Gryffindor from your throat, does that sword belong to me?"

"No, it is only borrowed." The Sorting Hat decisively denied it, "The ownership of the sword has always been Gryffindor's, or perhaps now, one should say Hogwarts'."

"Then how can I truly obtain the Sword of Gryffindor?" Harry asked once more.

The Sorting Hat fell silent: "Truly obtaining the Sword of Gryffindor, a good question."

"You should have heard of... the legend of the Chamber of Secrets?"

Harry nodded. It was rumored that Slytherin had left behind a secret chamber in the castle, and only the true heir of Slytherin could open it and obtain his legacy.

"The four founders all did this." The Sorting Hat's tone was somewhat nostalgic, "They all left behind their own legacies."

"Every person who can draw the Sword of Gryffindor has the qualifications to participate in the Gryffindor trials. If you can pass the Gryffindor trials, then you can obtain the Sword of Gryffindor."

"Of course, a hat cannot; I belong to Hogwarts now."

"This is a form of protection. Back then, Gryffindor had the goblins forge the sword, but goblins are strange creatures; after Gryffindor passed away, they tried to take the sword back more than once."

"Without strength, even if you obtain the sword, it will only be snatched away by the goblins."

Harry interrupted it: "As long as I draw the sword, it means I have the qualifications to participate in the trials?"

"Yes, but it must be when there is a ne—" The Sorting Hat began, but before it could finish, Harry took it off.

Professor McGonagall looked at Harry in surprise—she had thought Harry would become another "hat-stall," as the hat seemed to be having such a pleasant conversation with him.

But to take the hat off halfway through the Sorting, what was that about?

McGonagall looked up at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes narrowed into slits, looking at Harry with profound meaning.

Harry ignored the murmurs and gazes, reached into the hat, felt the hard, cold hilt, gripped it, and pulled.

A silver sword nearly a meter long, radiating a rich magical aura, appeared. Time had left no mark on this blade; it remained chillingly sharp.

Harry's eyes lit up, and he flourished the blade.

A fine sword.

He fell in love with it immediately.

"Alright, kid, rein in that greedy look." The Sorting Hat sounded as if it were about to vomit, "This sword doesn't belong to you yet, stuff it back in."

"I really don't know how you pulled it out; it's supposed to be only when one needs it."

Harry pursed his lips, unable to put the sword down—a Witcher needed a longsword at his side at every moment.

The Sorting Hat continued to clamor.

"And the result of the Sorting—"

"He who draws the Sword of Gryffindor naturally belongs only to Gryffindor!"