Chapter 06

Dumbledore then delivered his customary start-of-term announcements, pointedly warning everyone away from the forbidden corridor on the third floor (right-hand side). John inwardly sighed. That's practically an engraved invitation for curious Gryffindors.

Next came the Sorting Ceremony. Hannah Abbott, as tradition seemed to dictate, went first and was promptly dispatched to Hufflepuff. When John's name was finally called, Hermione was already settled at the Gryffindor table, watching him with hopeful eyes. No one wanted to be separated from their friends.

"John Wick."

Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the murmurs. John walked forward. His sleek black hair, sharp features, and the way he wore his robes with an effortless grace drew appreciative whispers from some of the girls. Girls at this age in the West, John noted wryly, tended to be rather more… forward… than their counterparts in the East.

As he approached the stool, his eyes caught on a spider diligently spinning a web on the brim of the Sorting Hat. He barely suppressed a shudder of disgust. He'd gotten used to wizarding eccentricities on the journey, but this level of grime? Didn't Professor McGonagall find it revolting?

The Hat was lowered onto his head. Immediately, an indignant voice rasped in his mind.

"Such insolence! Positively Slytherin in its arrogance!"

John flushed. He hadn't expected the Hat to eavesdrop on his thoughts.

"Is that Legilimency?" he thought back, curious despite himself.

"Legilimency? A first-year knowing such advanced magic? Impressive, but no," the Hat retorted, sounding almost smug. "Think of it as… a higher faculty, legacy of the Founders."

Then it seemed to ponder. "Oh, tricky, very tricky… Courage and a thirst to explore… Diligence and a capacity for loyalty… Cunning and ambition… Oh yes, a definite streak of ambition, and a powerful drive for achievement… That last bit resonates strongly with Slytherin…"

John's mental jaw dropped. Hold on! What about intellect? Did you just imply I'm thick? Rude! More importantly, why the Slytherin connection? He wasn't pure-blood; Slytherin practically worshipped pure-bloods! As for ambition… What was wrong with aspiring to reach Dumbledore's level? Didn't everyone dream of being Superman as a kid? Wanting to excel in his house was just like wanting to be class president – hardly world domination! Slander! Pure slander!

His frantic mental rebuttals were futile. The Hat hummed and hawed internally before finally bellowing aloud for the Hall to hear:

"SLYTHERIN!"

"What?!"

John stared, dumbfounded. A Muggle-born… in Slytherin? Everyone knew Slytherin was the pure-blood bastion. He wasn't even a half-blood; he was the dreaded 'Mudblood'. This was practically painting a target on his back! The Hat's voice echoed faintly in his mind: "Worry not, young wizard. Your… distinctive qualities will command Slytherin's respect."

"I think you're just getting back at me for calling you dirty," John accused mentally.

The Hat's decision was absolute, unchangeable even by Dumbledore. With a heavy heart, John trudged towards the Slytherin table. He caught two worried glances from the Gryffindor table – Hermione and Neville.

Ah, life… full of unexpected twists, John lamented internally.

Cruelly, the only available seat was right beside Draco Malfoy. John slid into it. Malfoy, taking in John's good looks and composed demeanor, naturally assumed he was from a respectable pure-blood family. Such elegance surely couldn't come from Muggle stock! Seeing an opportunity to bolster his own standing, Malfoy extended his hand with practiced hauteur, puffing out his chest like a preening peacock.

"Draco Malfoy. Of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight," he announced, looking down his nose.

John gave him a cursory glance and shook the offered hand perfunctorily. "John Wick."

Malfoy seemed pleased by this apparent deference, a stark contrast to Potter's rejection. He decided this Wick boy showed promise. "Pure-blood or half?" he inquired loftily.

John met his gaze coolly. "Neither."

Malfoy stiffened. Neither? That meant…

"You're a Mudblood," the word slipped out, laced with instinctive contempt.

The next instant, Malfoy's world exploded in pain and disorientation. A crushing impact snapped his head back. He vaguely registered Crabbe's shriek and Goyle's bellow of pain. Then came the uproar of the entire Hall, swiftly followed by Professor McGonagall's sharp reprimands. Draco Malfoy spent his first night at Hogwarts in the Hospital Wing.

…

Thursday, First Week of Term.

"Sigh. Life, ever full of surprises."

"Ah, life. Fleeting and unpredictable."

In the Trophy Room, John polished a Quidditch Cup bearing James Potter's name. He wielded the duster with the detached elegance of a waiter holding a pristine napkin. Argus Filch, supervising nearby, turned his head away, clearly unable to stomach the sight – or perhaps John's philosophical musings.

The fact that John was merely polishing trophies was itself an act of leniency. On his very first day, he had broken the son of a school governor's jaw, embedded a fork in Goyle's hand, and slammed another Slytherin's face into a table. True, Malfoy had uttered that vile slur first, but the ferocity of John's response… Slytherin had lost a staggering number of points before term had barely begun. Professor Snape's expression had been thunderous. Only Dumbledore's intervention had prevented expulsion.

His punishment: two months of nightly polishing in the Trophy Room. It also cemented his reputation as the most notorious first-year in recent memory. Hogwarts' newest troublemaker.

Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, a surprisingly scrawny Maine Coon, paused her grooming to watch. John finished his allotted task and gave her a small wave. "Farewell, Mrs. Norris. I'll bring you some proper cat food tomorrow. Look how thin you are!" He swiftly exited before Filch could react to his commentary on the cat's condition.

Back in the Slytherin common room, conversation died the moment John entered. The younger students regarded him with palpable fear. Whispers of his explosive first-day performance had already earned him a moniker: 'The Boogeyman' – a name inspired by his dark hair and the terrifying speed and precision of his attack. It spoke volumes about their trepidation.

John didn't mind. The fight had served its purpose. As a Muggle-born in Slytherin, the only way to avoid becoming the house punching bag was to establish dominance immediately. He'd succeeded. The cost? Isolation within his own house. But there was a silver lining: it had triggered a new series quest – 'The Boogeyman'. Completing one hundred hours of successful nocturnal wandering would grant him a fitting enhancement.

…

He retreated to his room. Fear of further 'incidents' had secured him a rare single dormitory. He was quite pleased; it offered privacy for Tom, his Beagle puppy, and his… unconventional training regimen.

The three-month-old Tom was a bundle of chaotic energy, bouncing around the room and occasionally daring to pester Basil, the Snowy Owl. This usually earned him a swift wing-swat, settling him down only briefly before the cycle repeated.

John's first priority upon returning was his daily exercise routine. It was non-negotiable, and crucially, it was his primary method of accumulating magical power.

[Robust Physique: Enhances compatibility with magical energy. Physical exertion draws ambient magic into the practitioner.]

"So much for being a scholarly apprentice," John grumbled internally, running a hand over his noticeably developing abdominal muscles after his workout. "I'm practically turning into a barbarian. Eight-pack abs on a first-year? Really?" Who accumulated magical energy through push-ups and squats? Yet, years of this routine had ingrained it in him. It was just how his strange system worked.

A shower concluded another eventful day at Hogwarts.