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[HP: Return from Game of Thrones]-Chapter 27: The King's Magic Replenishment
🕑 Added 2025-09-20 01:12:56 +0000 UTCBad news: a monstrous new student was coming.
Good news: he was on our side.
Prefect Percy stood up and shook his hand firmly, while the Weasley twins shouted loudly, “We’ve got Potter! We’ve got Potter!”
Even some of the ghosts, who had previously kept their distance from Harry—many of whom were Gryffindors in life—took a few tentative steps closer. If he was sorted into Gryffindor, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Besides, that super-powerful Petrification Charm was just a misunderstanding, wasn’t it?
Harry chatted with the Weasley brothers and sat down, finally able to take a good look at the high table where the guests of honor were seated.
Hagrid sat in the corner, catching Harry’s eye and giving him a thumbs-up. Harry grinned back.
At the center of the high table, seated on a large golden chair, was Albus Dumbledore.
Harry’s instincts told him that Dumbledore was extremely dangerous, but for now, he seemed to harbor no ill will. It was precisely because Harry recognized Dumbledore’s immense power that he had been so cooperative in returning the sword. If Dumbledore were only slightly stronger than Professor McGonagall, Harry would have fought harder to keep more leverage.
For instance, carrying the sword openly might scare the younger students, but Harry could have kept the Sorting Hat with him. He could just whip it out when needed—after all, the Sorting Hat seemed pretty idle outside of the Sorting Ceremony.
The Weasleys had mentioned that the Sorting Hat’s song was different every year, probably out of sheer boredom.
Then there was that creepy guy. After asking the Weasley brothers, Harry learned his name was Professor Snape. Harry didn’t like the way Snape looked at him—it was too strange.
Another person caught Harry’s attention: the young man he’d met at the Leaky Cauldron, the one who seemed like a Voldemort worshipper. He was wrapped in an oversized purple scarf, looking quite peculiar.
When their eyes met, the scar on Harry’s forehead—one that suppressed various powers—stirred, as the dark magic left by Voldemort began to awaken and grow restless.
That guy was Quirrell, wasn’t he? Had he already made contact with Voldemort?
Harry had a gut feeling that Quirrell’s connection to Voldemort might be deeper than he’d imagined.
Back in Knockturn Alley, Harry had encountered a few Death Eaters who’d escaped justice. The most wicked of them had been beheaded by Harry himself with his “Voodoo” sword, but none of them had given him the same unsettling feeling as Quirrell.
Lost in thought, the Sorting continued.
Harry, with a surname starting with P, was one of the later ones to be sorted. With not many first-years to begin with, the ceremony wrapped up quickly, and it was time for dinner.
In front of him was an empty golden plate. Would servants bring the food? Or perhaps some kind of teleportation magic? He’d heard from some wizards that Hogwarts was protected by all sorts of wards that prevented Apparition.
This was good news for Harry. His speed far surpassed that of most wizards, giving him a huge advantage when Apparition was banned. He could advance or retreat as needed—a true weapon in his arsenal.
That magic was called Apparition, wasn’t it? Apparently, only a handful of skilled wizards could use it effectively, mostly for travel. Those who could wield it in combat were exceedingly rare—true masters.
But Dumbledore was undoubtedly one of those rare few…
As the headmaster, the wards at Hogwarts probably—no, definitely—didn’t apply to him.
If it came to a fight with Dumbledore, Harry would need to keep that in mind.
At that moment, Albus Dumbledore stood up.
Beaming, he spread his arms wide, as if nothing brought him greater joy than seeing the students gathered together.
“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to Hogwarts for the start of a new school year! Before the feast begins, I’d like to say a few words. And they are:
Nitwit!
Blubber!
Oddment!
Tweak!”
“Thank you!”
He sat back down, and the hall erupted in applause and cheers. Harry clapped the loudest. Having attended school in China, he thought this headmaster was fantastic—he’d actually kept his speech to just a few words!
When Dumbledore had said, “I’d like to say a few words,” Harry had nearly had a PTSD flashback.
As Dumbledore sat down, the feast began, and the plates before them filled with food.
Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, steak, boiled potatoes, roasted potatoes, chips, and ketchup—it was a spread far beyond the average British meal.
But what about the supposed ban on Apparition at Hogwarts? Clearly, the rumors were unreliable—food was being teleported right onto the plates.
Whatever. Time to eat. Harry unleashed his kingly appetite, determined to regain his strength as quickly as possible. According to the wisdom of Chinese parents, eating enough would help him return to peak condition within two years.
If he could gather ten bronze attribute points to boost his stamina and keep investing in strength… maybe he could recover even faster.
His instincts told him that, in his current state, he likely couldn’t defeat Dumbledore.
While they weren’t direct enemies, this realization still sparked a sense of unease in Harry.
After all, Dumbledore might not be that kind of creep—some wizards in Knockturn Alley had whispered about wild rumors claiming he and the first Dark Lord, Grindelwald, had been lovers in a love-hate relationship. But Harry didn’t put much stock in gossip.
Snape, however, was another story. His gaze was undeniably off. Most people might think Snape hated him, but Harry’s sharp senses picked up a tangled mix of love and hate.
As for Snape and Dumbledore, most wouldn’t notice anything between them. Some might even think they didn’t get along. But Harry could tell Snape was absolutely loyal to Dumbledore.
If he clashed with Snape, what would Dumbledore’s stance be…?
Harry had his own logic when it came to reading people, and his keen observation had saved him from danger and conspiracies more than once.
His accuracy? About fifty percent—either he was right, or he was wrong. Still, it never hurt to be cautious and think one step ahead.
He kept eating, his appetite drawing attention.
“My God, he could eat an entire cow!”
“Is this the Savior’s appetite?”
“Where does all that food go? Has his stomach been enchanted with an Extension Charm?”
“Maybe it’s instantly digested.”
“Even if it turns to you-know-what, it’s got to go somewhere, right? He hasn’t even been to the bathroom, so why isn’t his stomach bulging?”
“Merlin’s beard, we’re eating here! Can you not say such disgusting things?”
“Maybe he converts all the food into magic. I heard about this in Muggle school—something about mass-energy… mass-energy… some kind of balance of power. Whatever Potter’s got, that incredible magic that let him defeat the Dark Lord at age one, it must be because he eats so much!”
“What, are you saying he drank ten pounds of milk a day as a baby? That’s ridiculous.”
“Who knows?”
Quirrell was also watching Harry closely, silently gathering information and reporting to the master hidden in his scarf:
“Yes, he eats a lot.”
