The line of first-years snaked toward the Sorting Hat, nerves palpable in the air like static before a storm. Robes rustled as students fidgeted, casting anxious glances at the four long tables filled with older students.
Richard stood midway down the line, perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes moved constantly, scanning the vastness of the Great Hall as though it were a battlefield and he was assessing terrain.
Above them, the enchanted ceiling mirrored the night sky in breathtaking detail. Constellations shimmered, constellations he recognised and some he didn't, the stars suspended so low it felt they might rain down light at any moment. The air carried the faint aroma of candle wax, parchment, and something older, a scent like ancient stone and memories too deep to name.
"Abbott, Evelyn!"
A small girl with strawberry-blonde hair stumbled to the front, cheeks blotched with nervous colour.
"Hufflepuff!"
The table to the right burst into warm applause, their cheers the loudest yet. She fled to them with obvious relief.
"Boot, Tobias!"
A lanky boy with long limbs tripped over his own foot before reaching the stool.
"Ravenclaw!"
The table to the left burst into applause that was more refined, measured, but no less proud.
It went on like this, some names met with immediate decisions, others lingered under the Hat for agonising seconds. Richard watched it all like a strategist absorbing an opponent's playbook. He noted which houses drew which traits, which expressions were greeted with approval by which tables, and which professors nodded subtly when students were sorted to their own house.
Students shuffled. The line inched forward. Then, it was time.
"Magus, Richard!"
A murmur moved through the crowd like wind through tall grass.
He stepped forward, not quickly, not slowly. His shoes echoed against the ancient flagstone, and his presence, though quiet, was somehow weighted. Heads turned. Conversations paused. A few professors leaned slightly forward in their seats. Horace Slughorn narrowed his eyes in interest. Dumbledore's expression shifted, barely, but Richard saw it.
He reached the stool, met the Hat with neither hesitation nor ceremony, and seated himself.
The Sorting Hat was heavier than expected. The moment it slipped down over his brow, the world vanished. No light, no sound, just shadow and the slow breath of something old pressing against his mind.
"Hmm… interesting. Very interesting indeed."
The voice was dry, weathered by centuries, tinged with amusement and something older than magic.
"Plenty of ambition, yes… and a sharp mind. Ruthless potential, but tempered by discipline. Not afraid of risk, are you? Clever. But not reckless."
A pause.
"And brave, too. Hufflepuff wouldn't suit you; your loyalty is conditional. Earned. And you value it too much to give freely."
Richard said nothing aloud, but the thought he let rise was calm and cool as glass:
I'll thrive wherever you place me. I don't intend to be average.
The Hat let out a quiet chuckle.
"Confidence bordering on arrogance… you'd do well in Ravenclaw… or Gryffindor perhaps…"
Another pause, thoughtful now.
"But no. You seek influence, legacy, control over your own story."
The Hat tilted ever so slightly.
"Slytherin, then. Yes. There's cunning here, and precision. You'll be among those who understand the calculus of power. It won't be easy, but you don't want it to be, do you?"
Richard breathed in once, shallow and controlled.
"No… you'll do quite well. Quite well indeed."
And then, aloud, the Hat cried.
"SLYTHERIN!"
The word rang through the hall.
He removed the Hat, handed it off, and strode to the Slytherin table as if he'd expected nothing less.
The table was a blend of smirks, assessing looks, and reserved claps, nothing showy, nothing loud. Slytherin did not cheer; it observed.
A pale boy with sharp cheekbones and storm-grey eyes watched him closely, one eyebrow barely raised. A girl with inky black braids nodded once, her posture ramrod-straight and her expression unreadable. Others barely glanced up, though Richard noted every flicker of movement, every twitch of intrigue quickly suppressed.
He sat without hesitation.
His posture was neither arrogant nor deferential. Straight-backed, hands neatly folded, expression composed.
Not haughty. Not humble. Ready.
The Sorting went on, names were called, and Houses assigned. Some cheered with relief, others groaned at unexpected outcomes. But Richard sat like a fixed point, unmoving, returning the occasional glance with calm precision.
He wasn't here to blend in. He was here to grow.
Eventually, the final name was called. The Hat was removed.
Silence fell for a breath, then with a quiet chime of unseen bells, the golden plates on every table filled with food.
He observed for a moment before reaching forward. Roast beef, potatoes drenched in butter and rosemary, minted peas, and Yorkshire pudding with savoury gravy. A treacle tart appeared on his plate, though the scent had more cinnamon than molasses. He tasted it and blinked. It was unexpectedly complex, like it had been transfigured mid-bite.
A few minutes in, the boy beside him spoke, low and casual.
"Colin Farrow. From the train."
Richard turned slightly, offering a polite smile. "Looks like we're housemates."
"Lucky me," Colin said with a quick grin.
Richard gave a quiet chuckle.
They kept their voices low, their words sparse. Not cold, but careful. Richard noticed it came naturally to Colin, too. Half-blood, raised between cultures. He understood the art of speaking without revealing too much.
Across the hall, Richard's gaze wandered. He let his eyes drift from table to table, marking patterns, who clustered near whom, which students already laughed freely, which ones watched from behind masks of confidence. Hundreds of peers. Dozens of potential allies. A handful of threats.
He caught a Ravenclaw girl staring at him before she quickly turned away. He made a mental note of her face.
At the head table, the professors murmured to one another. Armando Dippet chuckled at something Matilda Weasley said, his old eyes creased with genuine amusement. Slughorn gestured animatedly with his goblet, and Dumbledore smiled with a patience that felt both eternal and performative.
Richard memorised everything, voice timbre, robe colours, which hands the professors favoured when gesturing, and where their wands were kept.
The golden plates had cleared themselves with a final flicker of magic, and the hum of student chatter dulled to a curious hush as the aged Headmaster rose to his feet. He tapped his goblet gently with a long, knotted finger. The chime rang precisely and delicately, like a bell struck by a hammer.
"Students… old and new," he began, voice soft, cracked at the edges, but carried with surprising resonance. "Another year at Hogwarts begins, as it always does, with full bellies, restless minds, and the quiet, crackling promise of magic yet unfound."
A pause, during which he glanced fondly down the tables, his eyes lingering on the fresh-faced first-years.
"To our returning students, welcome back. May you walk these halls with a little more wisdom than you did last spring. To our new arrivals, your place is not yet carved, your friendships not yet forged. That is no cause for fear. It is, in fact, a cause for wonder."
A faint smile crossed his lined face.
"Hogwarts will test you. She always does. In her own time. In her own way. Not only in your studies, but in your choices. And your silences. And your loyalties."
He turned slightly, letting his gaze sweep the vast enchanted ceiling above, stars still glowing faintly overhead.
"There is more to learning than books and wandwork. You will find that knowledge takes many forms. And not all of it… is comfortable."
A subtle ripple moved through the first-years at those words.
"Each house you've joined tonight is more than colours and dormitories. It is a legacy. It is a promise. Uphold it. Challenge it. Embody it."
A flicker of something wry in his eye.
"And remember: Hogwarts, as ever, is alive. She sees more than you think. She listens, sometimes when you least expect it. Treat her with respect, and she will repay it."
He lifted his goblet, and his voice strengthened.
"To curiosity. To courage. To caution, where it counts. And to the magic that binds us, seen and unseen."
"Let the year… begin."
"First-years, with me!"
A tall seventh-year Slytherin prefect led them through the Great Hall's side door, down a narrow passage that curved gradually downward. The torches burned green here, and the walls grew damper, smoother. The group passed behind a nondescript section of stone wall, which, with a muttered password, melted away like mist.
The passageway behind the stone wall closed without a sound, sealing them in with a finality that felt deliberate.
The air changed at once.
Cooler. Older. Weighted.
Torches flickered to green-blue life along the damp walls, casting a glow that shimmered like moonlight through deep water. The scent of wet stone, aged parchment, and something vaguely metallic filled Richard's nose, like the breath of a buried vault long unopened.
They descended down a gently sloping corridor, the only sound the soft shuffle of shoes and the occasional creak of the ancient stones underfoot. No portraits lined these walls. No windows broke the gloom. The architecture was older than the rest of the castle, rougher, colder, more honest.
The prefect leading them was silent, her posture rigid, her black robes trimmed in silver thread. She did not glance back to check if anyone had fallen behind. In Slytherin, it seemed, you were expected to keep pace without instruction.
Then the tunnel opened.
And the common room revealed itself.
It was unlike anything Richard had imagined.
A vast, vaulted chamber stretched out before them, carved from grey-green stone that shimmered faintly with some enchantment buried in the walls. The ceiling arched like the inside of a cathedral, and above it, rippling shadows flickered across the surface, cast by the lake itself. They were beneath the water now.
Large windows lined one wall, looking directly out into the depths of the Black Lake. Shadows passed by, fish, long and sinuous; perhaps something larger. A great tentacle undulated by, then vanished into darkness.
Emerald-cast chandeliers dangled from thick chains overhead, throwing eerie reflections across dark leather armchairs and black-lacquered tables. The fireplace was massive, wide enough to walk into, and its flames burned a strange, cool silver that gave off no heat but bathed the room in a ghostly glow.
Tapestries hung in alcoves, depicting serpents coiled through thorned roses, ancient duels, and the founding of the house by Salazar Slytherin himself. The stone bust of the founder watched them from a shadowed corner, eyes carved narrow, lips curled in permanent scepticism.
There was no welcome.
No cheering.
Only a stillness that expected silence.
"First-years," the prefect said at last, turning to face them. Her voice was measured and formal, but not unkind. "This is your common room. You will not bring guests from other houses here. You will not disrespect the space."
A beat.
"But you will find power here, if you earn it. Slytherin rewards the patient. The observant. The ambitious."
Richard took in every surface, every flicker of firelight, every whisper of motion behind the green-tinted glass. The room felt like a hidden lung of the castle, breathing secrets, coiled tight, waiting to be unravelled.
He could feel something ancient in the walls. Not malevolent. But vigilant.
Watching.
It suited him.
It suited him very well.
The prefect gestured toward the branching corridors at the rear. "Boys' dormitories are to the right. You'll find your trunks already placed. Classes begin the day after tomorrow. Don't be late."
She turned without further word and melted into the shadows of the upper stairs.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then, quietly, Richard walked forward, his steps echoing just faintly on the polished stone floor. He let his hand drift along the back of one of the high-backed chairs. The leather was cool and smooth, like the skin of a waiting serpent.
He smiled, just slightly.
Not warm. Not cold.
Prepared.
And then, without a word, he made his way toward the dormitories.
His room was circular, with five beds carved into alcoves of stone, each one draped in green and silver. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, and their trunks had already been placed neatly at the foot of their respective beds.
Colin was already unpacking, his owl perched on the windowsill. A copper-haired boy looked up briefly and nodded. "Elliot," he mumbled.
Two other boys, Arjun, tall and lean, and Malcolm, stockier and louder, were deep in an increasingly heated debate about wand woods and core materials.
"Dragon heartstring is literally stronger."
"But unicorn hair is more stable! I read,"
"You read too slow," Malcolm interrupted.
Richard offered a polite laugh, said nothing more than a few well-timed comments, and retreated to his bed. He didn't unpack, not yet. Instead, he observed how quickly the others fell into rhythms: Colin, the talker; Arjun, the opinionated one; and Elliot, the watcher. Malcolm, blustery and loud, was already trying to take up space.
Eventually, the conversations dulled to yawns and shifting blankets. Colin cracked one last joke about the squid and got a sleepy laugh from Elliot.
Richard remained seated, eyes half-lidded.
Only once the room had gone quiet did he move.
He slid his notebook from beneath his pillow and sat cross-legged on the bed, his thoughts sharp again.
He closed his eyes.
The Compatibility Index flared gently to life, a cold pressure between his temples. Numbers danced, flickers of memory tagged to names and faint impressions.
Two names floated into focus:
Pomona Sprout - 83
Poppy Pomfrey - 82
Richard blinked.
He recognised those names; Sprout would one day be a professor of Herbology. Known for warmth, underestimated for cunning. Pomfey would one day become the Matron and Healer of Hogwarts. And yet… they were students now, somewhere within these same walls.
He filed it carefully, etching their names into the mental scaffolding of his growing web.
Then, finally, he lay back.
The canopy above him flickered with shadows, light from the lake drifting like slow-moving clouds. His hands folded over his chest. His breathing slowed.
The game had begun in earnest.
And Richard Magus never played to lose.
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2 Extra Chapters Achieved. :)