Chapter 15: The Branch Academy Ceremony

The Sorting Ceremony at Hogwarts takes place every year. Everyone pays close attention, after all, it determines whether the outstanding new blood will enter their own house. This year’s ceremony was particularly captivating.

The savior of the British wizarding world, awaited for ten years, was finally stepping into the magical realm, and another figure steeped in prophecy was also enrolling this year. Besides these two, many heirs from pure-blood families destined for significant societal roles were joining as well.

Those with strong group loyalties, eager to strengthen their own faction, were already rubbing their hands in anticipation. Draco Malfoy even tried to show closeness to Harry Potter on the train, but unfortunately, Ron Weasley’s presence thwarted his efforts.

Seeking out the prophet? Draco never entertained the thought. His father had warned him to be wary of the prophet. Though young, Draco, a pure-blood “noble,” understood that some of his family’s business dealings were not entirely aboveboard. If the prophet was the type to turn a blind eye, that might be manageable, but if he was a zealous “champion of justice,” it could spell trouble.

After all, everyone wanted to uncover others’ secrets without revealing their own. The information gap is a powerful and terrifying force!

“Hufflepuff!” Hannah was the first to don the Sorting Hat and approach the long table amid resounding applause. As she took her seat, the clapping ceased in the direction of the Hufflepuff table, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the Sorting Hat, awaiting the next young witch or wizard.

Roger hardly recognized many of the students who followed. The only ones who left an impression were the trio of Harry, the Malfoy trio, and Neville, known for his many standout moments. As for the others... those who understood, understood.

Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin—the names of the houses cycled repeatedly from the Sorting Hat’s mouth.

Roger Virgil’s surname, starting with a V, meant he was among the last to be called.

The long wait bored Roger to the point of wandering thoughts.

One house housed students with courageous spirits, another brimmed with knowledge and wisdom, one had students as kind and generous as a father, and the last was proud and favored elegance...

Was there really no inspiration behind these traits?

“Roger Virgil!” Professor McGonagall held up the parchment and called out his name.

Snapping back to attention, Roger stepped onto the stage.

“Roger? Is he the legendary one...?”

“Roger? The Prophet?!” A young witch who had just been sorted into Gryffindor recognized the person she’d met on the train.

“Harry Potter has already claimed Gryffindor; the Prophet should be ours now, right?” some Slytherin students murmured incessantly.

“Oh my Merlin, please no, not in our house. My uncle says he’s a dark wizard who’s unhappy unless he’s killing Muggles every day...”

“Your uncle’s lying,” a Hufflepuff witch defended her acquaintance.

Voices of speculation rose and fell from the crowd, but most of it was indistinct to Roger, who had no interest in listening. The Sorting Hat was lowered, blocking his view.

Then came the voice.

“You really don’t want to go to Slytherin?”

“Alright, no need to keep saying that. So, where would you like to go... uh...?”

Every sorting ceremony featured some unusual children. After all, many early wizards were eccentric and poorly educated. Over the years, the Sorting Hat had grown accustomed to this.

But Roger was particularly challenging.

At this moment, Roger was like a broken record, his mind repeating one phrase.

“Not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin times ten.”

Even when the Hat tried to engage him, there was no other response.

Hmm, looks like it would have to get serious.

The Sorting Hat focused and asked, “Alright, though I feel Slytherin suits you best, if you refuse, how about Gryffindor?”

“Do you often consider yourself timid?” the Hat tried to listen beyond Roger’s repetition, seeking his thoughts.

“No, rashness isn’t bravery. You conquer your fears, you possess true courage.”

“What does ‘undaunted by death’ mean? ‘Though thousands oppose me, I will go’? Your standards are too high.”

“How about Ravenclaw?”

“Not smart enough, always making mistakes?”

“You can face your mistakes and strive to correct them, rather than ignoring them. That alone qualifies as wisdom.”

“If sorting were done by your standards, hardly anyone would get into Hogwarts.”

“Hufflepuff... well, Hufflepuff really doesn’t match your personality.”

The Sorting Hat pondered briefly between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.

Then it gave its answer.

“...Gryffindor!”

The reason was simple: Roger’s intelligence sprang from his courage to face everything, and like Slytherin, he had the desire to grow stronger and achieve more.

Given his unwillingness to join Slytherin, Gryffindor was indeed a better fit.

As the voice echoed, screams and cheers erupted from the Gryffindor table, nearly shaking the Great Hall’s ceiling.

Students waved their wizard hats in the air.

Savior, Prophet—the Sorting Ceremony had become a complete sweep for Gryffindor!

Roger looked toward Gryffindor’s direction... well, not everyone was so thrilled; a few classmates avoided his gaze, much like how Professor X is sometimes unwelcome among those keeping secrets.

After taking his seat, classmates quickly approached him warmly.

With his extensive experience commanding troops and leading teams, Roger naturally knew how to socialize; he handled the small scene with ease.

He noticed a boy nearby with glasses and a scarred forehead eyeing him curiously but hesitating to speak.

After Roger, only a few students remained, and the Sorting Ceremony soon concluded.

Then came the usual singing of the school song and the banquet. Headmaster Dumbledore spoke, repeating the warnings Roger remembered well: no going to the third-floor corridor on the right, no entering the Forbidden Forest, and the like.

As the students chattered and dined on the sumptuous feast, Roger often glanced toward the faculty seats.

Not toward Professor McGonagall, but at Professor Quirrell, who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Professor Snape, the Potions Master.

From what Roger knew, Snape was sharp-tongued and disliked gossip or idle chatter.

Yet now, he was frequently whispering with Professor Quirrell.

“...Since the start of term, Snape’s been fixated on Quirrell?”

Roger knew that the Dark Lord resided in the back of Quirrell’s head; he just wasn’t sure whether Snape was testing or spying.