The line of wide-eyed, nervous first-years followed Professor McGonagall in solemn silence as they stepped into the Great Hall.
Adrian Blackwood, walking near the middle of the line, immediately took in the majestic surroundings. The Hall felt impossibly vast, the ceiling high enough to vanish into a sky full of stars. Candles floated midair, suspended by magic, casting a warm golden glow over the room.
Adrian, instinctively cautious, tilted his head and studied the candles. He'd half-wondered if hot wax might drip onto the tables—but nothing of the sort happened. Clearly, the enchantment kept them from causing mess or harm. That level of charmwork was both subtle and impressive.
Four long house tables stretched the length of the Hall, already filled with older students in their uniforms and house colours. Plates of gleaming gold and fine glass goblets adorned the tables, untouched as everyone turned to watch the incoming first-years.
At the front of the room stood the staff table, elevated slightly and arranged perpendicular to the others. The teachers watched quietly from their seats—Hagrid, smiling behind his wild beard; Snape, expression unreadable under his curtain of greasy hair; and, at the center, Albus Dumbledore, eyes twinkling over his half-moon spectacles, radiating a presence that was calm and commanding at once.
But it was the ceiling that drew the most gasps. Velvet black, it shimmered with pinpricks of starlight. It looked identical to the night sky outside—cloudless, deep, and magical.
Adrian overheard a familiar voice nearby—Hermione Granger, standing with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, whispering smugly to a fellow Muggle-born. "It's enchanted to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."
Professor McGonagall strode forward with authority and placed an old, patched Sorting Hat on a three-legged stool in front of the gathered first-years. The hat looked weathered and dusty, far from impressive at first glance—until it opened a tear along the brim and began to sing.
Its song described the founding of Hogwarts, the traits valued by each of the four houses, and the Sorting process itself. Some students gaped in awe; others whispered anxiously. Adrian kept his expression unreadable, but inside, he sharpened his focus.
When the song ended, the Hall erupted in applause. The Sorting Hat bowed grandly to each of the house tables before stilling once more.
Professor McGonagall unrolled a long parchment scroll. "When I call your name," she said crisply, "you will come forward, sit on the stool, and put on the Sorting Hat. It will decide your House."
One by one, names were called, and students made their way forward. Sometimes the Sorting Hat shouted a decision the moment it touched their heads; other times it took longer, mumbling audibly. With each Sorting, the little wizard's uniform shimmered briefly before transforming to display their new house colours—a visual flourish Adrian noted with curiosity. Likely a charm cast over the school robes, subtle but effective. (Author's Note: This visual uniform change draws from the official mobile game Hogwarts Mystery, which captures the magical ambience beautifully.)
Adrian made a point of letting his mind drift deliberately during the early sortings. He didn't want to lock eyes with the girl who had rosy cheeks and soft golden curls—the one sorted into Hufflepuff. Her presence tugged at something in his memory he couldn't place. Best to avoid unneeded attachments.
Flegg Brown was sorted into Gryffindor, unsurprisingly. Courageous and fiercely loyal, Flegg had the traits that made him predictable in the Hat's eyes—even if he wasn't the brightest broom in the shed.
Then came the name: "Adrian Blackwood."
He walked forward with calm purpose, refusing to show nerves. As he sat, he carefully adjusted the Sorting Hat, wincing as the rough brim brushed against his cheek. It smelled faintly of dust and old ink.
"Ahh," the Sorting Hat murmured almost immediately in his ear. "Now this is interesting. Very interesting. Such raw magical power… it's practically brimming off you. Focused. Controlled. Rare for your age."
Adrian said nothing, focusing inward.
"And you've been practicing… Occlumency? Fascinating. That's quite advanced. Who taught you, I wonder? Or did you teach yourself?"
The voice paused, almost purring. "You're not nervous. That's rare. Not eager, not afraid. You're… evaluating me. Calculating. You're not here to be placed. You're here to see what I'll say."
Adrian tensed slightly but didn't speak.
"So where to put you? You have the ambition of a Slytherin, the discipline of a Ravenclaw, and more cunning than most of both. Yet… your thirst for knowledge. Your obsession with understanding the unknown…"
There was a long pause.
"Ravenclaw!" the Hat called at last.
There was polite applause from most tables, and a warmer reception from Ravenclaw's own. A few older girls clapped a little harder than most—Adrian, with his composed demeanor and striking presence, had already made an impression.
As he stood, Adrian felt a faint flicker of relief. He'd shown the Hat only what he wanted it to see. It hadn't uncovered the truth about his origins, his knowledge of the future, or the system that had marked his destiny. Yet he wasn't entirely satisfied—the Hat had sensed the Occlumency. That might draw Dumbledore's attention, and Dumbledore was no fool. Adrian would need to tread carefully. The old man had good intentions, but often used others as pawns for the "greater good."
Then—"Harry Potter."
The Hall burst into whispers. Heads craned. Students leaned across tables to get a better look. Harry hesitated before approaching the stool. When he sat down, his face was pale, his hands clutching the seat. His mouth moved in a whisper as the Hat settled over his forehead.
Adrian watched closely. Harry stayed under the Hat for a while. It seemed to be arguing with him—or perhaps weighing options. Then the Hat called, "Gryffindor!"
"We got Potter! We got Potter!" someone from Gryffindor yelled, and the house table erupted. Cheers echoed through the Hall as Harry walked to his seat, red-faced but smiling faintly. Dozens of hands reached out to pat him on the back.
Ron Weasley, sorted soon after, also joined Gryffindor, greeted by wild applause from his older brothers. His ears were red, but his grin was wide.
Adrian glanced across the aisle at the Gryffindor table. Harry and Flegg gave him disappointed looks. Adrian returned a faint nod, acknowledging them but not offering more.
This is for the best, he thought. I've already fulfilled my father's wish by making initial contact. But as long as I don't maintain close ties with Harry during school hours, Dumbledore won't think I'm interfering with the prophecy.
He didn't mind keeping a distance. Better that than getting tangled in a future already too precarious. The so-called "Boy Who Lived" had his role to play. Adrian had his own—and he wouldn't let anyone, not even Dumbledore, dictate how that story would unfold.
After finally arriving at Hogwarts and stepping into the magical world in earnest, Adrian Blackwood had no intention of playing a supporting role in someone else's legend. Unlike the so-called "protagonist" of fate, Adrian had his own path. He hadn't come here to hide in a corner or merely observe history unfold. No—only by standing out could he gain the leverage to shape events himself. Teachers favored top students, after all. They offered them privileges, protection, and most importantly, freedom. That meant opportunity. And Adrian intended to seize every bit of it.
Just as he was shifting his gaze from Harry Potter, a lazy voice drawled beside him, cutting through the ambient chatter of the Great Hall.
"You know Harry Potter?"
Adrian turned his head. "Yes," he replied without elaboration, withdrawing his attention from the Gryffindor table to look at the speaker.
The boy was about his age, with tousled brown hair and pale skin dotted with a few mischievous freckles. What stood out the most, however, were the deep dark circles under his eyes—as though he hadn't slept in days.
"You didn't sleep last night?" Adrian asked, more curious than concerned. It was rare to see someone look that exhausted on the first day of term.
The boy offered a tired but honest smile. "Yeah. I can never get enough sleep. Doesn't matter what time I go to bed. It's like my dreams are doing laps around my brain."
Despite the fatigue, his brown eyes held a quiet intensity—perhaps a kindred spirit.
"Adrian Blackwood," Adrian said, extending his hand.
"Edward. Edward Fox." The boy shook his hand weakly, then blinked hard, as though resisting the urge to pass out face-first into the pumpkin juice.
At that moment, Professor Dumbledore rose from the staff table. A hush fell over the Hall. Arms outstretched and eyes sparkling behind his half-moon glasses, the old wizard beamed as if there was nowhere else he'd rather be.
"Welcome!" Dumbledore said. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our feast, I have a few words to say. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
He sat down as applause and laughter rippled across the Hall. Some looked bewildered, others amused.
Among the Ravenclaws, however, a few older students were already whispering Latin translations and magical theories.
"It's code," one of them said. "Like: 'May Merlin bless you.'"
But not everyone agreed.
Penelope Clearwater, the prefect of Ravenclaw and already known for her sharp intellect and sharper opinions, leaned toward the first-years seated nearby. "No, no. Dumbledore chooses those words deliberately. They each poke at a stereotype."
Adrian listened as she broke it down in a clipped, logical tone:
"Nitwit: People always assume Ravenclaws are the smartest. This suggests anyone not sorted into our house must be foolish.
Blubber: A derogatory term some Gryffindors use for students they think are weak or overweight—especially if they don't fit the house's image of physical bravery.
Oddment: Literally, scraps of cloth. Slytherins view non-pure-bloods as 'lesser,' as if we're patchwork left over from a 'proper' lineage.
Tweak: The most ambiguous. Likely a nod to Hufflepuffs—kind-hearted, overlooked, often from Muggle families. They're the ones who 'tweak' things together quietly behind the scenes."
Adrian couldn't help but glance at her a few more times. She was intelligent, observant, and spoke like someone who'd been debating at the high table of Ravenclaw Tower since birth.
"Dumbledore is warning us about house stereotypes," Adrian mused silently. "But ironically, he's also enforcing them in his own cryptic way. Old Bee… you're not half as neutral as you pretend."
He was secretly relieved he hadn't been sorted into Slytherin, where constant scrutiny and pure-blood elitism would've made concealing his secrets even more difficult.
Then, something shifted.
Edward's eyes widened—and Adrian followed his line of sight. The long table before them, which had been bare a moment ago, was now piled high with food.
Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, steak, baked potatoes, boiled potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, buttered peas, carrots, thick gravies and bright sauces of every shade, and—peculiarly—mint humbugs lined the edge of the table like someone's odd idea of a dessert starter.
Gasps and delighted chatter rose around the room.
Edward's jaw practically dropped. "Is this normal?"
Adrian gave a small chuckle. "For Hogwarts? Probably."
The tension of the Sorting faded, replaced by the comfort of hearty smells and clinking cutlery. Students dug in enthusiastically, as though a good meal could erase homesickness and nerves in one bite.
Adrian tasted a bit of everything—more out of politeness than hunger. "Honestly," he thought with faint disappointment, "even German wizard food had more flair than this."
Eventually, the puddings arrived—treacle tart, jam doughnuts, chocolate éclairs, trifle, ice cream in multiple magical flavours—and just as suddenly as it had begun, the feast concluded.
Professor Dumbledore stood once more, prompting the Hall to quiet.
"Ah, now that we are all well-fed and watered," he said cheerfully, "I must ask for your attention to a few important start-of-term notices."
His eyes, bright and mischievous, scanned the crowd.
"First years should note that the Forbidden Forest is, as the name implies, forbidden to all students. Some of our older students may benefit from this reminder as well." His gaze landed deliberately on the Weasley twins, who grinned back with mock innocence.
"Also, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to remind you that magic is not to be used in the corridors between classes."
There were groans from a few students, particularly from Gryffindor and Slytherin.
"Quidditch trials will take place in the second week of term. Anyone interested in trying out for their house team should speak to Madam Hooch."
Adrian made a mental note. He wasn't here for sports—but being seen as physically competent might be useful.
"Lastly—and most importantly—anyone who does not wish to suffer a most painful and untimely death should stay away from the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side."
There was nervous laughter, which quickly faded as students realized Dumbledore wasn't smiling. A ripple of unease swept through the Hall. Harry Potter looked slightly pale.
Adrian didn't laugh. He had read enough in the system's quest logs to suspect there really was something dangerous there—something connected to the broader fate of the school.
"And now," Dumbledore added with a twinkle in his eye, "before we retire to our beds, let us sing the school song!"
Most of the teachers winced. Professor McGonagall looked like she was swallowing lemon juice. Snape visibly cringed.
Dumbledore waved his wand. A long golden ribbon emerged, floating above the staff table and twisting in time with invisible music.
"Everyone choose their own favorite tune!" he called.
Chaos followed. The Hall erupted into dozens of simultaneous renditions of the same lyrics, each student belting out the words in wildly different tempos and keys. Near the end, the Weasley twins slowed their version into a somber funeral march, dragging out the last few lines while everyone else had long since finished.
At last, the song ended. Teachers clapped—half-heartedly—and students began to file out.
Adrian followed the Ravenclaw prefects, hoping that the dormitory would prove more impressive than the food or the school anthem. He was ready for rest. Hogwarts was fascinating, but the real work hadn't even begun.