"Gryffindor, huh…" Dudley murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips as he nodded to the cheering Gryffindors around him. Already at their table, he didn't need to move.
"Brilliant! We'll likely be Housemates," Ron said, beaming. "My whole family's Gryffindor—I'm a shoo-in."
"I wonder where I'll end up," Harry said, his voice tight with nerves.
"Fingers crossed for Gryffindor," Ron replied. "The other Houses are fine, but avoid Slytherin. Most dark wizards come from there—You-Know-Who included."
"Slytherin," Dudley echoed, glancing at the Slytherin table where Malfoy's glare burned with malice.
"The Sorting Hat seemed to favor Slytherin for me, but I landed in Gryffindor. Its choice, or someone else's?" Dudley mused, his eyes drifting to the staff table, locking briefly with Professor Dumbledore's.
Dumbledore met his gaze, offering a subtle, enigmatic smile.
The Sorting Ceremony pressed on.
Ron went next and, as predicted, was sorted into Gryffindor.
Hermione followed, also placed in Gryffindor.
Then came Harry.
When "Harry Potter" was called, the Great Hall fell deathly silent, every eye fixed on him. Even those who'd heard he was at Hogwarts couldn't believe it until now.
"Wonder where he'll go," Dudley said with a soft chuckle.
Harry's sorting took longer than most, but after about thirty seconds, the hat roared, "Gryffindor!"
Applause thundered through the hall—not just from Gryffindor but from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw too. Only Slytherin remained silent.
Harry plopped down beside Dudley, exhaling in relief. "That was intense."
"Congrats, Housemate," Dudley said, clapping Harry's shoulder. "We're in this together now."
"As long as you don't start picking on me, I'm good with that," Harry teased, grinning.
"Er…" Dudley pursed his lips, momentarily stumped.
"What're you two nattering about?" Ron asked, mouth stuffed with pumpkin pasties, words barely intelligible.
"Nothing," Harry said, shaking his head with a smile.
With the sorting complete, Harry's tension melted away. He began to absorb the grandeur of the Great Hall and the faces around him, feeling, for the first time, like he truly belonged.
"Ah!" Harry gasped suddenly, clutching the scar on his forehead.
"What's wrong?" Dudley asked, instantly alert.
"My scar—it burned when I looked at that professor," Harry said, frowning and nodding toward the staff table.
A man with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin sat there—Professor Snape.
"Him…" Dudley's eyes narrowed.
He'd noticed Snape earlier; the professor's gaze had lingered on them repeatedly, though it seemed unintentional. Harry's scar reacting to him was a red flag.
Dudley knew a malevolent aura lurked within Harry's scar—a force even he found daunting.
"Who's that professor? What's his subject?" Dudley asked Percy, Ron's brother, seated nearby. They'd already bonded over earlier chatter.
"That's Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin and Potions teacher," Percy said. "He's not thrilled about it, though—wants Defense Against the Dark Arts, but that post's taken."
"See the empty seat beside him? That's for Professor Quirrell, who teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts. Rumor is, he got hurt traveling in Albania and missed the ceremony. No word on when he'll return."
"Got it," Dudley said, nodding. He blinked, channeling spiritual power into his eyes, and subtly glanced at the staff table.
Under Spirit Vision, Snape appeared unremarkable. From this distance, Dudley's abilities couldn't detect any dark aura. He'd need to get closer to sense anything definitive.
"Poor Professor Quirrell," Percy went on. "He's a nervous type, stammers a lot. Injured in Albania—hope he recovers. If not, Snape might finally get Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Here's hoping Quirrell pulls through," Dudley said diplomatically.
Harry leaned in, whispering, "Snape really seems to hate me. Did I do something to him?"
Dudley pondered, then smirked. "No love or hate comes without cause. Probably a grudge from your parents' generation."
"What? A grudge?" Harry blinked, confused.
Dudley shrugged. "It's like something out of a novel. Snape's about the same age as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon—probably classmates back then. Maybe he fancied your mum, making him your dad's rival."
"Your eyes are Petunia's, but the rest of you screams your dad. Seeing his old rival's face in you? That'd explain the hostility."
Harry followed along at first, but the theory veered into absurdity. "That's…"
"Oh, another possibility," Dudley cut in, grinning mischievously. "Given British traditions, maybe your dad and Snape were an item, and Petunia broke them up. Hence the grudge."
"Stop it! That's absurd!" Harry spluttered, exasperated.
"Haha, just a wild theory," Dudley laughed.
"I'd sooner believe pigs can fly," Harry muttered.