The Great Hall had transformed from an intimidating cathedral of judgment into something that resembled organized chaos with a side of carbohydrates. Hundreds of students were attacking their plates with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Quidditch matches or declarations of war, and the noise level had climbed from "reverent whisper" to "small contained riot" in approximately thirty seconds.
Hadrian found himself wedged between James—who was already on his third helping of roast beef despite having the appetite of a moderately sized dragon—and a gap that was rapidly being filled by a girl with dark curly hair, freckles scattered across her nose like someone had sneezed cinnamon at her face, and the kind of confident energy that suggested she'd never met a social situation she couldn't charm her way through.
"Marlene McKinnon," she announced, plopping down beside him without waiting for an invitation and immediately beginning to construct what appeared to be a tower of Yorkshire puddings with architectural ambition. "Gryffindor, obviously—though the Hat took its sweet time deciding whether I was brave or just reckless. Apparently there's a meaningful distinction, though I personally think they're basically the same thing with different press coverage."
Her accent was distinctly London—working-class edges smoothed just enough to suggest her parents had worked very hard to give her opportunities they'd never had themselves—and her grin was infectious enough to probably qualify as a minor magical effect.
"Hadrian Potter," he replied, shaking the hand she thrust at him with enthusiasm that nearly dislocated his shoulder. "Recently sorted, moderately traumatized by the experience, currently trying to decide if this feast is compensation for emotional damage or just standard wizarding hospitality."
"Both," Marlene declared with absolute certainty, liberating a chicken drumstick from a passing platter with the precision of a trained thief. "Definitely both. Dumbledore's whole thing is 'traumatize them first, feed them second, hope they're too full to complain about the trauma.' It's a time-tested educational strategy."
Across the table, Natalia was watching this exchange with the kind of sharp interest that suggested she was already cataloguing Marlene's personality for future strategic purposes. Beside her, Lily was trying to have a civilized conversation with a prefect about the enchanted ceiling while simultaneously preventing James from using his fork to catapult peas at Sirius, who was absolutely encouraging this behavior.
"So," Marlene continued, building her Yorkshire pudding tower with the dedication of someone constructing a monument to gluttony, "Potter. As in *the* Potters? Ancient family, loads of gold, probably own half of magical London?"
"Quarter of magical London," Hadrian corrected mildly, loading his own plate with roast potatoes that were so perfectly golden they probably had their own fan club. "My family sold off some properties in the 1800s to fund various charitable initiatives. Apparently making money is less important than making sure people don't starve in the streets, according to Potter family philosophy."
"Decent philosophy," Marlene approved, adding what was clearly going to be the structural weak point to her tower—a particularly ambitious gravy boat balanced precariously on top. "Most old families I've heard about are more 'hoard wealth like dragons, glare at poor people' types. Nice to know some of you have functioning moral compasses."
"We try," Hadrian said dryly. "Though our moral compass occasionally points toward 'get into trouble for the right reasons,' which my parents would probably prefer I not advertise during my first night at school."
"Too late," James announced cheerfully from his other side, somehow managing to talk around a mouthful of roast beef that would have choked a normal human. "Already got you pegged as a troublemaker, Potter. You walked into the Great Hall with that look—the one that says 'I'm going to be either a legend or a cautionary tale, possibly both simultaneously.'"
"That's a very specific look," Lily observed from across the table, her green eyes bright with amusement as she finally gave up on civilized conversation and accepted that her dining companions were fundamentally uncivilized. "How exactly does one cultivate the 'legend or cautionary tale' expression? Is there a mirror technique involved? Practice sessions?"
"Natural talent," Hadrian replied smoothly, finally deciding his plate had achieved optimal food distribution and beginning the dangerous process of actually eating. "Some people are born for quiet competence and respectable careers. I was clearly born for making interesting decisions that will either be celebrated or used as examples of what not to do."
"I like him," Marlene declared to the table at large, her Yorkshire pudding tower now reaching heights that probably violated several engineering principles and possibly magical law. "He's got that perfect combination of arrogance and self-awareness that makes trouble infinitely more entertaining."
"Thank you," Hadrian said with mock solemnity. "I've been working on my 'arrogant but charming' ratio since I learned to talk. It's a delicate balance."
"You're not nearly as charming as you think you are," Natalia cut in with surgical precision, though her lips were twitching with suppressed amusement. Her auburn hair caught the candlelight as she leaned forward to deliver maximum conversational damage. "You're more 'insufferable with occasional moments of wit.' Very different aesthetic."
"Natalia Evans," Hadrian said, gesturing toward her with his fork like he was introducing royalty, "professional destroyer of egos, amateur poisoner of conversations, full-time savage commentator on everyone else's personality flaws."
"Also my sister," Lily added helpfully, pointing between herself and Natalia with a chicken wing like she was conducting an orchestra. "Identical twins, in case the matching hair color and tendency toward ruthless honesty didn't make it obvious."
Marlene's eyes went comically wide. "Wait, you two are *twins*? And you both got sorted into Gryffindor? That's either incredibly lucky or the Hat has a sick sense of humor about keeping siblings together."
"Probably both," the Evans twins said in unison, then looked at each other with matching expressions of slight surprise and immediate amusement.
"Stop that," James commanded, pointing his fork at them with mock severity. "The synchronized twin thing is deeply unsettling. It's like watching one person have a conversation with themselves using two bodies."
"That's because you have the emotional depth of a teaspoon," Natalia replied sweetly. "Some of us have actually developed communication skills beyond 'shout loudly and hope for the best.'"
"Oi!" James protested, though he was grinning. "I have plenty of emotional depth! I contain multitudes! I'm like... like an ocean of feelings!"
"You're like a puddle of enthusiasm," Lily corrected. "A very loud, very energetic puddle that occasionally floods into other people's personal space."
"Puddle of enthusiasm," Sirius repeated from further down the table, apparently having paused his systematic demolition of the dessert section to appreciate the ongoing character assassination. "That's going on his tombstone. 'Here lies James Potter: Puddle of Enthusiasm, 1960-whenever he inevitably dies doing something stupid.'"
"Thanks, mate," James said dryly. "Your support means everything to me."
"Always here for you," Sirius replied with devastating sincerity. "Especially when it involves creative insults and prophetic epitaphs."
Marlene was watching this exchange with obvious delight, her dark eyes bright with the kind of joy that came from finding people who matched your exact wavelength of chaos. "You lot are mental," she declared happily, finally attempting to eat from her Yorkshire pudding tower only to have the entire structure collapse in a cascade of gravy and shattered architectural dreams. "Absolutely mental. I love it. This is going to be the best year ever."
"Bold statement," Remus observed from where he'd been quietly working his way through his meal with the kind of methodical efficiency that suggested he approached everything with careful planning. His amber eyes held warmth beneath his careful composure. "We haven't even made it to our first class yet. Plenty of time for things to go catastrophically wrong."
"Catastrophically wrong is the natural state of existence when you're eleven and have access to magic," Marlene said philosophically, attempting to salvage what remained of her dinner while simultaneously stealing a bread roll from James's plate with practiced efficiency. "Might as well embrace it."
"Speaking of embracing chaos," Natalia said with the kind of casual precision that suggested she'd been waiting for exactly this conversational opening, "has anyone else noticed that we're being watched by approximately seventeen different ghosts, all of whom look like they have opinions about our table manners?"
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Every single first-year at their section of the table froze mid-chew, eyes going wide, heads swiveling to scan the Great Hall with varying degrees of panic and morbid curiosity.
"Ghosts?" Peter squeaked, his voice climbing several octaves into regions usually reserved for extremely startled owls. "No one mentioned *ghosts*. The Hogwarts letter definitely did not include a section on 'Warning: Contains Supernatural Entities Who Judge Your Eating Habits.'"
"They're everywhere," Lily said with the kind of clinical interest that suggested she was already cataloguing them for future reference and possibly a research paper. Her green eyes tracked a translucent figure drifting past the Ravenclaw table with academic fascination. "Look—there's one by the Ravenclaw table wearing what appears to be doublet and hose from the sixteenth century. And another near Slytherin in full plate armor. And—oh, that one's practically transparent, you can see right through to the wall behind them."
"That's because they're ghosts, Lily," James said with exaggerated patience, like he was explaining basic arithmetic to someone particularly dense. "Being transparent is kind of their whole thing. It's in the job description. 'Ghost: must be dead, preferably tragic, definitely see-through.'"
"I know what ghosts are," Lily replied with dangerous sweetness. "I'm making scientific observations about their relative opacity levels, which probably correlates with either their age or their emotional attachment to the physical realm."
"Or," Sirius suggested helpfully, "they're just showing off. 'Look at me, I'm so dead I'm practically invisible! Worship my superior deadness!'"
"That's not how ghosts work," Remus said with the weary patience of someone who'd clearly done extensive reading on the subject. "Their transparency relates to their connection to the living world and the strength of their spiritual resonance. The more they interact with living people, the more solid they appear."
"So the really transparent ones are antisocial ghosts," Marlene concluded, apparently having decided this was the most logical interpretation. "Ghost introverts. Dead people who looked at eternal existence and said 'you know what? I'm going to spend eternity avoiding social situations.'"
"That's actually not—" Remus began, then stopped himself. "You know what? Close enough. Ghost introverts. Sure."
As if summoned by their discussion—or possibly just following the standard schedule that ghosts apparently kept—a figure materialized through the wall behind the Gryffindor table with all the casual nonchalance of someone walking through a particularly insubstantial door.
He was tall, transparent, and dressed in what had clearly been very fashionable doublet and breeches approximately four hundred years ago, complete with a ruff collar that would have made Elizabethan nobles weep with envy. His hair was long and slightly ridiculous, his expression was noble and slightly pompous, and his entire bearing suggested someone who had been very important in life and wasn't quite ready to let that go in death.
"Good evening, my young Gryffindors!" he announced in a voice that carried easily across the table despite his translucent nature. His accent was posh, educated, the kind of refined vowels that suggested expensive tutors and classical education. "I am Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower, though you may know me better by my rather unfortunate nickname—Nearly Headless Nick!"
"Nearly headless?" James repeated, his eyes lighting up with the kind of morbid interest that suggested he was already planning to ask deeply inappropriate questions. "How can someone be *nearly* headless? You're either headless or you're not headless. There's no middle ground on the head attachment spectrum."
"Ah," Nearly Headless Nick said with the long-suffering tone of someone who'd heard this question approximately forty thousand times and was thoroughly tired of it, "a very reasonable question, young man. Allow me to demonstrate!"
Before anyone could suggest that maybe this wasn't the best idea during dinner, Nick seized his left ear and pulled.
His head swung to the side on a hinge of spectral flesh that had clearly been inadequately severed, revealing a nasty gash that hadn't quite gone all the way through his neck. It dangled at a disturbing angle, still technically attached but in the kind of way that made everyone at the table simultaneously fascinated and nauseated.
Several first-years made distressed noises. Peter went slightly green. Marlene's eyes went huge, and she appeared to be caught between horror and delighted amazement.
"See?" Nick said proudly, his voice now coming from a head that was pointing at a ninety-degree angle from where it should be. "Nearly headless! If they'd done the job properly, I'd be Sir Properly Headless Nick, but no—they had to use a *blunt* axe, and after forty-five hacks the executioner gave up and declared it 'good enough.' Can you imagine? Forty-five hacks! The incompetence! The lack of professional standards!"
"That's horrifying," Lily said faintly, her scientific interest warring with basic human revulsion.
"That's *brilliant*," James breathed, leaning forward with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Quidditch matches or surprise desserts. "Can you do it again?"
"James!" Lily hissed, kicking him under the table with enough force to make him yelp.
Nick looked pleased despite having just traumatized half the first-years. "Ah, enthusiasm! Excellent quality in young Gryffindors! Though perhaps we should return to more conventional introductions before the younger students lose their appetites entirely."
He straightened his head with a practiced twist—which produced a sound that several people would probably be hearing in their nightmares—and resumed his normal translucent dignity.
"Now then," he continued, clasping his ghostly hands together with the air of someone about to deliver a very important speech, "I wanted to welcome you all properly to Gryffindor House. I've been the house ghost for over four hundred years, and I can honestly say that each new class brings its own unique... flavor to our noble lion pride."
"Flavor," Natalia repeated thoughtfully. "That's a very diplomatic way of saying 'collection of personality disasters waiting to happen.'"
"I prefer to think of it as 'dynamic diversity of temperament,'" Nick said with the kind of diplomatic smoothness that suggested four centuries of dealing with adolescents had given him exceptional people skills. "Though your interpretation is not entirely inaccurate."
"So what exactly does a house ghost do?" Marlene asked, apparently having recovered from the nearly-beheaded trauma and returned to her natural state of curious enthusiasm. "Besides floating around looking transparent and occasionally showing off gruesome neck injuries?"
"Excellent question!" Nick beamed, which was impressive considering he was transparent and had limited facial mobility due to the whole partially-severed-head situation. "We serve as guides, advisors, historians, and general sources of institutional knowledge. We know every shortcut, every secret passage, every bit of castle trivia accumulated over centuries of observation."
"Secret passages?" Sirius perked up immediately, his gray eyes lighting with the kind of interest that suggested he'd just found his new life mission. "There are *secret passages*?"
"Dozens," Nick said with obvious satisfaction at having hooked his audience's attention. "Though I'm certainly not going to tell first-years where they all are on their very first night. That would rather defeat the purpose of exploration and discovery, wouldn't it?"
"You could tell us about one," James suggested hopefully. "Just one. As a welcoming gift. A 'congratulations on not getting eaten by the sorting process' present."
"Nice try, Mr. Potter," Nick replied with ghostly amusement. "But I've been deflecting similar requests from eleven-year-olds for four centuries. You'll need to be considerably more creative if you want to extract classified castle information from me."
"Challenge accepted," Sirius muttered, already looking like he was planning elaborate schemes.
"I heard that," Nick said pleasantly. "And I look forward to watching you try. It's always entertaining when the new ones think they can outwit four hundred years of experience."
"We're very determined," James assured him. "And we have Potter family stubbornness, Black family arrogance, and—" he gestured at Hadrian, "—whatever unique combination of personality traits makes someone think they can verbally spar with poltergeists on their first day."
"Ah yes," Nearly Headless Nick said, his translucent features brightening with recognition. "I heard about that! Peeves was absolutely *delighted* by your performance. Wouldn't stop going on about it. 'Cheeky little monsters with spines of steel,' I believe was his exact phrase. Which, coming from Peeves, is practically a marriage proposal."
"Please don't compare verbal sparring with a poltergeist to marriage proposals," Hadrian said with mild alarm. "That's disturbing on multiple levels and I'd like to maintain at least the illusion of normal social boundaries."
"Too late for normal," Natalia observed. "You gave up normal when you decided insulting supernatural entities was a viable survival strategy."
"It *worked*, didn't it?"
"Temporarily. The key word being *temporarily*. Peeves is probably planning his revenge right now. Something involving more slime, higher architectural points, and maximum humiliation."
"Looking forward to it," Hadrian replied with more confidence than was probably advisable.
Nick chuckled—a sound that came out slightly echoey and hollow, like wind through an empty corridor. "Well, you certainly have the right spirit for Gryffindor. Reckless courage, strategic thinking, and just enough arrogance to make things interesting. You'll fit right in."
"Is that a compliment or a warning?" Remus asked mildly.
"Both," Nick said cheerfully. "Definitely both. Now, I should circulate and greet the rest of our new lions before they think I'm playing favorites. But do feel free to seek me out if you have questions about the castle, need historical context, or require emergency entertainment at future feasts. I'm always available for dramatic entrances and gruesome demonstrations."
"We'll keep that in mind," Lily said with the kind of diplomatic warmth that suggested she was already planning to be the responsible one who kept everyone else from complete disaster. "Thank you for the welcome, Sir Nicholas."
"Please, call me Nick," the ghost said graciously, inclining his head—carefully, so it didn't swing loose again. "We're going to be housemates for the next seven years, after all. Might as well be on familiar terms. Though I draw the line at 'Nearly Headless'—that nickname is an absolute travesty and I've been trying to discourage it for four centuries without success."
He drifted away through the Gryffindor table—literally *through* it, which several first-years found deeply unsettling—to greet other students with the same enthusiasm.
"Well," Marlene said into the slightly stunned silence that followed, "that was surreal."
"That's Hogwarts," Hadrian replied, finally returning to his dinner with the kind of calm acceptance that came from already knowing this was just the beginning. "Apparently we live in a castle with a poltergeist who throws things, a house ghost who's proud of his botched execution, and a headmaster who thinks 'oddment' is an appropriate banquet greeting. This is our life now."
"Best life," James declared with absolute conviction, raising his goblet in a toast. "To Hogwarts—where nothing makes sense and everything is brilliant!"
"To Hogwarts," the group chorused, goblets clinking together with enthusiasm that would have worried responsible adults.
"And to surviving it," Remus added quietly, which earned him several sympathetic grins.
"Where's the fun in just *surviving*?" Bellatrix called from further down the table, apparently having overheard despite the noise. "We should be *thriving*! Making history! Creating legends that future students will tell horror stories about!"
"Please don't encourage her," Andromeda's voice drifted from the Hufflepuff table, sounding weary in the way that suggested years of managing her sister's enthusiasm for chaos.
"Too late," Natalia called back cheerfully. "We're all encouraging each other's worst impulses. It's traditional on the first night."
As dessert appeared—because apparently Hogwarts believed in food appearing through magic rather than dignified serving procedures—the conversation shifted to comparing schedules, speculating about teachers, and making increasingly elaborate plans for exploring the castle.
But Hadrian, watching his new housemates interact with the kind of easy camaraderie that came from shared experience and mutual acceptance, felt something settle in his chest.
This wasn't the Gryffindor of Harry Potter's first year. This was different—fuller, more diverse, more *theirs* in ways that his first timeline could never have been.
And maybe—just maybe—that was exactly how it should be.
The feast continued with increasingly absurd conversation topics (Sirius was now attempting to calculate exactly how many Yorkshire puddings he could fit in his stomach before achieving critical mass), more ghost sightings (the Hufflepuff ghost had just passed through their table while having what appeared to be a heated debate with a suit of armor), and the kind of chaotic joy that could only come from thirty-plus eleven-year-olds hopped up on magical food and the realization that they were actually, genuinely, *really* at Hogwarts.
Tomorrow would bring classes, responsibilities, and the reality of seven years of magical education.
But tonight?
Tonight they were just kids in a castle, making friends and eating too much, and that was magic enough.
—
The desserts had been spectacular—treacle tart that seemed to glow with its own internal warmth, ice cream in flavors that shouldn't have been possible (Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans ice cream was a mistake several students would never recover from), chocolate éclairs that were probably sentient, and a pudding that had actually tried to escape from Peter's spoon before he'd managed to capture and consume it.
Now, as the last traces of pumpkin pie vanished from the golden plates and the general noise level in the Great Hall had reached "moderate riot with dessert-induced euphoria," the atmosphere began to shift.
It started subtly—the way these things always did at Hogwarts. The enchanted candles dimmed slightly, not enough to cause alarm but sufficient to make people look up from their conversations. The ambient chatter dropped from a roar to a murmur as hundreds of students collectively realized that something was about to happen.
Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat at the High Table with the kind of fluid grace that made him look like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. His purple robes caught the remaining candlelight and seemed to shimmer with their own luminescence, and his half-moon spectacles reflected the enchanted ceiling's stars in tiny twin galaxies.
The Great Hall fell silent with the kind of immediate, respectful attention that suggested Dumbledore commanded something beyond mere authority—genuine affection mixed with healthy wariness about what he might say or do next.
"Ahem," he said, though his voice carried perfectly well across the vast space without any apparent effort or magical amplification. The word was less a throat-clearing and more a gentle summons to attention that everyone instinctively obeyed.
"Now that we are all fed and watered," Dumbledore continued, his blue eyes twinkling with the kind of benevolent mischief that made students simultaneously comfortable and slightly nervous, "I have a few start-of-term notices to share with you."
His tone was pleasant, conversational—like a beloved grandfather about to dispense wisdom mixed with gentle warnings about not running with scissors or summoning demons in the library.
"First-years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils." His expression grew momentarily serious, though warmth still lingered beneath. "And a few of our older students would do well to remember that this rule applies to them as well."
His gaze swept briefly across the Gryffindor table, lingering for just a moment on a group of older students who suddenly found their dessert plates fascinating. Several guilty faces suggested that forbidden forest adventures were not, in fact, a new phenomenon.
"Mr. Filch, our caretaker," Dumbledore continued, his voice returning to that pleasant conversational tone, "has asked me to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Those wishing to review the complete list of banned items—which now numbers four hundred and thirty-seven, I believe—may consult the list posted on Mr. Filch's office door."
"Four hundred and thirty-seven?" James whispered to Sirius, his eyes going wide with a mixture of horror and admiration. "How do you even *discover* four hundred and thirty-seven things that need banning?"
"Centuries of dedicated student innovation," Sirius whispered back, looking like he was already mentally planning how to add to that list. "It's like a challenge. 'Can you discover something so ridiculous that it needs its own specific prohibition?'"
"Quidditch trials," Dumbledore went on, his voice brightening with genuine enthusiasm that suggested he actually enjoyed the sport, "will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch, who will be delighted to assess your flying abilities and possibly your insurance coverage."
That earned a ripple of laughter from the older students and excited whispers from the first-years who'd been hoping to try out.
"And now," Dumbledore said, his expression growing warmer still, "I am very pleased to announce that we have a new member joining our teaching staff this year."
Every head in the hall turned toward the High Table with renewed interest. New professors were always a source of speculation and gossip—would they be strict or lenient? Brilliant or boring? Would they last more than a year, or fall victim to whatever curse or catastrophe seemed to plague certain teaching positions?
"Professor Harfang Longbottom," Dumbledore continued, gesturing toward the distinguished silver-haired wizard seated among the faculty, "has graciously agreed to come out of retirement to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts this year."
The hall erupted in applause—genuine, enthusiastic clapping that spoke of recognition and respect. Harfang Longbottom was clearly known, at least by reputation, and that reputation was apparently positive.
Harfang rose from his seat with the kind of dignified poise that came from decades of Auror training and public service. He inclined his head in acknowledgment of the applause, his expression serious but warm, and his eyes—when they swept across the students—held the sharp assessment of someone who'd spent years identifying threats and evaluating capabilities.
At the Gryffindor table, Frank had gone very still, his face cycling through expressions that suggested he was simultaneously proud, mortified, and deeply concerned about the implications of having his grandfather as his Defense professor.
"Oh, this is *brilliant*," Sirius whispered gleefully, watching Frank's internal crisis with obvious entertainment. "Your grandfather is going to know *everything* you do. Every prank, every mistake, every time you doze off in class—"
"Please stop helping," Frank muttered, his voice strangled. "You're making it worse."
"How could I possibly make it *worse*?" Sirius asked with genuine curiosity. "Your grandfather is literally going to be grading your papers on defensive magic. That's peak 'no pressure' territory right there."
"Professor Longbottom," Dumbledore continued, apparently unaware of the minor crisis happening at the Gryffindor table, "brings with him decades of practical experience in defense, having served with distinction in the Auror Corps and participated in numerous operations against dark forces both domestic and international."
Harfang nodded again, and when he spoke, his voice carried clearly across the hall despite not being particularly loud—the vocal equivalent of quiet authority that made people automatically pay attention.
"Thank you, Headmaster," he said with professional courtesy. "I look forward to working with all of you this year. Defense Against the Dark Arts is not merely an academic subject—it is practical knowledge that may one day save your life or the lives of those you care about. I intend to ensure you are all properly prepared."
His tone was serious but not intimidating—more like a promise than a threat. The kind of professor who expected excellence but would help you achieve it.
The applause resumed, and Harfang sat back down with that same dignified composure, already looking like he belonged at the High Table despite this being his first official day.
"Please join me in welcoming Professor Longbottom to our staff," Dumbledore said warmly, clapping along with everyone else. "I am confident he will be an excellent addition to our faculty."
At the Gryffindor table, several students were already whispering excitedly about what it would be like to have a former Auror teaching them. Frank looked like he was still processing his complicated feelings, while James and Sirius were already speculating about whether having an actual dark wizard hunter as a professor meant they'd learn genuinely useful combat magic or just theory.
"Practical experience," James was saying with barely contained excitement. "He said *practical* experience. That means actual spells, actual defense techniques, not just reading about them in dusty textbooks—"
"Or it means he's going to demonstrate exactly how dangerous the Dark Arts are by making us practice until we're exhausted," Remus countered practically, though even he looked interested. "Former Aurors tend to have very... thorough teaching methods."
"Either way," Hadrian observed quietly, "it's going to be interesting."
Dumbledore cleared his throat again, recapturing the hall's attention as the excited whispers about the new professor began to fade.
"Now," he said, his eyes twinkling with renewed mischief, "before we depart for our comfortable beds and well-earned rest, let us sing the school song!"
The reaction was immediate and polarized. The older students groaned with the weary resignation of people who'd endured this ritual multiple times and knew exactly what was coming. The first-years looked confused and intrigued in equal measure, unsure whether "school song" meant something dignified and ceremonial or something else entirely.
With a casual flick of his wand, Dumbledore conjured a long golden ribbon from thin air. It twisted and curled through the air above the High Table before unfurling with dramatic flair, revealing words written in elegant script that hung suspended like captured starlight:
**Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald,
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling,
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
Just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.**
There was a moment of profound silence as the first-years collectively processed what they were reading.
"That's..." Lily began, her voice uncertain. "That's the *school song*?"
"That's the school song," an older Gryffindor confirmed with the weary tone of someone who'd been through this before and survived, though possibly with psychological damage. "Just wait. It gets worse."
"How could it possibly get worse?" Natalia asked, her voice carrying that dangerous precision that suggested she was already composing savage commentary about institutional choices.
"Everyone pick their favorite tune!" Dumbledore announced cheerfully, apparently oblivious to or actively ignoring the first-years' mounting horror. "Ready? Off we go!"
What followed could only be described as organized auditory chaos.
The entire school began singing—if "singing" was the right word for what was essentially hundreds of people simultaneously performing the same lyrics to completely different tunes at wildly varying speeds and volumes.
Some students chose funeral dirges, singing with the kind of mournful slowness that made each word last approximately seventeen years. Others went for jaunty folk tunes that bounced along with inexplicable cheerfulness. A group of Ravenclaws appeared to be attempting some kind of experimental jazz interpretation. The Slytherins had collectively decided on something that sounded suspiciously like a dark ritual chant. And somewhere in the Hufflepuff section, someone was definitely singing it to the tune of a popular Muggle drinking song.
The result was magnificent disaster—a cacophony of competing melodies, rhythms, and interpretations that should not have been physically possible to create simultaneously but somehow was, and the effect on the first-years ranged from delighted amazement to existential horror.
James and Sirius had chosen what appeared to be a marching tune and were belting it out with enthusiasm that bordered on violence, their arms around each other's shoulders like they were leading troops into battle. Remus had gone for something quiet and contemplative that was immediately drowned out by his friends. Peter looked like he was trying to sing but couldn't figure out which tune to follow and had given up entirely.
The Evans twins had somehow managed to find the same melody—a slightly sarcastic version that suggested they found the whole exercise ridiculous but were participating anyway—and their voices harmonized with practiced ease.
Marlene was attempting what sounded like an operatic interpretation with dramatic hand gestures, making the girl beside her laugh so hard she couldn't sing at all.
At the High Table, most of the professors looked resigned, though a few were gamely participating. Professor Flitwick was conducting an invisible orchestra. Professor Sprout was swaying along cheerfully. Harfang Longbottom looked like he was reconsidering his life choices. And Dumbledore himself was singing along with tremendous enthusiasm to what appeared to be a tune of his own invention.
The song finally, mercifully, ended—though not all at once, because of course it didn't. The funeral dirge group took approximately an additional three minutes to finish their final mournful verse while everyone else waited in increasingly uncomfortable silence.
When the last note finally died away, Dumbledore applauded enthusiastically.
"Ah, music," he said with genuine satisfaction, as though they'd just performed something beautiful rather than created what could only be described as weaponized discord. "A magic beyond all we do here! Thank you all. Now, off to bed! Pip pip!"
The Great Hall erupted into motion—hundreds of students rising from their benches with varying degrees of coordination and enthusiasm, the noise level immediately climbing from "post-song confusion" to "organized migration of exhausted adolescents."
"That," Natalia said into the chaos, her voice carrying that particular combination of amazement and judgment, "was the single most ridiculous thing I have ever participated in, and I once attended a formal dinner where my aunt insisted on serving every course in alphabetical order, which meant we had anchovies before appetizers and the whole evening descended into culinary chaos."
"Welcome to Hogwarts," an older Gryffindor said cheerfully, overhearing. "Where tradition trumps sense and we're all just along for the ride."
"I loved it," Marlene declared with fierce enthusiasm, her eyes bright. "That was *brilliant*. Completely absurd, entirely unnecessary, absolutely perfect."
"You would," Lily said with fond exasperation. "You're the kind of person who thinks chaos is a feature rather than a bug."
"Chaos *is* a feature," Marlene replied with absolute conviction. "Especially when it's intentional chaos created by a headmaster who clearly has a sense of humor about institutional dignity."
The prefects were already herding first-years toward the doors with the practiced efficiency of people who'd done this before and knew exactly how to prevent anyone from getting lost, trampled, or accidentally left behind.
"Gryffindors, follow me!" called a tall girl with a prefect badge, her voice cutting through the noise with impressive authority. "Stay together, don't wander off, and try not to walk into any suits of armor on the way to the tower!"
As they filed out of the Great Hall into the Entrance Hall—which looked even more enormous and intimidating now that it was lit by torches instead of afternoon sun—Hadrian found himself walking between James and Sirius, with the Evans twins just ahead and Marlene providing running commentary on everything they passed.
"So," James said, his voice still slightly hoarse from enthusiastic singing, "first day at Hogwarts. Poltergeist attack, sorting ceremony, feast with ghosts, school song that violated multiple laws of music theory. How are we feeling?"
"Exhausted," Remus replied from behind them. "Completely exhausted and slightly traumatized."
"Exhilarated," Marlene countered. "This place is *brilliant*."
"Both," Hadrian said, and meant it. "Definitely both."
Ahead of them, the marble staircase beckoned—the first of many they'd climb on their way to Gryffindor Tower, where comfortable beds and proper rest awaited.
Tomorrow would bring their first real classes, new challenges, and the beginning of seven years of magical education.
But tonight, they were just eleven-year-olds following a prefect through an impossible castle, making friends and collecting stories, and that—despite everything—felt exactly right.
The adventure, after all, was only just beginning.
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