Who is that Oily-Haired Seaweed?

A burst of cheers erupted from the Gryffindor long table.

"We've got Potter!"

"We've got Potter!"

The fact that the Savior was coming to school had long been a focus for the young wizards at Hogwarts—each of them had their own different image of the Savior in mind.

But without exception, none of them expected Harry to be like this—thin, small, and pitiful, with only the aura reflected in those cat-like eyes appearing extraordinary.

The Savior was supposed to have a legendary quality.

Outstanding students from every house had attempted to seek out the legacy of the Four Founders.

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

The Lion House was no exception.

They were most keen on finding the legendary Sword of Gryffindor, but no one had ever heard of anyone discovering the secret treasure of Gryffindor.

Until today—

Who could have imagined that the Sword of Gryffindor was hidden inside the Sorting Hat.

Even the most daring little lion would not go night-wandering into the Headmaster's Office just to throw their life away.

Harry nodded toward them to express his gratitude, then walked toward the table carrying the silver sword.

The hat hurriedly called out: "That impolite little lion, give the sword back to me."

McGonagall chimed in: "Indeed, Mr. Potter, the Sword of Gryffindor does not belong to you."

"I was just borrowing it to admire it for a moment." Harry's expression remained unchanged as he casually spun a lie, "Mr. Sorting Hat said that one must have a need to pull it out, which proves that I need it right now."

Professor McGonagall was stunned.

It seemed... that was a valid point.

The Sorting Hat made a squelching sound: "That only proves your identity as a Gryffindor, my dear young sir. Put it back quickly; it feels so empty inside, I'm not used to it."

"I can help you find a wooden stick of similar size." Harry tried to bargain; blacksmiths were hard to find in this world, and he didn't want to let go of a master-class weapon that would be considered excellent even in the world of the Witcher.

The Sorting Hat looked as if it wanted to jump up and slam itself onto Harry's head: "Can a stick be the same as a precious sword? You haven't passed the trial yet; this sword does not belong to you right now."

Harry still wanted to struggle a bit more.

"Alright, Harry." Headmaster Dumbledore spoke up. He pushed his glasses up, his eyes filled with a fascinating expression, "Do return the sword to this poor old hat; it only has its old friend left."

The hat muttered: "Albus, you are my old friend too."

"I still remember the scene when you presided over the Sorting."

"You have seven years, which is enough time for you to find a way to truly possess this sword." Dumbledore's lips curled into a smile, "Isn't that right, our natural-born Mr. Gryffindor?"

From the teachers' table came a louder, undisguised sneer.

Harry looked over.

A black-robed man with greasy, seaweed-like hair was staring straight at him, his eyes filled with disgust.

As their eyes met, that feeling of disgust grew even more intense, almost overflowing into something tangible.

"Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore glanced at the greasy-haired man, who then restrained his emotions and looked away.

Harry nodded: "Oh, very well, for your sake."

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

The Sorting Hat let out a long sigh of relief: "That's much more comfortable. When you are ready, you can come and find me."

Harry looked back with every step he took until he reached the Gryffindor long table.

Professor McGonagall coughed twice: "Right, the Sorting continues. Next... let me see..."

"You are absolutely brilliant!" As soon as Harry sat down, he was met with an enthusiastic welcome.

Two twin boys with red hair and freckles, just like Ron, winked at Harry: "Making such a big splash at the Sorting Ceremony."

"We never even thought of that!"

"Oh, a natural-born Gryffindor."

"You are the great Lion King."

"Thanks for the compliment." The surrounding people looked uncomfortable at the sycophancy, and Harry's expression shifted, his tone as emotionless as ever, "The Lion King is unnecessary; I have no interest in that."

"A king never reveals his ambition." The twins sang in harmony.

"Unless the moment of coronation arrives."

"Right now, he is still just a young lion..."

Bang.

A fist slammed down heavily.

"Stop being ridiculous." A boy with the same red hair, who looked more serious than the twins, said, "They are the biggest troublemakers in all of Hogwarts; there's no need to take what they say to heart."

"Hello, Potter, I am the Gryffindor Prefect, Percy Weasley."

Harry raised his hand and rubbed his temples: "Alright, Prefect Weasley, I have a question for you."

This "Prefect Weasley" left Percy feeling a bit lost.

He lifted his chin: "Of course, resolving problems for younger students is exactly what a prefect should do."

"Who is that greasy-haired kelp?" Harry tilted his head toward the staff table, catching Snape's gaze of pure loathing just as he looked over.

Ulongheit Kopp?

Was there a professor by that name at Hogwarts?

He followed Harry's gaze and likewise locked eyes with Snape.

"Greasy-haired kelp!" The twins' eyes lit up. "What a brilliant nickname."

"You're so talented, Harry, come hang out with us."

"We'll definitely be able to make a huge scene, time and time again."

Percy lowered his head, dropping his voice for fear it might carry to the staff table: "That professor is the Head of Slytherin House, he teaches Potions, and he has always disliked us Gryffindors."

Harry nodded, still holding Snape's gaze.

Ron muttered: "I get the feeling Professor Snape doesn't like you, Harry?"

Snape snorted, turning his gaze away first to converse with the professor beside him.

"You aren't wrong," Harry said with a smile. "He doesn't like me, and he loathes..."

As he spoke, he raised a hand to touch his face: "He loathes this appearance of mine, especially my eyes."

"Oh? Your eyes are so cool, though." Ron shook his head.

Fred chimed in: "Exactly, a Lion King should have the eyes of a lion!"

"So, this is also a symbol of the Lion King!" George followed his brother's lead, chanting dramatically, "Great Majesty, the Lion King, ascend the throne tonight and take your seat!"

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

"A potion?"

"Has our Lion King already begun brewing tonics to reward the champions under his command?"

The twins were still clowning around.

Percy, being a good student, recognized the potion at a glance: "Forgetfulness Potion, did you brew this yourself, Harry?"

"Mhm, tried it before school started, it was quite straightforward." Harry nodded.

Fred was about to keep joking, but Ron yanked his brother's hair—not without a hint of retaliation—and began to broadcast Harry's exploits on the train.

One punch per kid.

Fred and George poked their heads out to peer at Crabbe and Goyle at the Slytherin table, compared their own builds, and then meekly quieted down.

A Forgetfulness Potion was no trivial matter.

Just as Harry was about to put the potion away with satisfaction, his scar suddenly throbbed with pain. He quickly looked up, meeting the gaze of Snape and... the professor beside Snape.

He furrowed his brows.

The scar could hurt?

This was a first.

In the Witcher world for so long, the scar had always been well-behaved. Several powerful sorceresses, such as Yennefer, Triss, and even Keira, who was skilled in alchemy, had examined it for him; aside from its strange shape, it had no other peculiarities.

So, was something stimulating his scar?

Snape?

A gaze filled with malice couldn't hurt anyone, and he hadn't felt any magic directed at him just now.

Besides, he had locked eyes with Snape many times before.

Was it the professor next to him?

"Who is the one talking to Professor Snape?" After learning that Snape taught Potions, Harry felt a bit more favorably toward him—even if the gaze held malice, when Vesemir taught him back in the day, the malice was far greater than a mere look.

"Professor Quirrell," Percy introduced. "He was the Muggle Studies professor last year, and only became the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year."

Harry nodded and smiled slightly: "Oh, he is truly interesting."

Percy looked at Harry in surprise.

That professor wrapped in a turban, looking exactly like an Indian man—what was interesting about him?

The Sorting ended, and dinner concluded.

Dumbledore stood up and finished relaying the necessary precautions—do not enter the Forbidden Forest, do not cast spells in the corridors, and do not enter the corridor on the fourth floor on the right-hand side.

He directed the students in singing the school anthem.

That aura of magic finally settled, sinking into his body and connecting tightly with the castle.

Percy held his hand high: "First-year students, follow me, I will take you to the dormitories."

Harry leaned in: "Prefect Weasley, I have something I need to attend to."

"You'll lose your way like that." Another prefect, Percy, softened his tone. "You've just enrolled, what could you possibly have to do?"

Harry spoke softly, his tone resolute: "Don't worry, I will find you all."

"I need to see Headmaster Dumbledore; there are some things I must discuss with him."

Every Witcher is a master tracker.

They can even track a scent from East London all the way to West London, surpassing even the finest hounds.

"Oh, Headmaster Dumbledore." Percy realized, nodding in agreement. "Very well, then remember, the password for the dormitory is Dragon Dregs."

"The entrance is the portrait of the Fat Lady; just recite the password to her."

Harry committed it to memory and turned to pursue Dumbledore.

Beside the old man stood Professor Snape, with his greasy, seaweed-like hair.

"Oh, Harry." Dumbledore looked at him cheerfully. "Not heading to your dormitory, but coming to find me instead?"

"Yes, there are some things I would like to discuss with you." Harry nodded, casting what he considered a fairly friendly smile toward Snape.

Snape bared his teeth, practically grinding them.

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully: "Very well, I also have some things I would like to chat with you about."

"Severus, would you like to join us?"

Snape sneered, and it was no illusion—Harry could see him truly grinding his teeth: "I won't intrude on your happy reunion, Dumbledore. Remember, you owe me an explanation!"