Chapter 14
Sainz didn't pay much attention to how the remaining students were sorted. The moment he reached the Hufflepuff table, he was met with warm applause and friendly faces.
The same welcome extended to every new arrival.
The Fat Friar beamed and reached out as if to shake his hand. "Wonderful—welcome to the family!"
Sainz instinctively extended his hand, only to feel it pass straight through the ghost's. A wave of icy cold swept over him, just as Harry Potter had once described—like plunging your arm into a bucket of freezing water. He wasn't surprised.
After exchanging greetings, he sat down at the table and turned his attention toward the staff table at the front of the hall.
At the center, seated in an ornate golden chair, was an elderly wizard with a long silver beard and hair to match. His crooked nose, twinkling eyes behind half-moon glasses, and warm presence left no room for doubt—this was Dumbledore.
To his left sat an empty chair—Professor McGonagall's seat, no doubt.
Next to the empty spot was a sallow-skinned man with a hooked nose and a face like a thundercloud. His black robes hung heavily around him, and his greasy hair shone faintly under the candlelight.
Snape, of course. The Potions Master.
To Dumbledore's right sat a tiny, sharp-featured wizard who could only be Professor Flitwick. Beside him, a kindly witch with graying hair and a patched hat smiled at the Hufflepuff table—Professor Pomona Sprout, Head of House.
Her patched hat gave her an endearing, down-to-earth look—such a contrast to the stately air of the other professors.
Next to Sprout was Professor Sinistra, and beside her, the sharp-eyed, short-haired flying instructor, Madam Hooch. Hagrid sat at the end, barely fitting on the bench.
On the other side of Snape sat an unfamiliar, elderly wizard—likely the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Beside him was another older witch, seated quietly. From her placement, Sainz guessed she might be Professor Charity Burbage, who taught Muggle Studies.
She was, as Sainz recalled from the future he had once read, the one who was killed by Voldemort for daring to suggest that wizards and Muggles were equals.
Professor Trelawney, the eccentric Divination teacher, was nowhere in sight. Nor was Professor Binns, the ghost who taught History of Magic.
The white-bearded man near Hagrid was probably the Care of Magical Creatures professor—Sainz couldn't recall his name.
On the far side sat two more women who likely taught Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.
Sainz's gaze drifted until he met Professor Sinistra's eyes. She gave him a slight nod. He returned it with a polite smile.
The sorting finally ended. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll, collected the Sorting Hat, and left the hall.
Then Dumbledore stood, arms outstretched as he beamed at the student body. He looked absolutely delighted.
"Ah, how wonderful," he sighed, rubbing at his eyes as though brushing away tears. "I remember when I was your age—"
"Headmaster," Professor McGonagall interrupted gently but firmly, "perhaps now is not the time for nostalgia."
"Quite right, quite right," said Dumbledore, looking sheepish. "Welcome, everyone, to another year at Hogwarts!
Before we begin our feast, I must introduce a new member of staff. Please welcome our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher—Professor Rosario Gratton."
The elderly wizard next to Snape stood and gave a courteous bow. "Thank you, Albus," he said, then returned to his seat.
Dumbledore clapped lightly, then said, "I believe you're all quite hungry. So, without further ado...
Idiot! Crybaby! Scum! Screw!
Thank you. Let the feast begin!"
Applause and laughter rippled across the hall.
At once, the plates on every table filled with food.
Sainz stared in awe at the spread—gravy, tomato sauce, steamed pea shoots and carrots; lamb chops, sausages, roast chicken and beef; fried, baked, and chipped potatoes; even a neat pile of mint hard candies.
Around him, the newly sorted students tossed aside any sense of restraint and dove in with enthusiasm.
Sainz took a few slices of various steak and ate slowly, distracted by Dumbledore's baffling incantation: Idiot! Crybaby! Scum! Screw!
Back in his world, theories had swirled for years over those four odd words. One claimed that they formed a Latin phrase meaning, "May Merlin bless you."
Sainz wasn't buying it.
With only 26 letters in the English alphabet, and even fewer components in Chinese, you could scramble any group of words and force them to mean something. It was like breaking apart characters and reassembling them just to invent meaning. Take the Eight Strokes of the Yong character, for instance—interpretation can go as far as your imagination.
He preferred another theory: those strange words symbolized how each house was perceived through the eyes of others.
As he mulled this over, Ben Stebbins slid into the seat beside him. He leaned close and pointed subtly toward Dumbledore.
"Hey," he whispered, "is he... a little mad?"
Even though they'd only met a few hours ago, Ben clearly sought the comfort of familiarity.
Sainz raised an eyebrow. "Trouble," he said with mock gravity. "That's the headmaster you're talking about. Didn't you hear what Professor McGonagall just said? And now you're calling him mad behind his back?"
Ben froze. The freckles on his face seemed to fade. He visibly shrank into himself.
"I—I didn't mean—S-Sainz... do you think he heard me?"
Sainz quickly relented. "I was joking," he said, patting the boy's arm. "Relax. The headmaster doesn't seem the type to be petty. I just thought you looked nervous and wanted to help you loosen up."
Ben glanced nervously at the staff table. Seeing no one staring back, he exhaled deeply.
"You really scared me... I thought I'd be expelled. I swear—I'll never talk about someone behind their back again."
Sainz blinked.
Well, that escalated quickly.
But if the scare worked and helped the kid pick up a good habit, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing.
He might have spoken too soon.
Barely ten minutes later, Ben was chatting animatedly with another first-year, Joshua Cadwallader, loudly speculating whether the sallow-skinned man—Snape—was suffering from some terminal illness.
Sainz shook his head in silent sympathy.
Kid, of all the people to gossip about, you picked him?
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