“Really? I never noticed…”

The Sorting Hat paused for a moment, then muttered absentmindedly, “But, where have you seen ghosts before? How do you know so much about them?”

It recalled that in the past hundred years, there hadn’t been a wizard named Richter enrolling. This child should have been born in the Muggle world.

‘The Muggle world… could it possibly have ghosts?’

The Sorting Hat fell into deep thought.

Meanwhile, Dawn silently answered in his mind: of course, it was because of [Soul Grafting: The Talking Cat].

He quickly concealed this thought behind Occlumency.

To be honest, that book was incredibly fascinating!

In it, a witch, desperate to revive her deceased son, had conducted countless mad experiments on ghosts, constantly exploring their states and recording their reactions under different spells.

For instance, she once cast the Killing Curse on a ghost.

However, perhaps because the ghost was already in a state of death, the curse had no effect when it struck.

Surprisingly though, the Cruciatus Curse and the Imperius Curse did affect ghosts. Although the effects were significantly weakened, they did indeed have an impact.

Naturally, none of this could be openly shared with the Sorting Hat.

Dawn replied vaguely, “I read about it in a book at Flourish and Blotts.”

He quickly shifted the topic, “By the way, how exactly were you created? Is your unique intelligence the result of some kind of alchemy?”

“Oh, that’s really putting me on the spot. I’m just an old hat! You ought to ask Gryffindor about that!”

The Sorting Hat shouted dramatically, “When I first opened my eyes, I was already like this! And for the past thousand years, I never thought there was anything strange about it!”

Dawn frowned slightly at those words.

Half-lowering his eyelids, his mind drifted back to the book about ghosts, and a bold idea suddenly crossed his mind:

“If I cast the Killing Curse on the Sorting Hat… would it die?”

Dawn felt an itch of excitement.

The Killing Curse, one of the three Unforgivable Curses, could instantly extinguish life.

So then— The Sorting Hat, an alchemic artifact—could it possibly possess a ‘life’ of its own?

Thinking about the strange, misty magic aura surrounding the hat, Dawn’s hand absently stroked the wand hidden in his robe.

However, when his gaze swept over to the high platform where the long-bearded old Headmaster sat, Dawn could only sigh and reluctantly abandon the idea.

Still not strong enough…

He mused wistfully.

Yet because he became too engrossed in the thought, he failed to maintain his Occlumency in time.

As a result, the Sorting Hat picked up on a shockingly malicious intent. “Hey! What are you thinking of doing to me, you wicked little wizard! I’ll have you thrown straight into Azkaban!”

The Sorting Hat flailed its wide brim furiously, and unwilling to stay on his head a moment longer, it shouted at the top of its voice, “Ravenclaw!”

A great cheer erupted across the Great Hall, where the young witches and wizards, who had been dozing off from the long Sorting process, woke up in excitement.

Dawn blinked, still wanting to ask something more. But Professor McGonagall had already lifted the hat away.

With no choice, he stood up and made his way to the Ravenclaw table, finding an empty spot to sit down.

“Took you long enough,” Amon sneered, seizing the opportunity, “Doesn’t look like you’re much suited for Ravenclaw after all!”

Dawn merely glanced at him lightly. “Still better than a useless fool who had to force his way in.”

Aemon snorted coldly.

But after what happened on the train, he didn’t take the bait this time. He simply fell silent again.

….

The Sorting Ceremony quickly came to an end.

After Dawn, only three more students remained, including Ron.

Once the last one was sorted into Hufflepuff, Professor McGonagall carried the Sorting Hat back to the teachers’ table.

Dressed in magnificent robes, Dumbledore rose to his feet, smiling warmly at the students with his arms spread wide:

“Welcome to Hogwarts, where you will begin a new year! Before we begin the feast, I would like to say a few words. They are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”

A round of applause filled the hall.

Dawn heard Amon whispering to a nearby upperclassman, “What does that even mean?”

“Merlin knows!” the older student replied with an exaggerated eye-roll.

Dumbledore clapped his hands, and in a blink, the long tables of the four Houses were laden with a feast that appeared out of nowhere.

“Now then! Let us enjoy the food and the splendid evening ahead!” he announced.

With that, he sat down and casually popped a Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean into his mouth. Judging by his delighted expression, he must have picked a good one.

However, Professor McGonagall, sitting beside him, looked far less pleased.

“Professor Snape, do you still have some Invigoration Draught left?”

Pinching her brow wearily, she turned to the greasy-haired man who was currently glaring daggers at the Gryffindor table.

Besides preparing for the new school year, Dumbledore had also asked her to design a challenge to help protect the upcoming Philosopher’s Stone.

The workload had left Professor McGonagall utterly exhausted.

Snape briefly tore his gaze away from Harry Potter and replied, “Do you need it urgently? I will have the house-elves deliver a few bottles to you after the feast.”

“Oh, thank you! That would be a great help!” McGonagall sighed in relief.

Dumbledore washed down the flavor in his mouth with some mead and suggested, “Minerva, would you like a piece of Fizzing Whizzbee? Candy can help lift your spirits.”

“Thank you, Albus, but I would rather not eat anything too sweet right now,” McGonagall politely declined, then turned to look at the beaming Headmaster.

“Albus, you seem to be in a very good mood.”

“Oh, absolutely!”

Dumbledore smiled, his gaze, like Snape’s, drifting over to Harry at the Gryffindor table.

As the boy fated to face Voldemort according to the prophecy, he looked forward to seeing Harry find the courage to confront fear.

Thus, being sorted into Gryffindor was truly ideal!

But when he next spoke, the old Headmaster changed the subject, mentioning another matter entirely.

“Thanks to Professor Quirrell agreeing to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I was spared a great deal of trouble this holiday.”

Snape snorted loudly, completely disregarding professional courtesy—he was still sore that his request to take the position had been rejected once again over the summer.

At the far end of the table, wrapped in a purple turban and reeking of garlic, Professor Quirinus Quirrell gave a nervous, stuttering laugh.

“Y-You are too k-kind, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore offered him a warm smile.

McGonagall, however, found herself sighing inwardly.

‘What kind of terrible experience could have turned the once-dashing young man, who last year had taught Muggle Studies, into such a nervous wreck?’

“Oh, by the way, Professor Flitwick!”

As McGonagall mulled over this, a thought suddenly struck her, and she turned to her left.

Seated on a tall chair to accommodate his small stature, the Ravenclaw Head of House looked up. “Yes, Minerva?”

“It might be unnecessary…”

McGonagall glanced over toward the Ravenclaw table. “But Professor Flitwick, I would like you to keep a closer eye on that boy named Dawn Richter…”

_______________

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