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[HP: Return from Game of Thrones]-Chapter 30: Gryffindor Is Not Beneath You
🕑 Added 2025-09-21 14:39:22 +0000 UTCKeeping track of where things were in Hogwarts was no easy task, as everything seemed to be in constant motion.
The people in the portraits were always visiting one another, making them unreliable as landmarks, and Harry was certain that even the suits of armor wandered about.
Fortunately, the castle was finite in size. Even if the layout changed like a shifting map, you could memorize it with enough time. It was like those maddening mazes in some Muggle video games—frustrating at first, but you got the hang of it with practice.
First-years rarely died from accidental falls, which was a hundred times better than the protagonists of certain games that couldn’t even jump. By the time you were an upperclassman, getting lost was no longer a concern.
Sometimes Peeves would make mischief, playing pranks when the staircases shifted, but thankfully, each house’s ghost helped guide the new students.
The Gryffindor ghost was Nearly Headless Nick, who, in life, had been beheaded but left with a thin strip of flesh holding his head in place—unlike the typical Western headless horseman. Hence, his nickname, “Nearly Headless.”
He didn’t seem too pleased about it, which Harry chalked up to a cultural difference.
In China or Japan, leaving a bit of flesh attached during execution was seen as an act of mercy, a way to preserve the body whole and spare the soul from suffering in the afterlife.
But Harry? He’d always gone for a clean cut in executions—symbolizing that the罪 had been fully atoned.
If Nick had met Harry back when he was alive, they’d have hit it off immediately. They could’ve talked for hours about war, knighthood, and beheadings. Harry’s tales of military strategy would’ve enthralled Nick, though it was a pity neither of them could share a drink.
As a ghost, Nick was pretty decent—helpful and enthusiastic, almost as much as the Fat Friar.
He was fast, too. When the Fat Friar got petrified, Nick bolted in an instant.
Then there were the doors. So many doors. Some wouldn’t open unless you politely asked or poked them in exactly the right spot. Others weren’t even real doors—just solid walls disguised as doors, impossible to open from one side.
What kind of idiot would design a door like that?
Harry had half a mind to blast them open with an M16.
Later, his instincts told him some of those doors hid secrets—maybe even hidden chambers. He planned to investigate them later, using his charm to… well, persuade them. Or rather, test them.
Test if the doors could be sweet-talked into opening, letting them “swing wide for their lord.”
He’d also need to level up his Alohomora spell. Charm and magic worked together like a lever and force—Harry’s charm was already off the charts, giving him a massive boost in any situation. In the whimsical world of magic, where intent mattered as much as skill, that was a terrifying advantage.
If he could improve his spellwork too, even basic charms could brute-force through most magical wards. He was confident he’d eventually crack open most of Hogwarts’ doors.
Hogwarts’ wards were far stronger than Gringotts’. Harry’s physical strength wasn’t quite at the level of breaking all enchantments with raw power. Gringotts’ wards were mostly curses, easily dispelled with a burst of divine strength, but some of Hogwarts’ doors involved spatial magic, which even his strongest unlocking charms couldn’t touch yet.
He wasn’t here to rob a bank, so there was no need to go smashing things just to see what was behind them.
The Weasley twins knew plenty of secret passages and door-opening tricks, shortcuts they’d somehow sniffed out. Harry didn’t pry—everyone had their secrets.
Of course, if they ever wanted to share, Harry wouldn’t say no.
At first, Harry memorized routes like any other first-year. But soon, he found a simpler way: he’d leap. Knowing which floor a classroom was on, he’d just vault up directly.
His shortcuts sometimes took him past the forbidden corridor on the fourth floor.
To smooth things over, Harry made a point to get on good terms with the caretaker, Argus Filch.
Filch was old, unattractive, and ill-tempered, with few friends among the staff—except maybe the librarian, Madam Pince. Harry could tell they had some kind of connection. Don’t ask him how; he just knew.
Forget Filch—even if Dumbledore and Grindelwald, two wizards who mastered human nature, stood side by side, Harry could read their relationship. He could even tell if the rumors about them were true.
High charm had its perks. It worked on people, objects, magic, and even cats.
Filch had a cat named Mrs. Norris, a nasty creature who patrolled the corridors alone. If you so much as stepped a toe out of line in her presence, she’d dart off to fetch Filch. Plenty of students wanted to give her a good kick.
But when Harry turned on the charm, Mrs. Norris was powerless. She’d freeze, unable to resist his attention.
Then there were the classes themselves.
Beyond charms, magic involved a slew of complex subjects. Nine courses at once felt a bit like Muggle schooling, except Harry also trained his body and honed his swordsmanship on the side.
He didn’t mind the broad foundation-building—though he wondered what others thought. Unlike Muggle education, there was no wizarding university. In this whimsical world, talented witches and wizards could take their basics and grow stronger on their own, chasing whatever path they chose.
Every Wednesday night, they studied the stars through telescopes, learning the names of constellations and the orbits of planets.
Three times a week, a stout witch named Professor Sprout, head of Hufflepuff, led them to the greenhouses behind the castle for Herbology. They learned to cultivate strange plants and fungi and studied their uses.
Sprout was kind, and the Sorting Hat had spoken highly of her during Harry’s sword practice, saying she had a touch of Helga Hufflepuff’s spirit.
“You have a bit of their shadow” was high praise from the Sorting Hat. Higher still was what it had said to Harry:
“My word, Merlin’s hat, Harry Potter, I’ll remember you. In terms of swordsmanship, I’d call you the greatest in a millennium. Your skill with a blade surpasses even Gryffindor… no, er… I mean, Gryffindor was your equal. He’s not beneath you.”
Besides Astronomy and Herbology, which offered insights into physics and biology from a magical perspective, there was History of Magic. Comparing wizarding history to Muggle history was fascinating in its own way.
There were rewards, too. The system—some vague, guiding force—offered hints, some in Chinese. With his high charm and knowledge of Chinese, Harry gleaned more information than most.
Before coming to Hogwarts, he wasn’t sure, but now he was certain: completing each year’s studies on time earned attribute points. Compared to the life-or-death struggles he’d faced before, studying here was like getting rewards for free.
If the world of A Song of Ice and Fire was hard mode, the Harry Potter world was easy mode.
Having endured the brutal training of Ice and Fire and Chinese-style parenting, with the mind and discipline of an adult, the knowledge reserves of a scholar, and the learning capacity of a teenager—plus some pre-studying—Hogwarts’ first-year curriculum was a breeze for Harry.
Even the dull History of Magic, which other young wizards loathed, he found engrossing.
That said, he had to criticize the teacher. Professor Binns, the ghostly History instructor, had a serious problem with his teaching style—or rather, he’d given up entirely after death.
