As the last new student, Blaise Zabini, was sorted into Slytherin, the Sorting Ceremony drew to a close, and the feast began.
This year, Slytherin had more new students than usual—a total of fourteen. Yet despite the larger influx, the Slytherin table remained eerily quiet. Everyone ate in silence, eyes fixed on their plates. It wasn't hard to guess why.
Harry Potter, the Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had been sorted into Gryffindor—their sworn rivals. And now, across the hall, the Gryffindors sat grinning smugly as if they'd just won the House Cup.
"This is awful…" Miles groaned, poking at his mashed potatoes like they had personally offended him. "We missed out on the Savior. What a shame."
Nolan raised an eyebrow. He couldn't fathom why Miles seemed so upset.
"Because!" Miles explained with great enthusiasm, "if Harry Potter was in our common room, we could talk to him every day! Just imagine! I'd finally have something to brag about to my brothers and sisters!"
Eve rolled her eyes, chomping aggressively on a spoonful of boiled beans. "You're such a fanboy…" she grumbled.
The younger Slytherins sitting nearby noticed the change in Eve. In the past, she would never have voiced her complaints so openly.
At that moment, the entire Slytherin table gasped in unison.
The Bloody Baron had just drifted up from beneath the table, his translucent form dripping with silver blood. His cold, piercing gaze swept across the students before settling firmly on Nolan.
Nolan, unfazed, offered a polite nod. "Good evening, Baron. Would you like something to eat?"
The Baron gave a slow shake of his head—then nodded—then, rather surprisingly, accepted a piece of rotting meat that Nolan casually handed him. Satisfied, the Baron floated away.
Miles' jaw hung open in disbelief. "Ghosts eat that?"
"They don't exactly 'eat,'" Nolan replied nonchalantly. "Ghosts don't have proper tastebuds. They prefer things with strong, unpleasant odors. It gives them a faint sense of taste, or something close to it. They don't need food. Just holding it in their mouths makes them feel alive for a little while."
He glanced at Eve. "Helena, the Grey Lady of Ravenclaw, doesn't eat anything. Even in death, she's still a proper lady."
Eve, clearly displeased, began rummaging through Nolan's robes, as if suspecting he had more questionable items hidden away. "Why are you carrying rotten meat around?"
"It's for Peeves," Nolan said matter-of-factly. "Throw it at him when he's bothering you. Works every time."
He turned to address the curious Slytherins listening in. "If Peeves ever gives you trouble, just use this trick."
Suddenly, a voice chimed in from behind.
"Nolan, would you like some Yorkshire pudding?"
A prefect from Ravenclaw had sat down beside him, balancing a plate in one hand. It was Penelope Clearwater. After Nolan politely declined, she let out a soft huff of disappointment.
"I haven't heard from Felicia lately," Penelope added. "Is she alright? I hope she isn't in trouble."
"It's normal you haven't heard from her. Felicia isn't in England right now. She's in Sweden."
"Sweden?" A chorus of surprised voices echoed across the table.
Everyone liked Felicia Von Draugr—the elegant yet formidable Defense Against the Dark Arts professor from the previous year.
"What's she doing there?" Miles asked curiously.
"Treasure hunting," Nolan replied flatly.
The Slytherins exchanged puzzled glances.
Felicia Von Draugr had always been an enigma. Even the older vampires had difficulty predicting her next move.
As the Slytherins whispered about Felicia's latest adventure, another loud outburst erupted from the Gryffindor table.
Miles groaned. "Can't they ever be quiet?"
"Let them have their fun," Monta muttered darkly, shooting the Gryffindor table a glare. "Today might just be the happiest day of the year for those lions. But we're Slytherin. Even without Potter, we'll take the Quidditch Cup for the seventh year in a row."
"Well said!" A round of applause rippled down the table.
Before Harry Potter was sorted into Gryffindor, no one in Slytherin would have minded being his friend. In fact, as Miles put it, it would've been something to brag about.
But Harry was a Gryffindor now.
And that changed everything.
Gryffindors despised Slytherins. Slytherins despised Gryffindors. It was simple, ancient, and unbreakable. By default, Harry Potter was now an enemy—because his very existence had those Gryffindor idiots beaming with pride.
"That Harry Potter doesn't seem to have it easy, though. Did you see him? He's practically a size smaller than the other first-years," someone at the table commented, sparking a new wave of gossip.
"Bet he won't grow much. Poor kid."
"Yeah, his Muggle guardians probably didn't feed him properly."
The Slytherins chuckled under their breath, pleased to twist the knife a little.
Eve, however, wasn't laughing. Her gaze drifted across the hall, settling briefly on Potter. Then she turned to Nolan. "You didn't try to convince Potter to join Slytherin?"
The question caught the attention of those nearby.
"Why do you ask?" Monta leaned closer, curious.
"I ran into them over the summer," Eve explained simply. "Nolan and Potter were together."
Nolan calmly responded, "I know him. I took him to Diagon Alley with Hagrid in early August."
Miles practically vibrated with excitement. "That's fantastic! Forget Potter—you're the real star here, Nolan!" He nudged Nolan eagerly. "So? What's he like? Does he have some kind of crazy special ability? Is he stronger than you?"
"Miles!" Eve scolded, narrowing her eyes.
But Miles was undeterred. "Come on! Give us the inside scoop! What's the Savior's schedule like?"
Nolan leaned back in his seat, smirking faintly. "Special ability? Maybe. One way or another, Harry Potter is different."
Different.
To Nolan, Harry was just another small, unremarkable boy. A little thinner than most, perhaps, but ordinary nonetheless.
Yet Dumbledore thought otherwise.
That summer, the headmaster had shared his vision—he wanted to mold Harry Potter into a true savior for the wizarding world. Dumbledore even asked Nolan to guide Harry, to become his friend.
Nolan declined.
The friendship of House Von Draugr wasn't handed out like a trinket in Hogsmeade.
"Let's see what makes you so special, Potter," Nolan murmured, meeting the boy's curious gaze from across the hall.
As the feast concluded, Dumbledore stood, his presence commanding the attention of every student.
"I am pleased to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirinus Quirrell."
Polite applause followed, though it lacked the enthusiasm of the previous year.
Professor Quirrell—timid, trembling—was a stark contrast to Felicia Von Draugr. Most students from wizarding families recognized him by name, but not a single one looked impressed.
Felicia had left them with impossibly high expectations.
Dumbledore's next words, however, stirred a much more animated reaction.
"I remind you all that the Forbidden Forest is strictly off-limits," he declared, his eyes twinkling. "Additionally, the right-hand corridor on the fourth floor is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a most painful death."
Slytherins exchanged skeptical glances.
Meanwhile, across the hall, several Gryffindors visibly perked up, eyes gleaming with mischief.
—You can't keep Gryffindors out of trouble with rules, Nolan thought wryly.
The holiday was over.
And as Nolan returned to the familiar depths of the Slytherin dormitory, he couldn't help but wonder how long it would take before those lions ended up on the wrong side of Dumbledore's warnings.