A Summoner in the Wizarding World

Chapter 3: The Summoning and the Sorting

As the first-years line up outside the Great Hall, I suddenly remembered my wish in the limbo space: the ability to summon an object from another world.

The anticipation and joy from reincarnating has temporarily blinded me, yet the imminent Sorting jolted my mind.

In Hogwarts, the castle constantly changes: secret passages, hidden doors and moving staircases are the norm here. As a rather unimaginative Muggle in my previous life, I need a map or assistance of sorts to survive in this magical place.

My first choice is Jarvis, or rather Friday from Iron Man, as they are both literal butlers. However, they may not work properly in the castle, which is notorious for disrupting these devices.

From another world of magic, the Akasha terminal could prove to be a great database and the best choice for magic learning, yet woefully impractical on a day-to-day basis.

Which leaves me with the final option, a semi-independent assistance that uses magic, can constantly be with me and raises little questions: Zed's Shadow clone.

I took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut, picturing the empty void of space. The disembodied voice echoed:

"Welcome back, sir. Have you chosen your object? The cooldown depends on its power level relative to this world."

"For Zed's Shadow, how long would the cool down be?"

"A magical imitation, limited intelligence. The next summoning would be in one week. Do you wish to continue?"

"Yes. Summon it."

After which a loading screen appeared in my vision again. This time, it displays:

Harry Potter, Summoner Level 1

Chest Acquired: 0

Summoned:

- Zed's Shadow (no technique) (in progress)

Time until next summoning: 6d 23h 59'

Store: (Unlock at level 10)

Augments: (Unlock at level 5)

Special Items: (Unlock level 10)

The loading bar slowly fills up before a soft "ting" indicating success.

And then, the pain. It snaked through my veins, carving symbols into my bones, turning my blood to molten lava. From what I remembered of the Shadow discipline, separating and empowering a clone was brutal. Zed, the Order Master, used the best technique, ensuring my shadow would be strong, even at the cost of this searing agony.

Finally, the torment ebbed, and I found myself back outside the Great Hall, just as Hermione's concerned voice reached my ears.

"...Harry. Harry! Are you okay?" she asked, her bushy eyebrows furrowed. The other students had already entered the Hall, leaving us behind.

"I'm fine, thanks," I mumbled. "Just... drained."

As we traveled in silence, me and my shadow reached a mutual understanding. Despite the latter being, of course, mute, I can perceive its meaning through our mutual understanding, though far from an experienced warrior such as Zed who had decades of training.

Its presence felt like a cool hand on my arm, mirroring my every step, storing the path in its intangible memory.

From the professors' table, two pairs of eyes followed our every move. Dumbledore, his aged face etched with concern, seemed to have sensed a tremor in the ancient magic, his gaze laced with curiosity and vigilance. He glanced at the new DADA professor, whose gaze mirrored his own unease. The Dark Lord had felt it too.

With a mysterious tinkle in his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore announced: "Let the Sorting begin!"

After the slightly awful song, I put the dirty, torn hat on my head. An immaterial voice greeted me:

"An inquisitive mind indeed. Lots of desire for knowledge, I see, great fit for Ravenclaw. Cunning, with good ancestry - old Salazaar would love to have you in his house... What do you say, boy?"

"Can I be in Griffindor? I don't want to be separate from my friend."

"Are you sure? You could achieve great things in either Slytherin or Ravenclaw... No? Very well, then, better be GRIFFINDOR!"

The Hat shouted the last syllable out loud, and a cheer erupted from the scarlet-robed wizards.

This cheer is quickly drowned out after professor McGonagall announced:

"Longbottom, Neville."

Ah, yes. The legend himself - the supposed protagonist of this story.

The - other - Boy Who Lived.