Professor Minerva McGonagall led the first-years through the towering doors and into the Great Hall.
The sight stole the breath from Victor—and from nearly everyone else.
Four long house tables stretched the length of the hall, already filled with hundreds of students. Thousands of candles floated overhead, their flames steady and bright. Above them, the ceiling shimmered, reflecting a clear night sky scattered with stars.
Hermione leaned closer to Victor, eyes shining.
"It's not real—the ceiling," she whispered excitedly. "It's bewitched to look like the night sky. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."
Victor glanced upward, impressed despite himself. Seeing it in the films was one thing; seeing it in real life was entirely different.
The screen could capture the image, but it could not match the feeling. Reality, Victor decided, surpassed it in every way.
Professor McGonagall guided them to the front of the hall, where a small wooden stool stood beneath the staff table. Resting atop it was a battered, pointed hat, frayed and patched, looking entirely unimpressive for something that carried so much weight.
"All right," Professor McGonagall said crisply. "Will you wait along here, please?"
"Now, before we begin, Professor Dumbledore would like to say a few words."
The first-years formed a nervous line.
Before anything else could happen, a tall, thin wizard with half-moon spectacles rose from the centre of the staff table. His long silver beard flowed down the front of his robes, and his blue eyes twinkled kindly as he surveyed the hall.
Professor Albus Dumbledore cleared his throat.
"I have a few start-of-term notices I wish to announce," he said pleasantly.
The hall fell silent.
"The first years, please note," Dumbledore continued, "that the Dark Forest is strictly forbidden to all students."
A few nervous murmurs rippled through the younger crowd.
"Additionally," he went on, "our caretaker, Mr. Argus Filch, has asked me to remind you that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a most painful death."
Victor caught sight of Filch standing near the wall, a ragged-looking man with a sour expression, clutching a cat —Mrs. Norris—who seemed to be watching them far too closely.
"Thank you," Dumbledore said cheerfully, and sat back down.
A beat of silence followed.
Then whispers broke out again—excited, nervous, and more than a little alarmed.
Hermione swallowed. "Did he say… die?"
"Yes," Victor replied. "He did."
Hogwarts was, for the most part, a safe place—but only for those who exercised a little common sense. Carelessness could be dangerous, and curiosity even more so. Most students were sensible enough never to test such warnings.
Of course, there were exceptions.
Fred and George Weasley would certainly ignore them. Harry Potter had a remarkable talent for stumbling into trouble.
Ron Weasley followed close behind. Hermione Granger, despite her love for rules, had an unfortunate habit of breaking them whenever she thought it was necessary.
Victor admitted, not without irony, that he might eventually add himself to that list.
And with that uneasy thought lingering in the air, the Sorting Ceremony was finally about to begin.
Professor Minerva McGonagall stepped forward, her voice carrying clearly through the Great Hall.
"When I call your name," she said, "you will come forth. I shall place the Sorting Hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses."
The hall fell silent.
Professor McGonagall glanced at her parchment.
"Hermione Granger."
Hermione's breath caught.
"Oh, no," she whispered to herself. "Okay… relax."
She stepped out of line and walked toward the stool. Hundreds of eyes followed her as she sat down, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
Professor McGonagall placed the battered hat over Hermione's bushy hair. For a moment, nothing happened.
The hat slipped down over Hermione's eyes, and she sat very still.
Then the Sorting Hat spoke—its voice low, thoughtful.
"Plenty of cleverness here," it murmured. "A sharp mind, an eager one… and a great thirst to prove yourself."
"Yes… yes… a love of learning, certainly. But there's more than wit—there's courage here, too."
"A difficult choice," the hat went on. "But courage that stands up for what is right… that will serve you well."
The hat paused.
"Better be—GRYFFINDOR!"
The hat was lifted away, and the Gryffindor table erupted into cheers and applause.
Hermione's face lit up with relief and pride as she hurried down from the stool and made her way to her new house, beaming as she took a seat among the cheering Gryffindors. Just before sitting down, she glanced back over her shoulder.
Her eyes met Victor's.
She smiled at him—hopeful, almost expectant—as though she were already imagining him joining her at the Gryffindor table.
Victor acknowledged it with a small nod.
The ceremony continued.
Names were called, students stepped forward, and the Sorting Hat declared house after house amid applause and nervous laughter.
Then Professor Minerva McGonagall looked down at her parchment once more.
"Victor Malfoy."
The murmuring shifted.
Victor stepped out of line and approached the stool with calm, unhurried steps. He could feel eyes on him—from the Slytherin table, from Gryffindor, from Draco somewhere in the crowd—and one particular gaze filled with expectation.
He sat.
The Sorting Hat was lowered onto his head, its brim slipping down until the hall disappeared.
"Ah… interesting"
"A sharp mind. Careful. Calculating. Ambition, yes—but not reckless. You plan. You observe. You adapt."
Victor listened in silence.
"Plenty of intelligence here… and restraint. A desire to rise—but on your own terms. Not for glory. Not for applause."
The hat paused.
"You'd do well in many places, child. But there is one house where such qualities are honed properly."
No hesitation followed.
"SLYTHERIN!"
The word rang through the Great Hall.
Applause erupted from the Slytherin table as Victor rose and removed the hat. He glanced once toward Gryffindor.
Hermione was clapping—but her smile had faltered, just a little.
Like that, the Sorting Ceremony came to an end, the last of the first-years taking their places at their respective house tables. As expected, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were sorted into Gryffindor, earning loud cheers from the red-and-gold table.
When the noise finally settled, Albus Dumbledore rose from his seat, smiling benignly at the hall.
"Before we allow ourselves to be distracted any further," he said lightly, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, "I suggest we begin the feast."
The Great Hall erupted into chatter and movement as students eagerly helped themselves.
At the Slytherin table, Victor had barely taken his seat before attention turned toward him.
"Malfoy," said a tall fifth-year with slicked-back hair, offering a polite nod. "Welcome to Slytherin."
"Your family's influence speaks for itself," added another, a girl with sharp eyes and an assessing smile. "We're glad to have you."
Victor inclined his head slightly. "Thank you."
More greetings followed—measured, respectful, carefully worded. Even among pure-blood families, the Malfoy name carried weight: old, wealthy, and influential. In Slytherin, where bloodlines and connections mattered, that was never ignored.
Draco sat a little straighter beside him, clearly pleased by the sudden attention.
A sixth-year leaned closer. "If you ever need anything—guidance, books, introductions—Slytherin looks after its own."
At the Gryffindor table, the noise was louder—laughter, clattering cutlery, excited voices overlapping as plates were piled high.
Hermione, however, wasn't really paying attention.
Her gaze drifted across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table, where Victor sat among older students, listening calmly as they spoke to him. He looked… comfortable. At ease.
Beside her, Harry Potter noticed her distraction.
"You look a bit down," Harry said quietly. "Is something wrong?"
Hermione blinked and looked back at him. "Oh—no. Not really."
She hesitated, then added honestly, "It's just… a friend I made ended up in a different house."
"Oh," Harry said. "Who?"
Before Hermione could answer, Ron Weasley, who was seated on Harry's other side and enthusiastically attacking a plate of sausages, looked up.
"Yeah, who?" he asked around a mouthful of food.
Hermione lifted her hand slightly and pointed across the hall. "Victor."
Ron followed her finger—and froze.
"…Victor Malfoy?" he asked, staring.
Hermione frowned. "Yes. Is that supposed to be shocking?"
Ron hesitated. "Well—yeah. I mean… the Malfoys aren't exactly known for liking Muggle-borns."
Harry's expression shifted as well. Draco Malfoy's sneer earlier still hadn't left his mind.
Hermione straightened in her seat, clearly irritated.
"That's unfair," she said firmly. "Victor didn't treat me strangely at all. Not even after he found out I come from a normal family."
Ron looked uncertain. "Still—"
"Don't judge people based on rumours," Hermione cut in. "Or because of their surname. He's been nothing but decent to me."
She paused, then added, quieter but resolute, "I trust him more than gossip."
She trusted Victor more than the red-haired boy she had only just met.
Ron flushed slightly and returned to his food, muttering something indistinct.
*****
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