Who Was That Greasy Seaweed Head?

A cheer erupted from the Gryffindor table.

"We've got Potter!"

"We've got Potter!"

The prospect of the Chosen One coming to Hogwarts had always fascinated the young witches and wizards. Each of them had their own idea of what the Chosen One would be like.

But none of them had imagined Harry as he was now: small and pitiful, with only the catlike eyes that lent him an unusual air.

The Chosen One ought to have a touch of legend about him.

The best students from every House had tried to find the Four Founders' legacies.

The Chamber of Secrets, the Diadem of Ravenclaw, the Cup of Hufflepuff...

Gryffindor was no exception.

They were especially keen to find the legendary Sword of Gryffindor, but no one had ever heard of anyone discovering Gryffindor's hidden treasure.

Until today—

Who could have guessed that the Sword of Gryffindor was hidden inside the Sorting Hat?

Even the most reckless Little Lion wouldn't sneak into the Headmaster's Office at night just to get themselves killed.

Harry nodded to them in thanks, then headed for the table with the silver sword in hand.

The hat hurriedly called after him. "That rude Little Lion, give me back my sword."

McGonagall backed it up. "That's right, Mr. Potter. The Sword of Gryffindor doesn't belong to you."

"I'm just borrowing it to admire it." Harry didn't bat an eye as he casually made up a story. "Mr. Sorting Hat said it can only be drawn when it's needed. That proves I need it right now."

Professor McGonagall was taken aback.

It did... seem to make sense.

The Sorting Hat squawked twice. "That only proves you're a Gryffindor, my dear boy. Put it back, quickly. It feels so empty in there, and I'm not used to it."

"I could find you a stick of about the same size." Harry tried to bargain. Blacksmiths were hard to come by in this world, and he didn't want to give up a masterwork weapon that would have stood out even in the Witcher world.

The Sorting Hat nearly leaped up and smacked Harry on the head. "A stick is nothing like a sword! You haven't passed the trial, so the sword doesn't belong to you yet."

Harry wanted to keep arguing.

"Enough, Harry." Headmaster Dumbledore spoke up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his eyes full of amusement. "Give the sword back to the poor old hat. It only has you for company."

The hat grumbled, "Albus, you're my old friend too."

"I still remember when you sorted the students."

"You have seven years. That's plenty of time to figure out how to truly claim the sword." Dumbledore's smile was tinged with amusement. "Isn't that right, born Gryffindor?"

A louder, more undisguised snort came from the High Table.

Harry looked over.

Black robes, greasy hair, hair like seaweed. The man was staring straight at him, his eyes full of loathing.

When their eyes met, the loathing only deepened, practically spilling out in a tangible wave.

"Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore glanced at the greasy-haired man. Only then did he rein in his emotions and look away.

Harry nodded. "Oh, all right. For your sake."

He picked up the Sorting Hat and reluctantly shoved the sword inside.

The hat let out a long sigh of relief. "That's much better. When you're ready, you can come find me."

Harry took three steps forward and looked back after each one, before finally reaching the Gryffindor table.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat twice. "All right, sorting will continue. Next... let's see..."

"You were absolutely amazing!" As soon as Harry sat down, he was greeted with enthusiastic applause.

Two red-haired, freckle-faced boys, twins who looked just like Ron, grinned and winked at Harry. "You really stole the show at the Sorting Ceremony."

"We never would've expected that!"

"Oh, a born Gryffindor."

"You are the great Lion King."

"Thanks for the praise." Harry's sour mood spread, and everyone around him looked uncomfortable. His expression changed, but his tone stayed as flat as ever. "You can keep the Lion King title. I'm not interested."

"A king never reveals his ambition," the twins chimed in.

"Not until the moment he's crowned."

"For now, he's only a little lion..."

With a thud, a fist slammed down on the table.

"Stop being such pests." The red-haired boy looked more serious than the twins. "They're the biggest troublemakers in all of Hogwarts. You don't need to take what they say too seriously."

"Hello, Potter. I'm Percy Weasley, a Gryffindor Prefect."

Harry raised a hand and rubbed his temple. "All right, Prefect Weasley. I have a question for you."

Being called "Prefect Weasley" seemed to go to Percy's head.

He lifted his chin. "Of course. Helping younger students with their problems is what a Prefect is for."

"Who's that greasy seaweed head?" Harry lifted his chin toward the High Table and met Snape's loathing gaze once more.

Ulongheit Kopp?

Was there a Hogwarts professor by that name?

Percy followed Harry's gaze and met Snape's eyes too.

"Greasy seaweed head!" The twins' eyes lit up. "That's an excellent nickname."

"You've got real talent, Harry. Join our gang."

"We'll make a huge scene again and again!"

Percy lowered his head and whispered, afraid the teachers might hear him. "That professor is the Head of Slytherin House, and he teaches Potions. He's always disliked Gryffindor."

Harry nodded, still staring at Snape.

Ron muttered, "Feels like Professor Snape doesn't like you very much, Harry."

Snape gave a snort, looked away first, and started talking with the professor beside him.

"You're not wrong." Harry smiled. "He doesn't like me. He hates..."

As he spoke, he raised a hand and touched his face. "He hates my appearance, and he especially despises my eyes."

"Oh? Your eyes are really cool." Ron shook his head.

Fred chimed in. "Exactly. The Lion King should have lion eyes!"

"Which is why they're the symbol of the Lion King!" George followed his twin's lead, declaiming, "Great Lion King, ascend the throne tonight and claim your crown!"

Harry reached into his robes and set a long-necked glass bottle on the table. "If you two keep this up, I'll pour this down your throats."

"A potion?"

"Has our Lion King already started brewing something to reward his brave followers?"

The twins kept clowning around.

Percy was a good student, and he recognized the potion at a glance. "Forgetfulness Potion. Did you brew it yourself, Harry?"

"Yeah. I tried it before term started, and it came pretty easily." Harry nodded.

Fred was about to carry on joking, but Ron tugged at his brother's hair—perhaps with a hint of revenge—and started telling everyone about Harry's exploits on the train.

One punch per kid.

Fred and George leaned forward to peer across at Crabbe and Goyle at the Slytherin table. After comparing their builds, they quietly settled down.

Forgetfulness Potion was no joke.

Harry was about to put the potion away, satisfied, when his scar suddenly stung. He quickly looked up and met Snape's gaze—and the gaze of the professor beside him.

He frowned.

His scar could hurt?

This was the first time.

Throughout his time in the Witcher world, the scar had always behaved itself. Several powerful sorceresses—Yennefer, Triss, and even Keira, who was skilled in alchemy—had examined it. Apart from its unusual shape, it had nothing else special about it.

So had something triggered his scar?

Snape?

A hostile stare couldn't hurt anyone. Harry hadn't felt any magic attack him just now, either.

Besides, he and Snape had met eyes plenty of times already.

Was it the professor beside him?

"Who's the one talking with Professor Snape?" After learning Snape taught Potions, Harry had come to like him a little more. Even if Snape's gaze was hostile, Vesemir had been far nastier when he was teaching Harry.

"Professor Quirrell," Percy explained. "He taught Muggle Studies last year. This year, he's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Harry nodded and smiled faintly. "Oh, he's a really interesting fellow."

Percy looked at Harry in surprise.

What was interesting about that professor with his head wrapped in a turban, who looked like an Indian?

After the Sorting Ceremony, they finished dinner.

Dumbledore stood and went over the rules they needed to follow—not entering the Forbidden Forest, not casting spells in the corridors, and not going down the corridor on the right-hand side of the fourth floor.

Then he led the students in singing the school song.

At last, that trace of magical energy settled and flowed into Harry, binding him tightly to the castle.

Percy raised his hand high. "First-years, follow me. I'll take you to the dormitory."

Harry stepped over. "Prefect Weasley, I have to go take care of something."

"You'll get lost if you do that." Percy's tone softened at the second "Prefect." "You've only just arrived. What could you possibly need to do?"

Harry spoke quietly, with confidence. "Don't worry. I'll find you."

"I have to see Headmaster Dumbledore. There are a few things I need to talk to him about."

Every Witcher was an expert tracker.

They could follow a scent from East London to West London. Even the finest hounds couldn't match a Witcher.

"Oh, Headmaster Dumbledore." Percy nodded in understanding and gave his permission. "All right. Remember, the dormitory password is Dragon Dregs."

"The portrait by the entrance is the Fat Lady. Just tell her the password."

Harry committed it to memory, then turned and went after Dumbledore.

The old man was accompanied by Snape, the greasy seaweed head.

"Oh, Harry." Dumbledore looked at him cheerfully. "You're not going to the dormitory? You came to find me?"

"Yes. There are a few things I'd like to talk to you about." Harry nodded and gave Snape what he considered a fairly friendly smile.

Snape bared his teeth, almost grinding them together.

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "All right. I have a few things I'd like to discuss with you too."

"Severus, would you like to join us?"

Snape gave a cold laugh. Harry wasn't imagining it; Snape was really grinding his teeth. "I won't intrude on your reunion, Dumbledore. Remember, you owe me an explanation!"