Harry Potter Defends Gryffindor

Hermione had always held Gryffindor close to her heart. It was the house of Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the 20th century—so her books declared. And now, Dumbledore was the headmaster of Hogwarts. To Hermione, Gryffindor was unquestionably the best house, no debate needed.

The mere thought of being sorted into her dream house filled her with joy. But an intrusive memory of herself crying by the water crept into her mind, casting a shadow over her excitement. She hoped that particular vision would prove false.

And so, she sulked.

How embarrassing.

"Oh, Harry! I knew it! They were right when they said you're not just an ordinary wizard!" Ron exclaimed, practically bouncing with excitement after witnessing Harry's divination. "Can you predict something for me, too?"

"It's divination, not fortune-telling. And I'm no different from any other wizard. Calm down," Harry replied, trying to rein in Ron's enthusiasm. His words, however, seemed to have little effect.

As Harry lit the incense again, its unique fragrance transformed into blue smoke, which drifted lazily past Ron before settling over the stone basin. The water inside rippled as the smoke swirled above it.

Ron's figure materialized in the watery surface. Even Hermione, despite her earlier sulking, was drawn closer by sheer curiosity.

What incredible magic!

In the vision, Ron... well, he didn't look great. Leaning against a wall, he appeared nervous and dejected, as if being reprimanded by someone. The eerie, green-tinged surroundings only heightened the unsettling atmosphere.

"Ha! You got detention from a professor!" Hermione exclaimed, momentarily forgetting her own concerns.

"...Don't worry," Harry reassured a visibly shaken Ron. "Divination isn't set in stone. People seek it to avoid the worst outcomes, after all."

"Oh… I just hope the professor doesn't write home to Mum," Ron groaned, rubbing his temples in despair.

Meanwhile, Harry's mind wandered. Both divinations—Hermione's and Ron's—had revealed events seemingly close in time. Their appearances hadn't changed significantly in the visions, suggesting the magic was limited to glimpses of the near future.

But Harry had aimed for something different. He wanted to divine their distant futures, hoping to show them their grown-up selves. The results puzzled him.

"Could it be a side effect of this different world?" Harry mused silently. "I'll need to refine the magical construct."

"…Harry? Harry!" Hermione's voice snapped him back to reality. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Can I learn your divination magic?" she asked eagerly, her enthusiasm spilling over.

"You can, but… also can't," Harry replied thoughtfully. He decided honesty was the best course. "The first 'can' means you're capable of learning the magic. The second 'can't' means you probably won't become a Seer capable of perceiving far-off futures."

"…Why?" Hermione's voice wavered, her excitement giving way to disbelief.

"Because you lack the talent," Harry said bluntly. "As I mentioned earlier, being a Seer depends more on innate ability than effort."

During the earlier divination, Harry had assessed Hermione's sensitivity to spiritual energy. The verdict? She had some, but not much.

As for Ron? He was firmly in the "can't perceive a thing" category.

It was a harsh reality.

Hermione looked utterly crushed. Did Harry realize how devastating his words were to someone like her—a Muggle-born filled with wonder about magic and eager to prove herself? For Hermione, who had silently vowed to excel in the wizarding world, those four words—"you lack the talent"—felt like a punch to the gut.

Ron, surprisingly, took it in stride.

"Oh, don't be silly, Hermione," he said, pulling out a sandwich his mum had packed. "True Seers are as rare as dragon eggs. The ones who can see the future at will only pop up every few centuries. No point getting upset over it."

"I'm not upset!" Hermione snapped, though her watery eyes betrayed her.

"Uh… it's not that you have no talent," Harry interjected, trying to soften the blow. As a kind-hearted person, he hated making anyone cry. "With enough effort, you could still reach a basic level of divination, though your visions might be unclear and limited."

"Most people, even with training, can only glimpse fragments—brief flashes of what might happen in the next day or two, maybe a couple of weeks. The images are usually disjointed and lack context. They're lucky if they can tell whether something is good or bad."

"And many others," Harry continued, "can only develop vague intuitions—gut feelings about outcomes—or nothing at all."

It was the truth. Not everyone was destined to become a Seer.

"...Really?" Hermione asked tentatively. "I can still learn?"

If sheer effort could elevate her above the average wizard, she decided she could live with that.

"Of course," Harry confirmed. "For those with even a little talent, I'm happy to teach them the shamanic path."

Part of Harry's willingness to demonstrate his unique magic was tied to a greater goal: identifying like-minded individuals who might join the organization he envisioned. Starting from scratch was possible, but allies would make the journey much smoother.

After all, reviving the elemental power of an entire world was not something Harry could—or should—undertake alone.

Planting the seeds of shamanism in this world was a worthy pursuit.

"'Children'… You talk like you're much older than us," Hermione muttered, discreetly wiping her eyes. "And why shamanism? Aren't we wizards?"

"Of course we are," Harry replied warmly. "But I'm not just a wizard. I'm also a shaman. If you're interested, I can explain more over time."

"Why not now?" Ron asked.

"Because someone's coming," Harry answered.

As if on cue, a knock sounded at the compartment door. Ron opened it to find a boy standing there, his tear-streaked face full of confusion.

His chubby cheeks gave him an endearing, innocent look.

"Have you seen my toad?"

"What?" Hermione didn't understand.

"A toad, a wizard's pet," Ron explained helpfully, adding, "Shouldn't it be with you? Wizard pets usually don't wander off. They're quite smart."

"Oh, Merlin, I can't find it anywhere," the boy looked like he was on the verge of tears. "Trevor, my Trevor."

"Alright, I get it. Don't cry just yet." Hermione took a deep breath and stood up. "I'll help you find this... Trevor. Do you two want to come along?"

"Why not?" Harry closed his book and stood up. "Not like we've got anything better to do."

Ron was happy to join as well.

Harry admired Hermione's initiative—kindness like hers deserved encouragement. He was beginning to think he'd made the right choice in befriending these two.

"Thank you! Thank you so much! My name's Neville! Neville Longbottom!" The round-faced boy introduced himself excitedly.

What followed was a round of polite introductions and, much to Harry's exasperation, the inevitable "Oh my gosh, you're Harry Potter!"—an expression that, in his opinion, was far more annoying than going door-to-door asking about a missing toad.

"Something funny?" Harry raised an eyebrow as he surveyed the compartment they had just opened.

It was filled with an overwhelming amount of silver and green, the snake motif everywhere—a clear nod to Slytherin House. According to the books Harry had read, they were notoriously proud of their emblem.

This compartment was noticeably more extravagant than others. The interior had been magically expanded, and the table was laden with lavish snacks and drinks. Clearly, no expense was spared here.

The occupants varied in age; alongside a few first-years, there were students from other years chatting and laughing.

But the moment Hermione knocked and asked about Neville's toad, the laughter stopped. The students exchanged glances, then burst into mocking, malicious laughter—a sound dripping with ridicule and hostility.

Harry instinctively stepped forward, shielding Hermione behind him. Calmly, he asked, "What's so funny?"

"No one cares about a toad, you filthy little Mudblood. Now get out of our compartment!" sneered a freckled boy, baring his teeth at Hermione, though Harry's presence blocked him.

Another round of laughter erupted.

"Hey! You can't just say that!" Ron, furious, made to charge forward, but Harry stopped him.

Really, mate? With those skinny arms? Who are you going to beat?

Still, Harry had to commend Ron's courage.

"Apologize," Harry's sharp gaze swept across the compartment. His voice was cold and commanding. "Or you'll regret it."

Harry recognized the slur from his readings: Mudblood—the most vile insult pureblood wizards used for Muggle-borns.

His hand hovered over the war hammer strapped to his waist but paused. No need to use that on a bunch of brats.

"Apologize?!" A boy in Slytherin robes laughed derisively, the crest of his house prominently displayed on his chest. "And what will you do if we don't? Who do you think you are?"

"Right! And isn't that the Weasley disgrace?" chimed in a blond boy Harry recognized from earlier. Draco Malfoy sneered, "My father was right—red hair, freckles, and so poor they can't afford anything."

"HAHAHAHA!"

The laughter escalated. If not for Harry's grip, Ron would have lunged by now.

"Wait a second," someone suddenly said, his gaze shifting curiously to Harry. "Look at him—on his forehead... that scar!"

"Harry Potter?!"

"Apologize," Harry repeated, cutting off the inevitable hysteria of recognition. His stance was steady, and he was prepared for a fight.

"Pfft." A boy snorted dismissively. "This is our so-called savior? This is all he is?"

"You—so that day—you ignored me on purpose!?" Malfoy's face turned red with rage. "How dare you ignore a Malfoy!"

"That's right," Harry replied evenly. "You were noisy, and I didn't like anything you said. I only compare the lineage of livestock to see which produces more milk or meat."

"You dare insult the purity of wizarding blood?!"

Harry's words were like a stone tossed into a pond—except in this compartment, they ignited a wave of outrage among the Slytherins.

"Mixing with filthy Mudbloods and flaunting those ridiculous horns—who do you think you are?! Some kind of freak?"

Good. Words are no longer necessary.

The conflict escalated in an instant, catching everyone off guard. And it was Harry who struck first, despite being outnumbered and outsized.

"Hide, all three of you!" Harry roared as he slammed his fist into the face of the boy who had mocked his horns. "For the Horde!"

His punch landed squarely on the boy's nose, leaving it bent and bleeding profusely.

"He hit me! Get him! Get him!"

"Lok'tar ogar!!!" (Victory or death!)

The battle cry erupted from Harry with an intensity that stunned everyone nearby.

Size and numbers didn't matter; victory was about the fighting spirit—a spirit Harry had in abundance.

Fists flew, and Harry's every punch elicited howls of pain. The sound of his attackers' blows striking his body was almost metallic, and the pain reverberating up their arms made their faces turn pale.

For the younger Slytherins, their limited knowledge of magic made fists seem more practical, while the older students had better options. But Harry had anticipated this.

When a burly upperclassman drew his wand, Harry wasted no time. From his waist, he drew the war hammer and roared, "HAMMER THROW!"

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