There were too many powerful people in this room.
Not just the professors, but the Heads of House and Dumbledore himself were all formidable wizards in their own right. And, of course, there was one other—more dangerous than all of them—likely hiding beneath a purple turban, leeching life from the back of someone's skull.
Peter's eyes swept across the staff table and landed on the man in question. Professor Quirrell, looking nervous and twitchy, had a scarf wrapped tightly around his head, even indoors.
Now's not the time to claim the reward, Peter thought. Not when You-Know-Who might be within a few meters.
He dismissed the system panel without hesitation.
Around him, the murmur of gossip buzzed louder than a swarm of Cornish pixies. Students whispered behind hands, staring openly at the red-haired boy who'd just been Sorted into Slytherin.
Peter ignored them all.
His footsteps echoed clearly as he made his way down the long aisle toward the Slytherin table.
Thump!
A sudden sound broke the tension. Draco Malfoy, seated at the edge of the bench, had scrambled to his feet in a panic. His usually pale complexion had gone a faint shade of green. The moment he saw Peter approaching, he tried to scoot far, far down the table, rustling his robes in a hasty retreat.
"Hi, Draco!" Peter called casually.
Malfoy froze. Slowly, like a rusty hinge, he turned his head.
"W-we-weasley… M-Mr…"
Peter smiled pleasantly and offered his hand. "You can call me Peter. Looks like we're housemates now. Let's get along."
Draco's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, but no sound came out.
The rest of the Slytherin students watched with a mix of fascination and unease. Red hair. A Weasley. In Slytherin?
It didn't make sense.
But Peter just smiled and sat down comfortably at the table, as though he'd belonged there all along.
Peter gave Draco a friendly pat on the shoulder.
Malfoy jumped as if stung by a jelly-legs jinx. He tried to force a smile, but the result was a twisted grimace that looked more painful than pleasant—uglier than crying, really.
He glanced to either side, seeking help from his usual muscle, Crabbe and Goyle. But the two were no better off. Both had their heads down, trembling and chattering their teeth like wind-up toys gone wrong.
Before the awkwardness could spiral further, a tall figure approached from further down the table. He wore the glinting P badge of a Slytherin prefect on his chest and had the kind of face that seemed permanently stuck in a scowl.
"Hey, little Weasley," he said sharply, voice low but firm. "Sit down and quit making a scene."
Peter turned and gave him a pleasant, even slightly amused smile. "Yes, Mr. Prefect."
The prefect gave him a scrutinizing look, then, satisfied with the boy's apparent obedience, turned to the rest of the table and clapped his hands sharply.
"Let's welcome the new snake, shall we?"
It was clearly more of a command than an invitation.
The rest of the Slytherins exchanged confused looks. A red-haired Weasley in Slytherin? That was like watching a Muggle teach advanced Transfiguration.
Still, no one dared disobey the prefect, so a few awkward, hesitant claps rang out.
Peter simply smiled, completely at ease, and settled into the empty seat next to Draco.
The smattering of applause at least broke the tension. Professor McGonagall, who had been watching from the front, cleared her throat and announced briskly:
"Silence, please! The Sorting Ceremony will now continue!"
The rest of the Sorting proceeded without incident. One by one, the remaining students were sorted into their houses.
And when it finally concluded, Dumbledore stood up from his seat.
With his usual twinkle-eyed cheer, the headmaster delivered a speech that made about as much sense as a talking hat singing opera—something about custard, chamber pots, and not poking sleeping trolls.
Peter didn't even bother listening. He already knew this part.
Then Dumbledore raised his arms high.
"Let the feast… begin!"
In a blink, golden platters appeared on every table, piled high with roasted meats, steaming vegetables, pastries, gravies, puddings, and pies. The once-empty plates filled themselves, and goblets brimmed with pumpkin juice and sparkling water.
Gasps and cheers erupted across the hall.
Peter simply picked up his fork, helped himself to roast chicken and Yorkshire pudding, and glanced sideways at Draco, who still looked like he was contemplating the meaning of life and death.
"All right there, Draco?" Peter asked with a smirk.
Draco opened his mouth, thought better of it, and just shoveled mashed potatoes into it instead.
Of course, the feast, while impressive in quantity, lacked variety.
The meats were abundant—roast chicken, lamb, beef with thick gravy—but when it came to staple foods, the options were depressingly narrow. Boiled, mashed, baked—no matter the form, they were still potatoes.
Peter, who had eaten more potatoes than he cared to remember in his past life, now looked at them with mild contempt. Just the sight of the starchy lumps made his appetite twitch.
"Dear Draco," Peter said lightly, picking up a beautifully grilled lamb chop and slicing into it with refined ease. "I think Professor McGonagall had a point. Since we've been sorted into the same house, we ought to treat each other like family."
He took a bite of the lamb—succulent, perfectly seasoned. He smiled faintly as the flavor hit his tongue.
"So, I've decided to forgive your little offense back on the train. Let's get along from now on, alright?"
Draco froze, mid-sip of pumpkin juice.
Was that… mercy? Or a warning?
He stared at Peter, eyes wide. Somehow, it felt like the hall dimmed slightly. His thoughts blurred. The feast before him—the heaping pies, glazed carrots, dripping roasts—suddenly tasted a bit like ash. He half-wished he could fall asleep and wake up to discover it had all been an oddly specific nightmare.
But fate was not so kind.
"Draco, pass me the pudding, won't you?"
Peter's voice was cheerful, almost sing-song, as he polished off the lamb and gestured toward the next dish.
"Mmm, Yorkshire flavor, just like home," Peter murmured, clearly enjoying himself. "Ah—Draco, lamb chops. Pass those, please."
Draco's hand trembled as he obeyed.
"What's this? Not eating? Come on, even potatoes can bring joy. Don't make that face—smile a little, won't you?"
Peter's grin widened ever so slightly. "You know, you're quite likable when you're quiet. Even the house ghost wants to sit by you."
Draco blinked. "House gh—?"
A chilling presence swept down the table. The candles nearby dimmed as a translucent figure glided closer. Bloodstains streaked the front of his robes, and his sunken, hollow face hovered eerily over the plates.
Peter turned toward him politely.
"Good evening, sir. May I ask your name?"
The ghost paused mid-hover, his expression lifeless, voice like grave-dust.
"Barrow…"
Just one word. One name.
And yet, it echoed like a funeral bell through the minds of those within earshot.
Even Peter, for a split second, felt the temperature around him dip. A chill danced along his spine—but his smile never faltered.
"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Barrow," Peter said smoothly, lifting his goblet in a quiet toast. "It's a pleasure to dine with you."
The Bloody Baron—Slytherin's most terrifying ghost—said nothing. But he lingered at Peter's side… and didn't move away.
Draco, meanwhile, had turned a shade paler than Nearly Headless Nick.
With his stomach churning from too many potatoes and too much tension, Draco finally couldn't take it anymore. He clamped a hand over his mouth and bolted for the side door of the Great Hall, which connected to the bathrooms.
By the time the feast ended, he returned pale as parchment, staggering slightly like a ghost who had seen another ghost.
After dessert disappeared and the golden plates were cleared, the male and female prefects of Slytherin stepped forward to lead the first-years to their dormitory. The male prefect was the same thick-necked boy who had scolded Peter during the Sorting.
He introduced himself by name, but Peter didn't bother remembering it.
Honestly, Peter didn't think there was any need to remember the names of most of the current Slytherins. Aside from Draco and Astoria Greengrass, who was supposed to enroll next year, the rest were forgettable. They were either burdened by superiority complexes, soaked in pure-blood dogma, or had personalities that screamed polished creepiness.
Most Slytherins in the novels he once read seemed to fall into one of three categories: brainwashed, broken, or boring.
Still wearing the smug expression of someone who thought he'd restored order during the feast, the prefect led them underground. The path twisted through damp stone hallways, deeper and deeper into the dungeons until the lakewater shimmered outside green-tinted windows. The Slytherin common room had its own dark charm—cold, mysterious, and oddly beautiful. The view of the Black Lake from beneath the water was surreal.
After explaining the school rules in a practiced speech, the prefect turned to Peter and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Weasley boy," he said, voice low and firm. "I don't care what trouble you had with Malfoy on the train. Here in Slytherin—and in Hogwarts—you follow my rules. I expect you to show more respect to Malfoy. After all, we are both pure-bloods, and the Weasleys have already—"
"Mr. Prefect," Peter interrupted with an affable smile, voice silky and calm. "Before you finish that speech, may I ask you a question? It's about a spell."
The prefect raised an eyebrow, annoyed. "Weasley, is that how your pauper parents taught you to behave, interrupting your betters?"
Peter's smile widened ever so slightly.
"The spell is called—"
Peter raised his wand slowly, his eyes cold and unwavering.
The prefect sensed something was wrong at last and hurried to draw his own wand, mouth parting to speak.
"Expelliarmus."
A flash of red light burst through the common room.
The prefect's bulky frame was lifted off the ground and flung across the room. He slammed against the broad bay window that separated the common room from the dark waters of the Black Lake and slid down, dazed and silent.
Every first-year nearby froze in place. Even the older students who had been chatting or playing cards fell silent, eyes wide.
Before anyone could react, Peter followed up with a quick, emotionless "Stupefy."
The prefect's body jolted once more before going limp, completely knocked out.
Peter strode forward, knelt beside him, and casually rifled through the folds of his robe. From the inner pocket, he withdrew a folded parchment—the list of first-year dormitory assignments.
Straightening up, he scanned it briefly and found his name.
Then, folding the paper with precision, he turned back to the onlookers. His expression was calm, composed, but his wand remained firmly in his hand.
His gaze settled on Draco.
"Dear Draco, did you see what just happened?"
Malfoy's shoulders twitched. "N-no...?"
Peter frowned slightly. "No, that's not quite right. What you meant to say was, you did see it. You saw this... prefect, whatever his name was, try to hex me without provocation. I was forced to defend myself. You understand?"
Draco's eyes widened. Then, all at once, the message clicked. He nodded vigorously.
"Very good."
Peter's wand remained steady as his eyes swept across the others in the room, who quickly averted their gazes.
"Then that's settled. Good night, gentlemen."
Pocketing the parchment, Peter turned and walked toward the corridor, his robes rustling quietly behind him as the stunned Slytherins watched him go.