"Specialis Revelio!"
A flash erupted from Harry's wand, striking Ron's chest. The spell caused Ron no pain—Revelio merely unveiled what magic concealed.
Unlike novice wizards who might lose control and cause unintended harm, Harry's spell was precise. He'd cast it with one goal: to protect his friend, Ron. All through their conversation, he'd been planning what to do.
Harry knew simply reporting his suspicions wouldn't guarantee adults' belief. Hagrid might trust him, but even that was uncertain. Despite being hailed as a hero, not every adult would heed a boy's words.
To be believed, he needed undeniable proof, revealed before everyone's eyes.
Ordinarily, he'd be stuck—his only evidence was Asclepius's testimony, which adults couldn't verify. Unknown to Harry, Dumbledore could have confirmed the snake's words with time and a Parseltongue textbook. But Harry only knew Parselmouths were rare and ill-omened.
His success in casting his first spell before the Great Hall stemmed from his eagerness for the wizarding world. He'd pored over textbooks, not to fantasize about hexing Dudley with Bombarda or Diffindo, but to master practical spells like Lumos to light his way or Accio to summon small items—magic that harmed no one. That study paid off in this critical moment.
Revelio was a spell Harry had practiced, wand movements and pronunciation only, drawn to its ability to discern truth from deception—a vital tool for a boy new to the wizarding world.
As the spell took effect, something emerged from Ron's chest. The rat—Scabbers—was no rat. Amid swirling smoke, a human silhouette formed.
"What the—!?" Ron stammered.
"Harry, why…?" Ron's confusion echoed among the students.
Harry had no time to explain.
It worked…
Success!
Elation flooded him. For the first time, he'd wielded magic deliberately—and it worked.
"Eek!?" a girl near Ron screamed. "A half-naked man! Here!?"
The panic might have spiraled, altering the outcome, but a calm voice cut through.
"Silence."
Steeped in authority and kindness, it was the voice of a true teacher. Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts' Headmaster, quelled the near-hysterical students.
Unnoticed, Dumbledore flicked his wand, binding the man who'd appeared.
"Are you hurt, Weasley?" Professor McGonagall asked.
"Seems not," Madam Pomfrey added. "Lucky you're not bedridden before term starts."
"Uh, yeah, but… Scabbers…" Ron mumbled, dazed.
"Right! Ron! You okay!?" A prefect with a badge—likely Ron's brother—rushed from the Gryffindor table, joined by two twins, all stunned by the man emerging from Ron's pocket.
"Back to your seat, Weasley," McGonagall said. "You weren't called."
"But as a prefect, I'm responsible… and Scabbers…" Percy protested.
"I said calm down," McGonagall snapped. "This is beyond a prefect's scope. Return to your seat."
Percy slunk back, chastened. McGonagall ignored him, studying the man's face.
Could it be…? No, but… why?
Her expression betrayed shock. Even Harry, watching hazily, could tell she recognized the man. A stranger would've prompted curiosity, not the raw unease on McGonagall's face, more vivid than Petunia's gossiping looks.
"It seems an uninvited guest has breached Hogwarts," Dumbledore's steady voice rang out.
Harry turned. There stood the wizard from the Chocolate Frog card—long white beard, piercing blue eyes gleaming with clarity.
"Tonight's feast is for those who came before and the young who will learn here," Dumbledore continued. "I understand the urge to join, but… uninvited guests must leave."
With a wave of his wand, the man vanished from the floor. With McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey's help, the rattled first-years regained composure.
"H-Headmaster Dumbledore," a nervous, turbaned man stammered, "sh-should I c-contact the Ministry?"
(…Quirrell?) Harry recognized him from Diagon Alley.
"No need, Professor Quirrell," Dumbledore said. "Please oversee the Sorting. Hagrid, send an owl to the Ministry."
"Right away!" Hagrid boomed.
"And you, return to the line," McGonagall told Harry. "No student in Hogwarts' history has done such a thing."
"Quite right," another voice sneered from the staff table. "Breaking rules, using magic as an untrained wizard, endangering a fellow student—why didn't you report this to a teacher?"
"I'm sorry…" Harry mumbled.
A greasy-haired man in black robes glared at Harry with Petunia-like disdain. Their eyes met briefly before the man—Snape—looked away.
"Enough, Professors McGonagall and Snape," Dumbledore said. "I'd award points for spotting an intruder we all missed, but…"
"Whoa, seriously?" Asclepius hissed. "Nice going, Harry. What's points get you? A rabbit?"
Harry, crestfallen, blinked at Dumbledore's unexpected defense.
"It's before term, and you're unsorted," Dumbledore said. "No points, but no punishment either. Professor Snape, don't be too hard on a first-year."
"…As you say," Snape replied, his bitterness unconcealed.
The Sorting Ceremony proceeded smoothly. The Sorting Hat's song echoed.
"Gryffindor and Slytherin, no truer friends could there be…"
That line lingered in Harry's mind.
After the Hat described the four houses, names were called alphabetically. Hannah Abbott went first, followed by Hermione Granger, who, after a pause, joined Gryffindor.
Each name prompted cheers or greetings. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff erupted with exuberance, while Ravenclaw and Slytherin welcomed new students with calm dignity. Harry's nerves frayed, his heartbeat thundering as his turn neared.
"Harry Potter!"
"…Potter? For real?"
"Which Potter?"
"That kid's Potter!?"
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Harry dashed to the Hat, jamming it on his head.
"Hmm… difficult. Very difficult," a voice echoed in his mind.
"You've got stubborn resolve to see things through, even bending rules. A trait shared by Gryffindor and Slytherin."
"Thank you," Harry said. Even if it was flattery, praise felt good.
"You want to be a great wizard," the Hat said. "Can you envision what kind?"
Harry lacked a clear vision. He knew his parents' deaths vaguely, and Draco had said Merlin was a Slytherin, a house that valued study more than Gryffindor.
He reconsidered why he wanted Slytherin.
Beyond Draco's biases, Slytherin's reputation for academic rigor held true. Many students, from wealthy wizarding families with tutors, started with stronger foundations. The house didn't scorn scholarship, and ambitious Slytherins often leveraged connections for success.
Harry didn't believe he was talented. He wasn't that arrogant.
Surviving as a baby was likely his parents' doing—how else could he defeat a dark wizard? Without innate gifts, to surpass his parents or achieve feats like Dumbledore's, he needed rigorous study and a path they hadn't taken.
That meant an environment where he could learn without mockery or violence, unlike the Dursleys' cupboard.
"I want to be a great wizard, remembered in history, surpassing my parents," Harry told the Hat.
"Very well. You'll become a great wizard."
"SLYTHERIN!"
Beaming, Harry raced to the green-adorned table. Shock echoed from Gryffindor's crimson flags, while Slytherin erupted in the night's loudest cheers. Amid the applause, the greasy-haired teacher in black robes stared intently at Harry's back.