Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three heavy knocks echoed from the castle gates before Professor McGonagall entered, leading a group of wide-eyed first-years.
The new students stood with their backs to the professors, facing the older students, positioned between the staff table and the house tables. Professor McGonagall set down a small four-legged stool before them and placed a shabby wizard's hat on top.
Under the curious gazes of the first-years, the hat twitched. A wide slit split open along its brim like a mouth, and suddenly, it began to sing.
"You may not think I'm pretty,
but don't judge on what you see.
I'll eat myself if you can find
a smarter hat than me."
...
"This is the Sorting Hat. It can read young wizards' thoughts, recognize their qualities, and assign them to a house," Professor Flitwick explained to Tver in case he didn't understand the ritual.
"Interesting. But at Durmstrang, anything that can peer into minds and think for itself usually isn't considered…" Tver paused, searching for the right word. "Normal."
Professor Flitwick chuckled at that. "Careful, don't let the Sorting Hat hear you say that. It's said to have once belonged to Godric Gryffindor. But after spending centuries in the Headmaster's office, it gets bored—so all it does is dream up a new song for the start of term. As for how it came to think for itself, well, you'd have to ask the four founders."
When the song ended, the Sorting Hat bowed to each of the four tables to thunderous applause. Then it went still, once again playing the role of an ordinary hat, waiting for the first-years to approach.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a scroll of parchment in hand.
"When I call your name, step forward, put on the hat, sit on the stool, and await your sorting!" she announced clearly before reading the first name.
"Hannah Abbot!"
A young girl with golden braids stumbled out of the line.
Tver didn't recognize the girl, but he knew the name Abbot—it was the surname of a pure-blood family.
A moment later, the Sorting Hat gave its verdict.
"Hufflepuff!"
The largest table in the hall erupted into cheers. Some students even stood to shake Abbot's hand.
The Sorting Ceremony wasn't disturbed by the cheers—in fact, the applause was part of it.
As Tver watched the first-years take their turns, he felt like a tourist witnessing a famous scene from the wizarding world.
One moment in particular stood out: a round-faced boy who, the moment the Sorting Hat shouted "Gryffindor," bolted off without even taking the hat off. He had to be called back to return it, to the laughter of the entire hall.
The Sorting continued, each new name greeted with another wave of applause—until one name brought a sudden shift.
"Harry Potter!"
The entire Great Hall fell silent. As Harry stepped out from the crowd, nearly every eye fixed on the small, thin figure. A low hum of whispers rose from all four long tables.
"Potter? That Potter?"
"Did you see the scar on his forehead?"
"Which house do you think he'll end up in?"
Tver, who already knew the answer, watched Dumbledore with interest. At the sound of Harry's name, the old man's expression shifted slightly, and he leaned forward in his chair. Clearly, he regarded this Sorting as something special.
The Sorting itself dragged on unusually long—far longer than for any of the other first-years. No one knew what was being said between Harry and the Sorting Hat. Only after what felt like half an hour did the hat finally split open its brim.
"Gryffindor!"
Harry let out a breath of relief. His legs trembled as he stood, his mind blank, though he still remembered to return the hat to the stool.
"I'm sure you know the name, but I didn't expect Potter not to be sorted into Ravenclaw," Professor Flitwick said with a hint of disappointment.
"Whichever house he's in, he'll still be your student, won't he?" Tver replied with a smile.
The Sorting Ceremony ended, and Dumbledore closed it with a curious remark—"Fools! Crybabies! Scum! Twist!"—before ushering in the year's first feast.
Before Tver could puzzle over those words, the empty dishes before him suddenly filled with an array of food.
"This is food magic left behind by Helga Hufflepuff. It doesn't create food from nothing—it transports it directly from the kitchens to the tables," Flitwick explained kindly.
Tver was indeed unfamiliar with this kind of magic. Food magic? Could it really enhance one's strength?
Still, the mysteries of Hogwarts unfolded before him in full that day. Watching it in films was nothing like being here in person, especially as a skilled wizard capable of truly appreciating the intricacies of magic.
The banquet food, prepared by house-elves, exceeded his expectations. Alongside traditional British fare like fish and chips, there were roasted meats and grilled chicken, all cooked to perfection. It was far better than he had imagined.
Durmstrang's meals, by contrast, were far from refined—mostly heavy or pickled dishes. Tver had prepared himself for a year of fish and potatoes, but Hogwarts proved otherwise. No wonder its reputation outshone Durmstrang's. Even the food held international appeal.
Then came dessert, Tver's favorite. He had always loved sweets in his past life, and that hadn't changed after transmigrating. He happily sampled every ice cream, every slice of pie, and every serving of pudding. As long as they weren't overly sweet, none of them disappointed.
After savoring the last bite of lemon pudding, Tver suddenly felt someone's eyes on him. Looking up, he saw Harry staring this way, clutching his scar with a pained expression.
Tver lifted his wine glass, feigning a casual sip while casting a sidelong glance at Professor Quirrell. Was this Voldemort's soul at work? Their connection seemed even deeper than he had expected. Souls truly were a profound subject.
He sighed inwardly. But this time, Harry's gaze wasn't fixed on Quirrell, nor on Snape. It was on him—Tver.
Tver raised his glass slightly, meeting Harry's curious stare with a faint smile. So, he'd recognized him as a professor. And already forming a bias against Snape so quickly… truly, that pair of teacher and student were bound together by fate.