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[HP: Return from Game of Thrones]-Chapter 24: Dumbledore, When Did You Arrive?
🕑 Added 2025-09-17 14:45:14 +0000 UTCWatching the pitiful state of the ghosts, the young wizard’s mind raced with wild thoughts. The parents hadn’t mentioned what kind of test the Sorting Ceremony entailed. Surely they wouldn’t have to duel this guy in a moment, would they?
Facing an opponent like that, they’d have to surrender immediately, or they’d be beaten to their knees, teeth flying!
Harry thought the same. They weren’t even in the same league.
Against ghosts, he’d prioritize using spells. But for these kids? No need for such trouble… One punch, twenty points of strength—could they withstand it?
If the test involved more than one round, perhaps a confrontation between young wizards, Harry would first try to talk them into surrendering. No need to fight and take a “physical Stunning Spell” to the face. To him, this was the essence of benevolence.
“Mr. Potter! Please explain what you’ve done!”
At that moment, a sharp voice cut through. “The Sorting Ceremony hasn’t even started, and you’re already—”
Professor McGonagall had returned.
Her tone reminded Harry of Hermione on the train—brave enough to speak up loudly even when faced with his domineering side.
But Harry was utterly confused. “What do you mean, Professor McGonagall? Didn’t I pass? Weren’t those ghosts the ones testing us?”
“Oh… child, is that what you thought?” McGonagall started, then stopped, at a loss for words.
“Why would you think we’d make eleven-year-old children fight? Foolish, reckless Potter.”
A dark-haired, middle-aged wizard appeared out of nowhere, his aura as ghostly as his demeanor.
Of course, he was very much alive—Harry was just using a metaphorical flourish. This man seemed born gloomy, his heart ashen, clinging to life by some unknown hope.
Harry also noticed his hair—greasy, as if he’d never heard of shampoo.
Didn’t the wizarding world have magical shampoo?
If Harry recalled correctly, his own family had developed some, though the patent had long been sold off.
And this wizard… radiated intense hostility toward him, a danger level surpassing even McGonagall, who stood beside him with little apparent fighting spirit.
The man’s claim that they wouldn’t let children fight struck Harry as absurd. He could feel this wizard’s battle intent, as if he was itching to clash with Harry three hundred times over the course of their school years, barely restraining himself.
Even more unsettling, this man might be some kind of perverse, predatory teacher. There were plenty of those in Britain, after all. When he looked into Harry’s eyes, there was an odd glint—part reminiscence, part… love?
Harry tightened his grip on his wand.
This was no ordinary opponent. He’d need to hit hard.
The kingly power above his head unleashed.
The red scar of the Lord of Light on his right wrist glowed, the Lightbringer his final resort.
On his left hand, an ominous black-blue hue began to spread, forming intricate, eerie runes. In the air, translucent blue spears began to coalesce, and the corridor grew cold in an instant.
“Potter, your recklessness exceeds even my imagination. Are you really going to fight me?”
The dark-haired professor was visibly shocked. He’d considered many possibilities.
When he saw Harry’s face, he felt the same old resentment well up.
But he hadn’t expected this.
He knew the Harry from the Dursleys’ had once been an ordinary boy…
Rumors couldn’t be trusted. The real Harry was like this—wandless, silent ice magic. Could he even defeat him?
At that moment—“Harry, what spell did you use?”
Harry spun around. An eccentric-looking old man, poking at the Fat Friar’s ghost with his wand, stood there.
Harry had seen his face in cards and extracurricular books.
This was one of the enemies he’d imagined facing before coming to Hogwarts—the greatest wizard of the age…
Dumbledore. When had he arrived?
“First-years, line up in a single file,” Professor McGonagall said to the new students. “Follow me.”
Harry had already undone the petrification on the ghosts and apologized. It turned out he’d misunderstood—McGonagall hadn’t been playing any tricks. She was genuinely just preparing for the Sorting Ceremony, asking the first-years to wait, and the ghosts had merely been passing by.
As for why she hadn’t explained what the ceremony entailed… it was just some twisted sense of humor.
The adults were clearly in on the joke, teasing the young wizards.
Fine, they could play. Harry vowed never to reveal the Sorting process to future first-years either.
Luckily, his charm was high enough now that even if he used Avada Kedavra, it’d probably only injure, not kill—turning the Killing Curse into a Stunning Spell.
The petrification, once lifted, left no ghost harmed.
It was like having such high strength that you wouldn’t accidentally pulp someone—his skill and control were extraordinary.
Passing through the doors, the other students were already seated at four long tables, thousands of candles floating above, illuminating the Great Hall brilliantly.
The ghosts mingled among the students. When they saw Harry Potter, that menace, enter, they scattered. Peeves, freshly awakened, bowed to Harry: “Great Mr. Potter, you’re the true king of the kids.”
He flickered a few times and vanished, probably fleeing.
All the students were staring at the infamous Harry Potter. True to his reputation, he’d caused a scene before even officially enrolling.
Harry, meanwhile, was looking up. The velvet-black ceiling sparkled with stars.
Was this spatial magic? From the outside, the ceiling didn’t seem this high—its interior must have been expanded.
Fire and water magic felt common enough. Besides Aguamenti and Incendio, Harry had gained some knowledge of ice and fire magic when he received divine power—likely a faint manifestation of the Lord of Light and the Great Other, whose struggle could sway the world’s seasons.
But spatial-temporal magic felt high-class, elite. Could wizards use it in combat? With his charm, Harry figured if it was possible, he could probably pull it off.
Hermione was whispering, “It’s enchanted to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History.”
Harry glanced at her and made up his mind—she’d be his external brain.
And Ron—Ron had all the gossip, while Hermione had the book smarts. Together, they were a dream team. How could he not dominate Hogwarts with them?
McGonagall, unaware of Harry’s thoughts, gently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first-years and set a pointed wizard hat on it.
The hat was patched, worn, and filthy.
Harry wouldn’t be surprised if they said it was decades old.
Then, the hat twitched. A wide rip opened like a mouth—and it began to sing:
“You might not think I’m pretty,
But don’t judge me by my looks.
If you find a hat more lovely,
I’ll eat myself, by hook or crook.
For I’m a thinking Sorting Hat!”
The song went on, describing the four Houses. Gryffindor was praised for bravery, daring, nerve, and chivalry—truly exceptional!
Slytherin, though, got a jab. Fine as friends, but full of ambitious, cunning, ruthless types.
Did this hat have a bias? Or was it just echoing its master’s stance? Why didn’t the Slytherins tear its mouth off?
Come on, show some spine!
Kick that hat’s backside with your boots!
Harry glanced at the Slytherin table.
