The brightly lit Great Hall once again grew lively as students poured in.
They filed toward their respective House tables in neat lines, buzzing with excitement as they reunited with friends they hadn't seen for two months and eagerly swapped tales of their holidays.
Even at the Slytherin table, the mood wasn't bad. Though Louis was like a schoolyard tyrant in reputation, after a full term most of Slytherin had realized that this so-called "Heir of Merlin" was actually quite easy to get along with—so long as you didn't cross him.
Oh, and so long as you didn't cross his Muggle-born girlfriend either. Leave the two of them alone, and Louis was surprisingly approachable.
The first to figure this out had been Blaise Zabini.
The dark-skinned boy was pure in his own way—pure arrogance, but also sharply pragmatic. He had hypnotized himself into believing that Louis was a powerful wizard he could never match, but he could befriend.
Once Blaise understood Louis's strength, he started showing goodwill whenever possible—offering help, sharing tidbits of school gossip, things like that.
Louis, in turn, tossed him the occasional favor—like weaving him a sweet dream or two.
Not friendship, exactly, but enough to make them drinking-buddies of a sort.
Most of the other Slytherins couldn't manage more than ignoring Louis as best they could. They lacked Blaise Zabini's ability to self-delude and chat with him casually.
So at the Slytherin table, there was always a wide gap of empty seats around Louis—except for Blaise, who sat a little closer.
Louis didn't care. Settling into his spot, he tilted his head toward the staff table. Aside from the familiar professors, one unfamiliar, smooth-faced man stood out conspicuously.
"See that professor?" Louis tapped Blaise's arm. "The new one."
"Gilderoy Lockhart." Blaise's tone sounded odd. "A famous wizard… he almost became my stepfather."
Louis gave a solemn nod. "Ah, yes. Madam Zabini."
For Blaise, his mother was a legend—not for her magical power, but for her life story.
After all, a beautiful witch who had been widowed seven times, each time growing richer… how could she not be a legend?
She was practically a Black Widow. It was a wonder she hadn't managed to snare Lockhart. If she had, that would've sealed it: straight to Widow Number Eight.
Unless… maybe Lockhart had been the one too frightened to follow through?
"So, do you think Lockhart's handsome?" Louis asked.
"He's all right. His looks aren't bad—otherwise he wouldn't be so adored. Why do you ask?" Blaise looked puzzled.
"Then tell me—who's more handsome, me or him?" Louis clearly still hadn't gotten over Hermione praising Lockhart.
"You, of course. No question." Blaise answered firmly.
In truth, Blaise thought both of them were mediocre. If anyone was truly handsome, it was himself.
Yes, he was that narcissistic. He judged everyone's looks by his own reflection. But he also had enough sense to know he couldn't afford to offend Louis.
So he didn't speak the truth—he spoke what his survival instincts demanded.
"Exactly. What's so great about that puffed-up fool?" Louis shook his head.
One professor was missing from the staff table: Snape.
He was off rounding someone up—likely Harry and Ron, the two blockheads who hadn't boarded the train.
Not that it mattered. Dumbledore would never allow them to be expelled.
Waiting grew dull. The students sat around the tables, fidgeting as they anticipated the first-years' entrance.
Louis yawned, deciding to liven things up with a little lottery draw.
After all, he still had one Legendary Draw unused.
With a snap of his fingers, Louis laid down an illusion and shamelessly began his lottery draw.
[Legendary Draw Initiated]
As the system prompt appeared, a cascade of special effects flashed before his eyes. Soon, something dropped into his hand.
"Huh? This feels different." Louis frowned in puzzlement. He hadn't seen the final shadow freeze-frame as usual.
Looking down at the object in his hand, he hoped for an explanation.
[Legendary Crystal: Can upgrade an item to Legendary rank]
That was it—just a short line of description.
Louis studied the rainbow-hued crystal, unsure what to do with it.
"Not useless, but I can't really use it right now," he muttered. None of his current tools were lagging behind, and most of the time he didn't even need tools.
He tucked away the precious crystal, and just then, the sound of the Great Hall doors opening echoed through the chamber.
The new students had arrived—it was time for the Sorting Ceremony.
Louis stifled a yawn, listening to familiar and unfamiliar names being assigned to their Houses.
"…Colin Creevey, Gryffindor…"
"…Luna Lovegood, Ravenclaw…"
"…Cassandra Vole, Slytherin…"
"…Ginny Weasley, Gryffindor…"
…
Before long, the Sorting ended. Amid applause, the first-years joined their House tables. At Slytherin's, students shuffled their seats to make space—except around Louis. The empty buffer around him remained untouched.
Far from feeling offended, Louis thought these kids were actually quite considerate.
But clearly, not everyone was so "considerate."
A waft of perfume brushed by as a blonde girl sat down beside him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Good evening, Mr. Wilson." Cassandra removed her hat, her flawless beauty silencing the Slytherin table.
Louis rubbed his chin, giving her a long, searching look.
He couldn't shake the feeling this girl had some hidden agenda. Why else act so cold at Ollivander's, only to deliberately cozy up to him now at school?
Having her sit beside him gave him pressure—but not from Cassandra herself.
No, the pressure came from somewhere else entirely.
Sitting at the Slytherin table, Louis could clearly feel the death glare aimed at him from the Ravenclaw table.
Hermione did not look happy.
Louis could only meet her gaze and give her a reassuring smile.
As always, Dumbledore stood to give his usual reminders: the Forbidden Forest was off-limits, no spellcasting in the corridors, and so on. He also introduced the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
"…This year, let us welcome Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart as our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher…"
As Dumbledore's words rang out, Louis's mind automatically swapped "new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor" with "new sacrifice."
Professor? Out of courtesy? What kind of school goes through a new professor every single year?
Just call them sacrifices—it's more accurate.
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