A Bad Start And an Old Bat

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The whistle of the Hogwarts Express pierced through the September sky, and once again, the ancient castle echoed with the joyful chatter and laughter of young witches and wizards.

Standing in the center of the Great Hall, Sargeras looked up at the decorations he had so carefully designed — those long, glistening garlands of intestines, brains, and eyeballs, strung together like party streamers and floating in midair, their colors shifting with the music. One by one, they were being taken down under the direction of Professor Flitwick, who had enlisted the help of a group of house-elves to do the job.

"My dear, these colors and pairings are just so… avant-garde."

Standing atop the staff dais, Professor Flitwick gave a diplomatic critique, his tone as polite as ever. "Perhaps… a more traditional aesthetic might suit the occasion better?"

Sargeras raised his eyebrows but did not argue.

With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed a stack of design blueprints into the fireplace, watching silently as they curled and crumbled into ash in the flames.

It didn't matter. He had only created them to pass the time anyway.

In the far corner of the hall, a worn-out copy of The Daily Prophet caught his eye. It had been left abandoned on a long bench, its pages curling at the edges after who knew how many days.

With a lazy wave of his fingers, the newspaper floated neatly into his hand. He gave it a quick glance and was just about to toss it aside when one particular headline made him pause.

"Shocking! Heads of Two Pure-Blood Houses Come to Brawl in the Street"— the headline stretched boldly across the page, accompanied by a rather dramatic photograph: Lucius Malfoy's platinum-blond hair was tangled in Arthur Weasley's fist, and three buttons had been torn clean off the front of Malfoy's shirt. (Mr. Weasley, it must be said, was somewhat balding, so there wasn't much for Lucius to grab in return!)

The most hilarious part? They had been brawling the Muggle way — grabbing collars, yanking hair, slapping each other, throwing punches. No wands. Just fists and fury.

Sargeras' lips curled into a smile before he even realized it. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had witnessed such a raw and ridiculous display of physical violence…

As night fell, the Great Hall gradually filled with young witches and wizards.

Sargeras sat at the High Table, idly toying with the silver goblet between his fingers. Without drawing attention, he carefully disassembled it, then slipped a minuscule grain of mithril into his pocket.

To his left sat the chair reserved for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and at that moment, its current occupant was making an entrance so flamboyant it could hardly have been more conspicuous even if he had tried.

Gilderoy Lockhart swept into the Great Hall like a peacock in full display, every movement calibrated to dazzle. His long, wavy golden hair gleamed under the candlelight, and the sky-blue robes he wore shimmered with intricate patterns embroidered from collar to hem, glinting with no fewer than thirty medals pinned proudly across his chest.

Sargeras was fairly certain he hadn't seen quite that many medals on Lockhart just a few days ago.

As he made his way in, Lockhart blew kisses to students on either side, pausing now and then to strike a pose, basking in the camera flashes and the admiring — or bewildered — looks that followed him.

It wasn't until Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a subtle yet unmistakable firmness that he finally, and rather reluctantly, made his way to his seat.

"Ah! Sargeras!" Lockhart turned toward him the moment he sat down, flashing that trademark dazzling smile of his. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that little matter of—"

Sargeras, without the slightest change in expression, cast a nonverbal Muffliato on himself. And just like that, the world fell blissfully silent.

He leaned back slightly and gazed up at the enchanted ceiling, where the magical stars flickered against a dusky, swirling sky. For a moment, he considered finding some excuse to slip away early.

The Sorting Ceremony officially began in the soft, flickering glow of candlelight.

Sargeras' eyes drifted lazily across the crowd of wide-eyed first-years. Then, suddenly, his gaze paused on a small figure near the end of the line — Astoria Greengrass, his cousin, at least in name.

She stood there quietly, visibly tense, her oversized wizard robes hanging awkwardly over her slight frame, making her seem even more slender and small compared to the others.

Sargeras saw that under the gentle candlelight, her complexion appeared pale, almost translucent, but those grey-blue eyes of hers shimmered with unmistakable excitement.

"Astoria Greengrass!"

Professor McGonagall's clear voice rang through the hall, and the girl gave a tiny shiver. Then, lifting the hem of her robe with great care, she stepped forward and made her way toward the four-legged stool.

As the Sorting Hat was gently placed atop her soft, light-blonde hair, Sargeras noticed her fingers beginning to twist unconsciously at the hem of her robe.

Thirty seconds passed.

The Sorting Hat remained silent.

A hush began to spread through the hall, murmurs creeping into the silence like wind through leaves. For a Greengrass — a pure-blood born into one of the oldest wizarding families — this kind of delay was… highly unusual.

Sargeras leaned forward ever so slightly, his wand twirling idly between his fingers. A flicker of curiosity stirred within him. Just what exactly was this frail little cousin of his possibly be discussing with the Sorting Hat?

"Ravenclaw!"

The Sorting Hat's verdict dropped like a pebble breaking the still surface of a pond.

A wave of applause erupted from the Ravenclaw table, warm and welcoming, while on the Slytherin side, the reaction was immediate and explosive.

"Traitor!" Daphne Greengrass's sharp voice pierced through the commotion like a blade. She shot to her feet, pointing directly at her younger sister. "You've disgraced the family name! What did Father tell you before we left?"

Astoria's back went rigid for a single heartbeat. But then, slowly, she lifted her chin, straightened her posture, and walked toward the Ravenclaw table with quiet determination.

The Slytherin table buzzed with whispers and stifled commentary, every eye tracking the slight, pale girl as she crossed the hall. She tried to appear composed, as though she hadn't heard a word, but beneath the long sleeves of her robes, her trembling fingers betrayed her.

It was a scene Sargeras had witnessed before, almost like watching a reenactment of something that had played out years ago.

His gaze drifted toward Dumbledore. The headmaster made no move to intervene, nor did he seem inclined to. So Sargeras stood up all of a sudden, lifting his wand with a calm, practiced motion.

"Silencio!"

An invisible wave of magic swept across the Great Hall, and in an instant, every sound was gone. Daphne's mouth was still open, mid-sentence, but not a single word escaped her lips.

"Disturbing the order. Ten points from Slytherin," Sargeras said quietly. His tone was mild, almost indifferent, but each syllable landed with perfect clarity in the hushed space.

Snape sprang to his feet like a bat unfurling its wings.

"Sargeras! This is still the Sorting Ceremony…"

His eyes flicked briefly to Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore, who both looked just as taken aback. Then he muttered slowly, as if trying to rein in his anger, "You have no authority to give orders here."

Sargeras shot him a cold glance, then swept that same icy gaze across Dumbledore, McGonagall, and the sea of students before him.

"…Fifty points from Slytherin!"

He tapped the tip of his wand, and a beam of magic shot across the hall, striking the hourglass that tallied house points. The emerald-green gems within it sank visibly lower.

"Any objections?" he asked flatly, his face unreadable.

Snape clenched his jaw so hard it looked like he might crack a tooth, his breath coming in short, furious bursts. It was Dumbledore who finally broke the silence.

"Severus, sit down," the old headmaster said gently. "Slytherin did indeed disrupted the ceremony."

Snape turned and gave Dumbledore a look that was more ice than fire. Then, without another word, he strode away from the high table, his black robes billowing behind him.

"The Sorting Ceremony will continue."

Sargeras gave a slight, courteous nod to Professor McGonagall before lowering himself gracefully back into his seat. His expression remained composed, as though the commotion just now had nothing at all to do with him.

The first-years stood frozen, stiff as statues, not daring to make a sound. Everyone understood one thing very clearly: on the very first day of term, before they had even earned a single point, Slytherin House had already been docked fifty.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Elsewhere, just outside the Great Hall, two students were arriving far too late.

Having missed the Hogwarts Express, Harry and Ron had chosen instead to fly to school in a bewitched car of their own making. And now, at long last, they had reached the castle.

Ron Weasley set down his trunk at the foot of the stone steps, then crept over to one of the tall windows, walking on tiptoe.

"Hey, Harry, come here… look! They're doing the Sorting!"

Harry hurried over, craning his neck to see. Through the window, he caught sight of a small wizard stepping up to the four-legged stool, just as Professor McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat toward his head.

"Weird… where did Snape go?" Harry murmured in surprise. "His seat's empty."

"Who cares where that old bat is?" Ron muttered without looking away, his eyes scanning the line of first-years with growing urgency. "I just hope I haven't missed Ginny's Sorting…"

"Maybe he's sick?" Harry offered casually.

"Maybe he dropped dead from rage!" Ron grinned like a cat who'd just stolen the cream, his face full of sly satisfaction. "Bet it's because he didn't get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again. I heard he's been after that post for, like, forever."

"Or maybe he got fired," Harry added, a little too cheerfully. "Loads of people hate him, after all."

"Or maybe—"

The voice that cut in was as cold and hollow as a dungeon corridor.

"Or maybe… he's standing right outside the Great Hall, listening to two dunderheads badmouth him behind his back."

Harry and Ron froze instantly. Their minds went utterly blank, as though someone had hit them with a Stunning Spell. Neither of them dared to turn around.

"And maybe…" the voice continued, soft but sharp as ice, "your Potions Master is now considering just how many points to take from Gryffindor…"

"Turn around." Snape's bark erupted like a gunshot, harsh and absolute.

The two boys finally, reluctantly, turned to face him.

He stared them down with eyes like black tunnels, his face twisted into what could only technically be called a smile.

"And perhaps," he said, voice low and gleaming with malice, "you would also like to explain… your little airborne adventure in that flying car of yours."

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[Chapter End's]

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