"Gryffindor, huh…" Dudley murmured to himself, a faint, unreadable smile on his face. He nodded politely to the cheering students around him, already seated at the Gryffindor table.
"That's brilliant!" Ron exclaimed, his face alight with pure joy. "My whole family's been in Gryffindor. I knew I would be, too! Now we'll all be in the same House!"
"I wonder which House I'll be in," Harry said, his own anxiety returning full force.
"Hopefully Gryffindor," Ron said, his mouth already full of bread. "Of course, the other Houses are fine, I guess. Just not Slytherin. All the bad wizards come from Slytherin. You-Know-Who, he was one of them."
"Slytherin," Dudley mused, his gaze drifting to their table. He saw Malfoy staring back, his eyes filled with a simmering, impotent rage. The Sorting Hat wanted to put me there, he thought. But in the end, I was sorted into Gryffindor. Was that the Hat's choice, or did someone else make the choice for it? His eyes flicked to the High Table, to the serene, powerful figure of Professor Dumbledore, who at that very moment looked over and gave him another one of his infuriatingly knowing winks.
The Sorting Ceremony continued. Ron, as expected, was sorted into Gryffindor before the hat had even fully settled on his head. Hermione, after a tense minute of deliberation, joined them as well. Finally, it was Harry's turn.
When Professor McGonagall called out "Potter, Harry," a hush fell over the entire Great Hall. Every single eye was fixed on him. This was the moment they had all been waiting for.
"I wonder which House he'll be sorted into," Dudley chuckled to himself, watching his cousin walk to the stool on trembling legs.
Harry's sorting took a long time, the hat sitting on his head for what felt like an eternity. He seemed to be having a silent argument with it. Finally, the brim opened wide, and the Hat shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"
The Great Hall erupted in a deafening roar of applause. Not just from the Gryffindor table, but from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw as well. Only the Slytherins remained silent, their faces sullen. Harry, looking immensely relieved, practically floated over to the Gryffindor table and sat down next to Dudley.
"Congratulations," Dudley said, patting his shoulder. "We're classmates now."
"Well," Harry said with a grin, "as long as you don't bully me, being your classmate isn't such a bad thing."
Dudley just pursed his lips, unsure of what to say to that. He was, after all, still trying to unlearn a lifetime of bad behavior.
"What are you guys talking about?" Ron asked, his mouth full of pumpkin pasty.
"Nothing," Harry said, shaking his head with a smile. The sorting was over. He was here. He belonged. For the first time in his life, he felt truly at home.
"Ah!" Suddenly, Harry let out a soft cry, his hand flying to his forehead.
"What's wrong?" Dudley asked instantly, his senses on high alert.
"My scar… it's burning," Harry whispered, his eyes fixed on a professor at the High Table. He was a man with greasy black hair, a large, hooked nose, and sallow, unhealthy-looking skin.
Dudley's gaze sharpened. He had noticed that professor before; the man's dark, penetrating eyes had swept over their group more than once. And now, Harry's scar was reacting to him. The evil aura hidden in that scar, the remnant of Voldemort's curse, was responding to this man. It was not a good sign.
"Who is that professor?" Dudley asked Percy Weasley, Ron's older brother, who was sitting nearby.
"That's Professor Snape," Percy said, his tone respectful but wary. "Head of Slytherin House and our Potions Master. Though, it's said he's always wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job." He gestured to an empty seat at the table. "That's for Professor Quirrell, who actually teaches Defense. Heard he had a run-in with some vampires in Albania and got injured. Missed the Sorting Ceremony. Don't know when he'll be back."
"I see." Dudley nodded, his mind already piecing things together. Under the cover of the noisy hall, he subtly activated his spiritual vision, his gaze sweeping over the High Table. He could perceive nothing unusual about Snape from this distance. He would need to get closer to be sure.
"Poor Professor Quirrell," Percy continued. "He's always been a nervous sort, stutters terribly. Hope he's alright. If not, Snape might get his wish and take over the Defense post."
"Let's hope Professor Quirrell makes a swift recovery," Dudley said noncommittally.
Harry leaned closer. "I feel like Professor Snape really dislikes me," he whispered. "Did I do something to offend him?"
Dudley pondered this for a moment, then a slow, analytical smile spread across his face. "There's no love or hate without reason," he said, adopting the tone of a seasoned investigator. "When this happens, it often represents a grudge from the previous generation."
"A grudge from the previous generation?"
"It's a classic trope," Dudley explained. "Snape is about the same age as our parents. They were likely classmates. Perhaps he was in love with your mother, which would have made him your father's rival. It's understandable that he would be hostile toward you. After all," he said, tapping his own eyes, "the only part of you that resembles your mother is your eyes. The rest of you is the spitting image of your father."
Harry stared at him, dumbfounded. "You… you can't be serious."
"Oh, and there's another possibility," Dudley continued thoughtfully, warming to his theme. "Given the traditions of our great British boarding schools, perhaps your father and Snape were actually a couple, and your mother broke them up. Thus, the grudge."
"Stop! That's enough!" Harry cried, his face a mixture of horror and disbelief. "You're getting more and more ridiculous."
"Hahaha, just a bold guess," Dudley laughed.
"I'd sooner believe pigs can fly," Harry muttered, though he couldn't help but crack a smile. For the first time, he was bantering with his cousin. It was the strangest, most wonderful feeling in the world.
(End of Chapter)
***
(End of Chapter)
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