Chapter 75: Leonard’s Sorting Ceremony
"Who can tell me what exactly happened?" Professor McGonagall's sharp gaze swept over the students.
The true culprit, Leonard, stayed silent.
How was he supposed to explain? That he'd accidentally let a bit of killing intent slip and scared Draco Malfoy into tears?
In his past life as a Scavenger, Leonard's hands had been soaked in blood—his aura carried real killing intent.
In this life, he had only killed once, and that was through a Chomping Cabbage, but he knew all too well what that kind of murderous glare looked like.
He'd already been in a foul mood earlier, irritated and restless. Then some boy started flapping his mouth, throwing insults. Of course Leonard wasn't going to give him a friendly look.
But… saying he made someone cry with just a glance? That sounded far too ridiculous.
"Professor," Harry raised his hand. "It was Malfoy who suddenly stopped us and started saying all sorts of strange things. He even insulted my friend here, calling him a Mudblood."
Harry wasn't above being sly. He didn't really know what "Mudblood" meant and didn't react to it himself, but he noticed the shock and disbelief on other students' faces when Malfoy said it.
It was clearly no good word. Reporting it to the professor was a safe bet.
"What did you say?" Professor McGonagall's expression hardened. "Are you certain he used that word?"
"Yes, Professor," Harry said, glancing around. "The others can back me up."
"Yes, Professor!" Hermione raised her hand. "I heard it."
"I... I did too!" Neville hesitated, but with Hermione's encouragement, he finally raised his hand as well.
"Then I understand," Professor McGonagall nodded, believing she'd pieced things together—only to stop short.
Something didn't add up. The student who had used the slur was the one crying. Why?
She turned to Harry, her eyes briefly lingering on his scar. "You're not hiding anything, are you?" she asked sternly.
"No," Harry answered without hesitation.
"Then why is he the one crying?" McGonagall pointed at the sobbing Malfoy.
"Maybe he got scared?" Harry said uncertainly. "Leonard just looked at him and told him to shut up."
"That's all?" McGonagall's voice held doubt.
"That's all, Professor. Maybe he's just…" Leonard glanced at the crying Malfoy. "…too delicate."
Too delicate?
Those words pierced Draco Malfoy's heart like an arrow.
He could already see it—his plan to flaunt his family's status and show off on the first day was in ruins. From now on, labels like "crybaby" and "delicate" would cling to him.
"If that's the case… very well." McGonagall pressed her hand to her temple. "This won't happen again. Students are to treat each other with respect."
She turned back toward the steps. "Come along, the Sorting Ceremony is about to begin."
The first-years followed her toward the Great Hall, while Draco Malfoy stood frozen in place, stiff as stone.
As students passed him, their hushed whispers reached his ears.
"He said he was from the Malfoy family."
"How embarrassing."
"He actually cried? How pathetic—ha ha ha."
...
Each remark landed like a finishing blow, stabbing Draco Malfoy in the chest and nearly driving him to tears again.
"Dra… Draco? Should we go in?" his first lackey, Goyle, asked nervously.
Crabbe, the second, glanced toward the Great Hall. "Crying's not that bad… but I'm kinda hungry."
Malfoy's eyes, burning with shame and fury, snapped to his foolish lackeys. Grinding his teeth, he growled, "Go!"
Useless trash. They hadn't lifted a finger to help him just now. How had he ended up with such idiotic followers?
...
Inside the Great Hall, four long tables stood neatly arranged. Students in their house robes sat in clusters, staring expectantly at the wide-eyed, curious first-years looking around in awe.
White candles floated high in the air, bathing the hall in light.
Leonard lifted his head, gazing at the starry ceiling and the waxless candles, marveling once again at the wonder of magic.
His eyes dropped to the staff table, where the professors sat.
At the center was the greatest wizard of all—Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.
At that moment, Dumbledore's gaze was fixed on Harry in the crowd, his blue eyes flickering with an unreadable light.
Another figure that caught Leonard's attention was Quirinus Quirrell.
His head was wrapped in thick cloth now—clear proof that Voldemort had already possessed him.
Suddenly, Leonard noticed Quirrell's head twist unnaturally, presenting the back of his skull to the students.
"Hss~" Harry beside him suddenly clutched his scar.
Leonard glanced over, then quickly looked away.
What kind of idiotic stunt was this? Did Voldemort take people's intelligence when he possessed them?
At a time like this, you just had to make yourself obvious? Trying to draw Dumbledore's attention? No wonder the wizarding war was lost—how could you not, when you were this careless?
Leonard noticed Dumbledore's expression shift. His eyes swept the hall but found nothing.
Clearly, Dumbledore knew Voldemort was there—he just didn't know where.
So why not at least suspect the suspicious Defense Against the Dark Arts professor? Something happens every year anyway; it wouldn't hurt to be cautious.
Leonard rolled his eyes. Both sides seemed to be out of their minds.
If it were up to him, the whole Harry Potter saga would've wrapped up in two installments.
...
Amid Leonard's silent complaints, the Sorting Ceremony began.
Professor McGonagall read from the register, calling each student up to don the Sorting Hat and determine where they would spend the next seven years.
Leonard glanced at the battered, pointed hat on the stool before the staff table and curled his lip, utterly uninterested.
For him, the result was obvious.
...
"Leonard William." Professor McGonagall called his name.
As one of the last students with a surname beginning with W, Leonard was among the final few to be sorted.
He walked forward under the glare of Draco Malfoy, already seated at the Slytherin table, and sat down on the high stool. Frowning, he watched as McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat onto his head.
"A rather impolite little brat," the Sorting Hat's voice sounded the moment it touched him, the creases at its tip forming a face as it clicked its tongue in amusement. "What's this—do you think I'm filthy?"
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