Chapter 7

Britain's climate was damp.

Even in September, the night air was still bitingly cold.

Hagrid swung a huge oil lamp. "First-years, first-years! Over here! Oh, Harry, are you all right? Come over here."

They followed Hagrid along a path to the lakeside, where they boarded little boats.

The boats rocked gently as they headed toward Hogwarts.

Each boat could hold four. Harry and Ron shared theirs with two others: a brown-haired, buck-toothed otter they'd briefly met on the train, and a timid little boy named Neville who looked like a plump Scottish round-faced chicken.

"Hello again," Otter Girl greeted them.

Ron gave a perfunctory reply. "Hello."

Harry nodded, even more perfunctorily.

His attention was elsewhere, on things like the jumble of scents beneath the water, one of which was exceptionally powerful. And on the magical aura that had clung to him—and every other first-year—from the moment they'd stepped onto the path.

As if the clouds had parted, the magnificent castle of Hogwarts grew clearer and more familiar to him.

A contract with the castle itself?

Were they reenacting the way the Four Founders had discovered Hogwarts Castle, making the act itself a kind of ritual?

The books hadn't mentioned it. He'd have to think it through once he was inside Hogwarts.

Under Hagrid's guidance,

they reached the castle's entrance, where they met Professor McGonagall, the deputy headmistress, who looked like someone best not crossed. She led them into a side chamber to wait.

"How do they know exactly which house to put us in?" the brown-haired otter asked, frowning uneasily.

Ron clenched his fists and looked at Harry. "Fred—one of my brothers—said they'd put us through some kind of test that would hurt a lot, but I think he was joking."

"My uncle said we'd have to fight a Troll." Neville looked terrified, clutching his toad, the poor little thing struggling incessantly.

Harry shook his head.

He didn't believe any of that.

Even the Witchers, cruel as they could be, wouldn't throw an untrained child in front of a wraith, a Ghoul, or a nekker.

"Don't worry. We've already signed a contract with Hogwarts." Harry patted Ron on the shoulder. "Maybe it's just a little spell to see what kind of person you are, then decide which house to put you in."

Going by the books...

The bold and stupid went to Gryffindor, the studious to Ravenclaw, the cunning and devious to Slytherin, and everyone else to Hufflepuff.

Neville pulled a long face. "Oh no. I'm sure to end up in Hufflepuff."

"Does the house matter that much?" Harry asked, perplexed. "They all teach the same things."

It wasn't like the Witcher schools.

Witchers had many schools, too, but each taught different skills.

The Wolf School was the most conventional, more like the School of the Griffin. It focused on using Signs, preparing for battle, and solid swordsmanship. The School of the Bear valued a sturdy physique: wear the thickest armor and take the hardest hits. The School of the Cat was more like a school of assassins, full of mentally unstable lunatics who lurked in the shadows and did filthy work.

The four houses at Hogwarts... seemed to represent only four different qualities. As for what they learned, everyone was treated the same and taught by the same group of teachers.

Neville tightened his grip on his toad. It let out a pitiful, feeble croak.

"If you're a coward, you'll grow up a coward wherever you are." Harry looked at Neville and spoke bluntly. "Only when you grow stronger inside 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..."

"Was I wrong, Miss Otter?" Harry shook his head.

The brown-haired otter clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at Harry, eyes wide. "Who's an otter? Didn't you hear me introduce myself on the boat? I'm Hermione, Hermione Granger."

"Oh, all right, Miss Granger. Was I wrong?" Harry nodded, obligingly correcting himself, then repeated the question.

Hermione covered her mouth, gritting her teeth.

This was nothing like the Chosen One she'd imagined!

Professor McGonagall soon returned and led them into the hall. The ceiling seemed transparent, revealing the stars and sky outside.

From the outside, the castle looked about as large as the Wolf School's fortress, Kaer Morhen. Harry had expected life inside to be rather cramped.

But it was huge inside.

The hall alone stretched impossibly high.

More magic. Magic that could alter the size of a space.

Professor McGonagall set out the Sorting Hat. After enduring its somewhat noisy little song, the first-years understood that they wouldn't have to fight a Troll. They only had to put on that filthy hat.

"When I call your name, come forward, put on the hat, and wait to be sorted." Professor McGonagall held a long piece of parchment that nearly touched the floor. Her expression was stern as she called the first name.

"Hannah Abbott!"

Harry waited a while before Professor McGonagall finally called his name.

Chatter rippled through the hall.

"Potter? The Potter?"

"He doesn't look like the Chosen One at all. Isn't he a bit too thin?"

"Goodness, look at his eyes. They're just like my cat's."

At the High Table, the black-robed seaweed-haired man let out an undisguised snort.

Harry put on the hat.

Its wide brim blocked his view, and it smelled strongly of rancid hair oil...

"Oh, no, Mr. Potter. You should say it's a fine vintage, aged for many years." The Sorting Hat's voice sounded in his ear. "I'm only a hat. I'd like to visit the washroom, too, but nobody will help me."

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

"Only shallow thoughts." The Sorting Hat sounded innocent. "I'm not a Dark Magic object, after all. Gryffindor didn't give me the ability to use Legilimency."

"Let's see..."

"Justice, courage, intelligence." The Sorting Hat sounded surprised. "You truly are the Chosen One from the Prophecy. So many fine qualities."

"How's a hat supposed to choose?"

"Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff suits you best. What a warm and sincere heart. If Hufflepuff were still here, she'd have adored you."

"But if you want to achieve greater things, Slytherin or Gryffindor could be your home."

"I don't mean to discriminate against Hufflepuff, but you know—though perhaps you don't—the Little Badgers have plenty of talent, but they're far too reluctant to compete."

"Slytherin and Gryffindor are always so eager to show off."

Harry interrupted him. "Is sorting the only time each year you get to talk to people?"

The Sorting Hat paused. "No, sometimes I chat with Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix."

"Talking to a bird?" Harry nodded thoughtfully. "No wonder you talk so much."

"You've got a very Slytherin mouth!" the Sorting Hat grumbled. "So, do you want to go to Slytherin?"

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

"Yes! Let me tell you, it's actually inside me. Gryffindor placed an enchantment on me, so a courageous Gryffindor can draw it out when they need it." The Sorting Hat launched into an enthusiastic explanation. "It doesn't feel good, though. It's like having your throat pulled out through your mouth."

"Hats have throats?" Harry asked, surprised.

The Sorting Hat looked ready to dance on Harry's head. "It's a metaphor, just a metaphor! You really aren't funny, are you, young man?"

Harry asked again, "If I pull the Sword of Gryffindor out of your throat, does it belong to me?"

"No, you're only borrowing it," the Sorting Hat said firmly. "The sword has always belonged to Gryffindor. Though perhaps now we should say it belongs to Hogwarts."

"Then how can I truly get the Sword of Gryffindor?" Harry asked again.

The Sorting Hat fell silent. "Truly getting the Sword of Gryffindor. That's a good question."

"You've heard... the legend of the Chamber of Secrets, haven't you?"

Harry nodded. The story went that Slytherin had left a Chamber of Secrets somewhere in the castle, and only the true Heir of Slytherin could open it and receive his legacy.

"All four Founders did something similar." The Sorting Hat sounded wistful. "They all left behind their legacies."

"Anyone who can draw the Sword of Gryffindor is eligible to take part in Gryffindor's trial. If you pass it, you can claim the Sword of Gryffindor."

"Of course, I can't. I belong to Hogwarts now."

"It's a way of protecting the sword. Gryffindor had the Goblins make it, but those creatures are strange. After Gryffindor died, they tried more than once to take it back."

"Without the strength to protect it, anyone who got the sword would only have it stolen by the Goblins."

Harry interrupted it. "If I draw the sword, that means I'm eligible to take part in the trial?"

"Yes, but only when you need..." The Sorting Hat began, but before it could finish, Harry took it off.

Professor McGonagall looked at Harry in surprise. She'd thought he might become another Hatstall, since the hat seemed to be having such a pleasant conversation with him.

But why had he taken it off halfway through the sorting?

McGonagall looked up at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes narrowed to slits as he regarded Harry with deep interest.

Harry ignored the chatter and the stares. He reached into the hat, felt the hard, cold hilt, gripped it, and pulled.

A silver sword nearly a meter long emerged, radiating powerful magic. Time had left no mark on it; its blade still gleamed with a fearsome chill.

Harry's eyes lit up. He twirled the sword, tracing a flourish in the air.

It was a fine sword.

He fell in love with it at once.

"Right, lad, rein in that greedy look of yours," the Sorting Hat said, sounding nauseated. "The sword isn't yours yet. Put it back."

"I don't know how you drew it. You're only supposed to be able to pull it out when you need it."

Harry pressed his lips together, unable to tear his eyes from the sword. A Witcher needed a blade in hand at all times.

The Sorting Hat kept grumbling.

"And the sorting result—"

"Anyone who draws the Sword of Gryffindor can only belong in Gryffindor!"