There were fewer passengers on the Hogwarts Express than usual, yet the number of first-years had not only failed to drop—it had actually increased.
That kind of abnormal phenomenon, of course, was influenced by the state of the times.
Hogwarts didn't always recruit this many students, because it wasn't the only educational institution in the British Isles. There were also many smaller schools taking in pupils. Around the world, plenty of magical schools operated on a smaller scale, and they shared one common trait: their locations were never fixed. Wherever the teacher went, the students went too.
Besides that, some traditional wizarding families chose homeschooling or apprenticeship-style instruction. Before Hogwarts was founded, that model was actually the mainstream in the British Isles. It was precisely because Hogwarts had such strong staff and resources that it could attract wizards to send their children here.
But there was another crucial reason—also the greatest advantage of large magical schools like Hogwarts: safety. Every long-established magical school had lived through wizarding wars, and in turbulent eras, they stood firm, protecting students and truth alike.
Hogwarts was praised as the safest place in the world—though we all know that isn't really true. That reputation wasn't only because Dumbledore was here; it was also the wizarding world acknowledging the school's history.
The shakier the age became, the brighter Hogwarts' flame burned, drawing even more students to enroll.
Dumbledore turned no one away. Perfect timing, too: the school was expanding this year, and there would be enough dormitory space to house all the new students. If there weren't enough students, making the school bigger would be meaningless anyway.
The welcoming ceremony followed the usual routine. One by one, first-years put on the Sorting Hat, then went to sit at their House tables. Before the feast began, the Headmaster would, as always, give a speech.
Dumbledore was a considerate old man. The Sorting had run long this year, and the children were so hungry their stomachs felt glued to their spines. He stood up and said only one sentence:
"Welcome to Hogwarts. Let the feast begin!"
He flicked his wand, and on four empty long tables, a torrential downpour of food came whooshing down.
Northern Britain in September was already a bit chilly. The younger students had been shivering before they entered the castle. By the time their hands and feet warmed up, their bellies were growling like angry beasts. At a moment like this, nothing soothed the heart like a grand meal.
A lot of students thought they were hungry enough to swallow a whole cow alive. No matter what catastrophe loomed, nothing could shake their determination to chow down—hell, even if someone were executing their own Head of House on the other side of the table, they wouldn't spare a second thought.
But reality proved they were dead wrong. There were things more important than filling your stomach.
Tonight, the Great Hall was quiet—quiet like it was hosting a royal court banquet. Lamb chops, crispy roast chicken, coils of sausage, steaks, fried potato wedges, creamy mashed potatoes—each dish dressed up like a concubine from a harem, preening in gleaming silver platters. The thick, amino-acid-rich perfume teased the nose like a cat's little paw, so enticing it could hook your soul right out of your body.
On a normal day, these half-grown kids would turn into tyrants and absolutely annihilate the spread, wiping the plates clean, wishing they could chew up the tablecloth and swallow that too.
But now they all sat with the stiff composure of country girls who'd accidentally wandered into a noble's banquet—awkward, at a loss, clumsy, forgetting how to eat. One moment someone knocked a goblet over; the next someone flipped a plate. Ron, who usually held a huge chicken leg in each hand and went to war on them, was now putting on airs with knife and fork, sweating buckets just trying to cut a steak. Seamus Finnigan—the resident explosive genius—was reminded his hair was a mess. He hurriedly lifted his wand to his fringe, trying to blow it into shape… and the tip of his wand spat out a burst of fireworks that soot-blackened his whole face.
For many, the meal tasted like nothing at all. Only when the tables cleared did they realize their stomachs were still empty. Their minds hadn't been on eating—only on stealing glances up at the staff table.
Dumbledore stood again.
"What a marvelous feast. I hope everyone is well-fed, and in the mood to listen to a few words from an old man. First, first-year students should be aware that the forest on the grounds is forbidden. Next, because Professor Quirrell has resigned, I have had the good fortune to invite a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor to Hogwarts this year. I believe you've all noticed her—Lady Moonshadow."
Lady Moonshadow gave the young crowd a wave. In an instant, countless students clutched at their chests.
Dumbledore smiled slightly and continued, "This year the school will undergo expansion and renovation, so there will be external construction personnel coming and going. They will all wear a silver badge on their chest. That is to say, if you see someone who is not from the school and is not wearing a badge, you should promptly report it to a professor. In addition, the chief lead of the joint construction team, Mr. Bernini, will patrol the school together with the caretaker, Mr. Filch. If you have any feedback regarding the construction team, you may go to him."
Mr. Bernini was the descendant of a famous figure—the one Skyl had met at St Mungo's Hospital. He stood near a corner of the hall and tipped his hat to the students.
"The Quidditch pitch has been temporarily relocated to the eastern side of the Black Lake. Player evaluations will be held in the second week. Lastly, I have two more sentences I must nag you with."
Dumbledore's powerful blue eyes swept across the hall, dragging the children's attention away from Lady Moonshadow.
His words were steady, forceful—clean and decisive.
"This is a mad era. Some say wizards and Muggles will go to war. Some say Muggles will destroy our homes, bind us to stakes, and burn us alive. No matter what happens in this world, Hogwarts will protect every student—because this place has honorable professors who will risk their lives to protect you; because this place has me, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Until the day I fall, no Muggle will lay a hand on my students."
The students cheered wildly at his sheer presence.
Skyl heard several of them shouting, "I love this old man so much!"
When the feast ended, everyone sang the school song, and the atmosphere burned bright.
"Hogwarts, please teach us knowledge, whether we are bald old men or children with scraped knees…"
Thousands of enchanted candles floated above the Great Hall, brilliant with light. Professors and students smiled openly.
And far away, in London, cold night wind and bitter rain swallowed the streets. The infamous Lockhart was tossed out of a roadside pub. He stumbled and nearly fell—hair a wreck, clothes in disarray, a fresh cut at the corner of his mouth. Two wizards drove him off from behind.
"Get lost! Go farther!"
Lockhart forced his signature charming smile, bent at the waist, and greeted them politely. A gray-white gob of spit landed in the puddled street in front of him.
"Fuck off."
He slunk away, the two men's muttered curses still ringing in his ears.
"They should've thrown him into Azkaban. The Ministry is bloody useless, letting a menace like that walk free."
"Fudge, that stupid pig, doesn't have time to deal with him. War's coming—how's the Wizengamot supposed to spare the effort to try some worthless wreck?"
"True enough… bloody life…"
Lockhart hunched his shoulders and pushed deeper into the night.
"Hey! Lockhart—over here!" someone called from the roadside. He turned—and a flashbulb went off right in his face, so bright it forced tears out of his eyes.
"Tomorrow's front page, secured!" The man grinned, tucked his camera away, and strolled off, humming.
The rain kept falling, with no sign of stopping even by midnight. Lockhart found an abandoned cardboard shack and prepared to sleep in this stinking hole, hoping he'd still be alive to wake up tomorrow.
Just as he crawled into the cardboard box and started undoing his clothes, someone knocked on the paper "door."
"Is Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart home?"
Bearded and ragged, Lockhart peered out through a crack. Outside stood a group of Muggles in suits. They held firearms, and under beams of cold searchlights, the fine rain drifted like threads.
The leader gave him a courteous nod. "Good evening, Mr. Lockhart. We are from the Human Union Magic Abnormality Negotiation Service—abbreviated HUMANs. We are hereby formally arresting you for crimes against human civilisation."
Lockhart, overcome with emotion, yanked out his wand and tried to resist. But these people seemed to know him down to the bone—truthfully, it wasn't hard not to know him—and they subdued him with ease, took his wand, snapped handcuffs onto him, and escorted him into a bulletproof armored vehicle parked two intersections away.
The Muggle leader sat inside the vehicle, waiting for Lockhart to be brought in. He produced a long list of charges, detailing—item by item—every loss Lockhart had inflicted on the world. If you converted it into a sentence, it was enough to have him executed for two hundred and seventy-four years straight.
"You can't judge me! I'm a wizard!"
"A wizard is still human," the Muggle minister said, hard as iron.
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