Teacher and Student Whose Fates Are Entangled

"BANG! BANG! BANG!"

Three thunderous knocks rang out from the castle doors, and Professor McGonagall entered with a group of tiny children in tow.

The first-years stood between the staff table and the students' long tables, facing the students with their backs to the professors.

Professor McGonagall gently placed a four-legged stool before the first-years, then set a battered old wizard's hat atop it.

Under the puzzled gazes of the new students, the hat twitched. A wide slit split open along its brim like a mouth, and it suddenly began to sing.

"You may think I'm not much to look at,"

"But never judge by appearances,"

"If you can find a hat prettier than me,"

"I'll eat myself."

"That is the Sorting Hat. It can read young wizards' thoughts, identify the qualities they possess, and then sort them into Houses."

Fearing that Tver might not understand the ritual, Professor Flitwick explained from beside him.

"Quite interesting, but at Durmstrang, things that can peer into your mind and possess thoughts of their own generally aren't very—"

Tver pondered for a moment before finding a suitable word.

"Normal."

Professor Flitwick was amused by that description. Chuckling, he said, "You mustn't let the Sorting Hat hear you say that."

"Apparently, it was once worn by Godric Gryffindor. It spends all year in the headmaster's office, though, and gets rather bored, so all it can do is think up songs to sing at the start of term."

"As for how it gained the ability to think, you would have to ask the four founders."

When the song ended, the Sorting Hat bowed to each of the four tables amid enthusiastic applause from the hall. Then, playing the part of an ordinary hat, it went still and waited for the young wizards to approach.

Professor McGonagall promptly stepped up beside the Sorting Hat with a roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, come forward, put on the hat, sit on the stool, and await your sorting!" she announced loudly before reading the first name from the parchment.

"Hannah Abbott!"

A little girl with two golden braids stumbled out of the line.

Tver did not know the girl, but he recognized the Abbott in her name. It was the surname of a pure-blood family.

After a while, the Sorting Hat gave its answer.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The most crowded long table in the Great Hall erupted into enthusiastic applause. Some of the young wizards even stood up to shake Abbott's hand.

The Sorting Ceremony was not disrupted by the cheers—or rather, the cheers were part of the ceremony itself.

As Tver watched the young wizards being sorted, he felt like a tourist witnessing one of the magical world's most iconic scenes.

Especially when one round-faced young wizard heard the Sorting Hat shout "Gryffindor" and ran off without even taking off the hat.

In the end, he had to return it amid a burst of laughter.

As the sorting continued, wave after wave of applause rang through the Great Hall—until one name was called.

"Harry Potter!"

The entire Great Hall fell silent. As Harry stepped out from the small group of students, nearly everyone in the hall fixed their eyes on his slight figure.

A buzzing murmur rose from all four long tables at once.

"Potter? Is that the Potter?"

"Did you see the scar on his forehead?"

"Which House do you think he'll be in?"

Knowing the answer, Tver watched Dumbledore with interest.

The moment he heard Harry's name, the old man's expression shifted slightly, and he even leaned forward a little.

He clearly attached great importance to this unusual sorting.

This sorting took a long time as well—longer than any of the first-years before him.

No one knew what Harry and the Sorting Hat discussed. They only knew that after a very long time, perhaps half an hour, the Sorting Hat finally opened its mouth wide.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry, still wearing the hat, finally let out a breath of relief. His legs trembled slightly as he stood up, his mind completely blank. Fortunately, he still remembered to put the hat back.

"I suppose you know that name, but I never expected Potter not to become one of us Ravenclaws," Professor Flitwick said with some dissatisfaction.

"Whichever House he belongs to, he'll still be your student, won't he?" Tver replied with a smile.

When the Sorting Ceremony ended, Dumbledore left everyone with the words, "Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" and began the first feast of the school year.

Before he had time to analyze anything, Tver was delighted to discover that the empty tableware before him had suddenly filled with delicious food.

"This was food magic left behind by Helga Hufflepuff. It didn't conjure food out of thin air—it precisely transported it from the kitchens to the dining tables."

The thoughtful Professor Flitwick answered Tver's question.

Tver truly wasn't familiar with this sort of magic.

Food magic?

Could it make one stronger?

Yet over the course of that day, the mysteries of Hogwarts had unfolded before Tver in all their glory.

Unlike merely watching a film, only by being there in person—and as an accomplished wizard—could one truly experience the intricacies of every kind of magic.

The food at the feast had been made by house-elves. There were traditional British dishes like fish and chips, as well as plenty of delicious roast steaks, roast chicken, and more.

It was far better than he had expected.

Durmstrang's food was nowhere near as refined, consisting mainly of heavily seasoned or pickled dishes.

Before arriving at Hogwarts, Tver had even prepared himself to spend an entire year eating fish and potatoes.

No wonder Hogwarts was more famous than Durmstrang. The food alone was far more internationally appealing.

After the main course came dessert—Tver's favorite.

He had loved sweets in his previous life, and that habit had not changed after crossing over.

With great interest, he sampled every flavor of ice cream, every slice of pie, and every serving of pudding.

Sure enough, as long as desserts weren't overly sweet, there was no such thing as a bad one.

As he happily finished the last bite of lemon pudding, Tver keenly sensed someone watching him.

Following that gaze, he saw Harry staring fixedly in this direction before clutching the scar on his forehead in pain.

Tver raised his goblet, using a sip of wine to conceal his movements while his eyes flicked toward Professor Quirrell beside him.

Was it the influence of Voldemort's soul?

It seemed their connection ran deeper than he had imagined.

The soul truly was a profound field of study.

Tver reflected on it briefly.

But Harry was looking this way again—not at Quirrell beside him, nor at Snape, but at Tver himself.

Holding his goblet, Tver smiled and met the curious Harry's gaze.

So he knew Tver was a professor now. But to have developed such a prejudice against Snape so quickly—he truly was worthy of being part of this fated teacher-student pair, their destinies hopelessly entwined.