The train came to a halt at Hogsmeade Station, and the students poured out onto the platform, their voices buzzing with excitement. Stepping off the train, trunk in hand, Harry immediately spotted Hagrid’s towering figure in the distance. The half-giant’s face lit up when he saw Harry, and he waved enthusiastically. “Over here, Harry! Firs’ years, follow me!”
A small smile tugged at Harry’s lips. Hagrid’s warmth was a welcome contrast to the cold night air. He joined the group of first-years, who were herded toward a fleet of small boats waiting at the edge of a vast, black lake. The sight of Hogwarts Castle across the water took his breath away. Its towering spires and glowing windows reflected on the lake’s surface, making the castle look even more majestic in the moonlight. For the first time, Harry felt a flicker of awe—this was where he would learn to harness his abilities, where he would find answers to the questions that had haunted him for years.
The boats glided smoothly across the lake, and soon the first-years were standing at the base of the castle’s grand entrance. A stout, stern-looking woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense expression stood waiting for them. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her emerald-green robes gave her an air of authority. Harry immediately recognized her from his reading—Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House.
“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she announced, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the first-years. “Follow me, please.”
The first-years trailed after her, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous entrance hall. Harry’s clairvoyance picked up on the faint whispers and rustles of the castle’s many inhabitants—ghosts drifting through walls, portraits murmuring to each other, and the occasional creak of ancient stone. He had read about the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. The ceiling mirrored the night sky outside, dotted with stars and swirling clouds. It was breathtaking, and for a moment, Harry allowed himself to simply take it all in.
As they approached the doors to the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall turned to address the group. “The Sorting Ceremony will begin shortly. You will be called one by one, and the Sorting Hat will determine which house you belong to. Please form a line and wait quietly.”
Harry's mind raced as he considered what lay ahead. While Hogwarts: A History had mentioned the Sorting Ceremony, it had been deliberately vague about the details—likely to preserve the surprise for first-years. Now, faced with the prospect of the Sorting Hat, Harry's keen intellect quickly made the connection: a magical hat that could sort students would need to read their minds or memories to make its decision.
The realization sent a chill down his spine. If his assumption was correct, the Hat would have unrestricted access to his memories—his childhood, his abilities, everything he had carefully kept hidden for years. The thought of laying his secrets bare before a magical artifact made his heart race. He needed a way to protect himself.
As if responding to his anxiety, Harry felt the familiar click in his mind that signaled a new ability forming. But something was different this time. Instead of the usual instantaneous manifestation, he could feel the ability taking shape slowly, giving him the chance to guide—or even stop—its formation. Harry hesitated, recognizing the significance of this moment. For the first time, he had conscious control over the development of a new ability.
Rather than rushing into this new development, Harry took a deep breath and focused on his existing options. Activating his "Superior Understanding" ability, he began methodically analyzing his situation. One particular ability caught his attention—"Erase Presence from Memory." He had successfully used it on non-living objects before, erasing his information from papers and attendance sheets. Perhaps it could work on the Sorting Hat as well, despite its magical nature.
The line of first-years shuffled forward as Harry refined his plan. Years of experience with his abilities had taught him their limits and possibilities. While using "Erase Presence from Memory" on a powerful magical artifact was risky, it offered the best chance of protecting his secrets. He could allow the Hat to sort him, then erase any trace of his true nature from its memory.
The Great Hall's massive doors swung open, revealing a vast chamber illuminated by thousands of floating candles. Long tables filled with students stretched beneath an enchanted ceiling that mirrored the night sky above. At the far end, the teachers' platform glowed warmly in the candlelight. Professor McGonagall led them to the front, where a worn, patched wizard's hat sat on a simple wooden stool.
Harry watched intently as the Hat burst into song, his sharp eyes studying its every movement for clues about its magic. When the song ended and applause filled the hall, Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a long scroll.
As Professor McGonagall began calling names, Harry watched each sorting intently, studying the Hat's behavior. His analytical mind cataloged every detail, looking for patterns that might help him protect his secrets.
"Abbott, Hannah!" A pink-faced girl with pigtails stumbled forward. The Hat barely touched her head before declaring, "HUFFLEPUFF!" The Hufflepuff table erupted in welcoming cheers.
Each sorting revealed something new. Some students, like "Boot, Terry!" took longer under the Hat, suggesting deeper mental examination. Others, like "Brown, Lavender!"—the first new Gryffindor—were sorted almost instantly. Harry noted how the Hat's brim moved differently during longer deliberations, as if engaging in silent conversation.
The variations in sorting times particularly caught his attention. "Granger, Hermione!" practically ran to the stool, her eagerness apparent as she gripped its edges tightly. The Hat took its time with her before announcing "GRYFFINDOR!" Similarly, "Longbottom, Neville!" endured a lengthy sorting, his knuckles white with tension before being declared a Gryffindor—though in his relief, he forgot to remove the Hat and had to jog back, red-faced.
In contrast, "Malfoy, Draco!" was sorted into Slytherin almost before the Hat touched his head. Harry observed how the Slytherin table's measured applause differed from the boisterous welcome other houses offered their new members.
As "Weasley, Ronald!" was sorted into Gryffindor after some deliberation, Harry mentally rehearsed his plan one final time. He had observed enough to understand that longer sortings meant deeper mental probing. He would need to time his memory erasure perfectly.
Then, the moment arrived.
"Potter, Harry!"
The Great Hall fell silent. Harry felt hundreds of eyes turn toward him, the weight of their attention almost tangible. As he stepped forward, his mind was clear, his plan set.
A hush fell over the Great Hall. Every head turned to look at him, and Harry felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him. He walked forward, his steps steady despite the tension in the air. As he sat on the stool, Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on his head. It slipped down over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.
For a moment, there was silence. Then a small, amused voice spoke in his mind. ‘Well, well. Harry Potter. A fascinating mind you have.’
Harry’s jaw tightened. ‘The Hat can speak directly into the mind,’ he thought.
‘Of course I can,’the Hat replied. ‘And you, Harry Potter, are a curious case. Curious indeed. Abilities manifested from your thoughts—fascinating.’
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Harry’s stomach churned. ‘Will you tell anyone?’
‘You don’t have to be scared, Mr. Potter,’ the Hat chuckled. ‘I have sorted thousands of students, each unique with their own secrets. I have never revealed a single one. I am enchanted that way.’
Harry hesitated. He hadn’t expected the Hat to be self-aware. It felt as though he was speaking to a real person. Still, doubt lingered in his mind. What if the Hat’s enchantments weren’t as foolproof as it claimed?
‘The founders were geniuses, Mr. Potter,’ the Hat continued. ‘The castle holds mysteries still undiscovered, even after a thousand years.’
‘Let’s get on with your Sorting, shall we?’ the Hat finally said. ‘Let’s see... You’ve got a sharp mind, a thirst to prove yourself, and a certain... cunning. But what stands out most is your desire for change. You’ve already taken the first step, haven’t you? Standing up to those who’ve demeaned you for so long—that takes remarkable courage. It’s no small thing, and you’ve done something extraordinary. Yes, I see where you truly belong.’
There was a pause, and then the Hat shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”
The last word echoed through the Great Hall, and the table on the far right erupted into cheers. Harry removed the Hat and handed it back to Professor McGonagall, who gave him a small, approving nod. As he made his way to the Gryffindor table, he caught sight of Ron, who was clapping politely along with the others.
Harry slid onto the bench, his eyes briefly scanning the sea of faces around him. And then, he activated his ability “Erase Presence from Memory,” focusing on erasing any information the Hat had gleaned from his mind.
The Gryffindors were still buzzing with excitement, some patting him on the back or offering congratulatory smiles. Harry nodded politely but kept his expression neutral, his mind already shifting to the next part of the evening. He wasn’t one to bask in attention, and the weight of so many eyes on him made him subtly activate his "Reduced Presence" to fade into the background.
The Sorting Ceremony continued, and Harry watched as more students were called forward. Professor McGonagall’s voice carried clearly through the hall:
“Thomas, Dean!” A boy with dark skin and a confident stride walked up to the stool. The Hat took a moment before declaring, “GRYFFINDOR!” Dean grinned and joined the table, sitting a few seats down from Harry.
“Turpin, Lisa!” A girl with long, dark hair stepped forward. After a brief pause, the Hat shouted, “RAVENCLAW!” She hurried off to the blue-and-bronze table.
“Weasley, Ron!” Ron’s face turned pale as he shuffled up to the stool. The Hat barely touched his head before it bellowed, “GRYFFINDOR!” Ron looked relieved as he joined Harry at the table, though his ears were still pink from nerves.
“Zabini, Blaise!” A tall, dark-skinned boy with an air of indifference approached the stool. The Hat took its time before finally announcing, “SLYTHERIN!” Blaise smirked and sauntered over to the green-and-silver table.
Finally, the last student was Sorted, and Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll. The hall fell into a hushed silence as the elderly wizard with a long silver beard and half-moon spectacles stood up. Albus Dumbledore’s presence was commanding yet warm, his twinkling blue eyes sweeping over the students.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”
The hall erupted into applause and laughter, though Harry frowned slightly, his mind racing. Was there a pattern to Dumbledore’s words, or were they simply nonsense? He made a mental note to revisit the speech later, just in case.
As the tables were suddenly laden with food, Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. His “Clairvoyance” had been active, but he hadn’t sensed anything—no movement, nothing. One moment, the tables were empty; the next, they were overflowing with food.
As he filled his plate with roast chicken and mashed potatoes, his gaze wandered to the staff table. His eyes lingered on the black-clad, greasy-haired professor who had been staring at him earlier. The man’s expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes bore into Harry with an intensity that made him uneasy. Harry quickly looked away, his attention shifting to the professor sitting next to him—a man with a massive purple turban and a nervous demeanor.
The moment Harry’s eyes landed on the turbaned professor, a searing pain shot through his scar. It wasn’t just sharp—it felt alive, as if something malevolent had stirred within him, reacting to the professor’s presence. Harry’s breath hitched, his hand instinctively flying to his forehead as the sensation faded, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache.
Harry looked down at his plate, his appetite momentarily forgotten. ‘What was that?’ he thought, his mind racing. The pain had felt… alive, almost sentient. It wasn’t just a headache; it was as if something had reacted to the turbaned professor’s presence.
Forcing himself to relax, Harry took a bite of his food, his mind already working to piece together what had just happened. The scar, the pain, the professor—it was all connected, he was sure of it. But for now, he kept his thoughts to himself, his face a mask of calm as he savored the meal and observed the bustling hall around him.
“That’s Professor Quirrell,” Percy Weasley, the older red-haired boy sitting beside him, explained. He had a prefect badge pinned to his robes and an air of self-importance. “He used to be our Muggle Studies professor, but he resigned and went on some kind of sabbatical. Rumor has it he went to the Black Forest—encountered vampires or something. Came back… well, like this. Fidgety, nervous. Now he’s our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I’m Percy Weasley, by the way.”
Harry nodded politely at Percy's explanation, but his mind was elsewhere, still reeling from the searing pain in his scar. It had never hurt like that before—why now? His eyes drifted back to Professor Quirrell. The man appeared harmless with his nervous demeanor and stuttering, but something felt deeply wrong. Harry's instincts, honed by years of navigating dangerous situations, were screaming at him to be careful.
And it wasn't just Quirrell. Since entering the Great Hall, Harry had felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him, analyzing his every move. The whispers followed him everywhere in the wizarding world, every gesture scrutinized, every reaction noted and discussed. The pressure of constant observation bore down on him like a physical weight, making it harder to focus on the mystery of his scar. He needed to understand these people who watched him so intently—their intentions, their thoughts, their potential threats. Especially now, with this unexplained pain warning him of hidden dangers.
As if responding to his desperate need, he felt the familiar sensation of an ability forming. The soft chime in his mind was almost comforting now, and a glass-like interface appeared before his eyes, visible only to him:
Unlocked new ability: Look at Me, I See You
Description: The people who look at you, think about you—you can know about them. The more obsessed they are with you, the more information you gain.
Harry suppressed a smile. Finally, a way to understand the intentions behind all those stares. He glanced around the hall experimentally, but immediately regretted it. His vision blurred as a flood of thoughts and emotions crashed into him. He caught fragments—curiosity, admiration, envy—but the sheer volume was overwhelming. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to pull back, vowing to practice in smaller doses.
As the feast began to wind down, the plates and goblets magically cleared themselves. The hall fell silent once more as Dumbledore stood up and walked to the center of the room, where a large golden eagle-like sculpture stood. The headmaster’s presence commanded attention, his twinkling eyes sweeping over the students.
“Now that we are all fed and watered,” Dumbledore began, his voice warm but firm, “I must give you a few start-of-term notices. First-years should note that the Forbidden Forest on the grounds is, as the name suggests, forbidden to all students. A few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.” His gaze lingered briefly on a pair of red-haired twins at the Gryffindor table, who grinned innocently.
“Secondly,” Dumbledore continued, “our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that no magic should be used in the corridors between classes. Thirdly, I must inform you that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”
A murmur of laughter and whispers rippled through the hall. Harry’s eyes narrowed. Dumbledore’s tone had been light, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his words. The third-floor corridor was clearly no joke.
“And finally,” Dumbledore said, his voice rising slightly, “I would like to say a few words to our new students. Here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”
The hall erupted into applause and laughter once more, though Harry remained thoughtful. Dumbledore’s eccentricity was amusing, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his words than met the eye.
As the applause died down, Dumbledore clapped his hands. “Prefects, please lead your houses to their dormitories. First-years, follow closely. It’s easy to get lost in these halls.”
Percy Weasley stood up, his chest puffed out with pride. “Gryffindors, follow me!” he called, leading the way out of the Great Hall. Harry fell into step with the other first-years, his mind still buzzing with questions. The pain in his scar, Professor Quirrell—it was all connected, he was sure of it. And with his new ability, he intended to find out how.