Alastair's POV
I took my seat at the Slytherin table beside Adrian Pucey.
The Great Hall remained unnervingly quiet.
No applause.
No cheers.
No whispers daring enough to break the moment.
It wasn't the stunned silence that followed Blake's Sorting—this was something heavier. The kind that came when a room full of people realized something important had just happened… and none of them were quite sure what it meant yet.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat sharply.
Called next name on the list.
The spell broke. Noise returned in a rush—chairs scraping, whispers resuming, applause starting again as though nothing monumental had just occurred. The Sorting moved on, but the undercurrent remained, humming beneath every sound like a live wire.
A few Slytherins near me leaned closer.
"Well sorted," one said quietly.
"SLYTHERIN suits you," another added with a careful smile.
Polite. Controlled. Curious.
Adrian nodded at me, his earlier respect now reinforced. He didn't speak, but his posture said enough—acknowledgment without sycophancy. That mattered.
Then someone slid into the seat on my other side.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Seventh year.
The Slytherin Head Boy.
He introduced himself calmly, voice low enough that only I could hear. His family name placed him squarely in what the wizarding world politely called the gray faction—old blood, pragmatic loyalties, neither loudly Light nor Dark.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "For your parents."
No dramatics. No performative grief.
Just acknowledgment.
"Thank you," I replied.
He studied me briefly, then inclined his head. "You're welcome here."
That—more than anything—settled the table.
As the Sorting continued, I became acutely aware of how the hall was dividing itself emotionally.
Most students up to fourth year had no real grasp of what Salvius or P meant. To them, I was just another first-year—perhaps a little unusual, perhaps interesting, but not threatening.
The older students were a different story.
Those from Light-aligned families looked genuinely pleased. Not relieved—pleased. Many of them had grown up on stories of the war, of sacrifice, of the moment the wizarding world had finally snapped out of its delusions. Caelum Salvius wasn't just a name to them.
He was a legend.
Someone to admire. Someone whose fall had hardened resolve across Britain.
To them, I wasn't a danger.
I was hope.
The gray faction—those whose families had survived by adapting—were… calculating, but not hostile. If anything, they were quietly optimistic. The Salvius era had been good for them. Stable. Prosperous. A time when influence wasn't monopolized by ideology.
They saw opportunity.
And then there were the Dark-aligned families.
They didn't know what to do with me.
Some avoided looking my way entirely. Others stared openly, brows drawn tight, expressions unreadable. To them, the Salvius-P name was a reminder of something they preferred to forget.
The night mercy died.
The moment restraint failed.
The proof that ancient houses, when pushed far enough, did not hesitate.
I could almost hear their thoughts.
Why him? Why now?
The Sorting continued, name after name, but the tension never fully dissipated.
Then—
"Warrington, Cassius."
A ripple of recognition passed through the hall.
A few claps followed—hesitant, scattered.
Cassius Warrington rose from the line with all the arrogance of someone who believed the world owed him space. He marched toward the stool, jaw tight, clearly still simmering from earlier humiliation.
The Hat barely touched his head.
"SLYTHERIN!"
This time, the applause was louder—more confident.
Cassius smirked as he removed the Hat and made his way toward our table.
He spotted the Head Boy immediately.
Then his gaze slid to me.
And sharpened.
He stopped right in front of us.
"Oi," he said loudly, drawing attention. "You."
I didn't look up at first.
"Get up," Cassius continued, voice dripping with entitlement. "Find another seat."
The table went very still.
"Do you even deserve to sit next to the Head Boy?" he sneered. "No one even clapped for you. Know your place. Learn to show respect to your betters."
He hadn't learned how to read a room.
The Head Boy's expression darkened instantly.
"Warrington—" he began.
I raised a hand slightly.
He paused.
I looked up then, meeting Cassius's eyes calmly.
"You're mistaken," I said evenly. "This seat isn't yours to assign."
Cassius scoffed. "Listen here, whoever-you-are—"
"Salvius–P," I corrected quietly.
A few nearby Slytherins stiffened.
Cassius's lip curled. "I don't care what backwater name you're hiding behind."
That earned him several sharp looks.
"You should," I replied calmly. "It's usually wise."
"I'm from the Warrington family," he snapped. "We don't bow to—"
"No one is asking you to bow," the Head Boy cut in sharply. "Sit down."
The Head Boy rose smoothly from his seat.
In one swift, controlled motion, he grabbed Warrington by the shoulder and shoved him down into the empty seat beside me. The movement wasn't violent—but it was unmistakably authoritative.
Warrington jolted, nearly knocking over his goblet.
The Head Boy leaned down, close enough that only Warrington could hear him.
"If you embarrass Slytherin in front of the whole school again," he whispered coldly, "I will be the least of your concerns."
Then he tilted his chin—just slightly.
Toward the staff table.
Toward Severus Snape, who was staring at Warrington with a look that promised long, creative suffering.
Warrington followed the gesture.
Whatever he saw in Snape's eyes drained the color from his face instantly.
The arrogance vanished.
The sneer collapsed.
He straightened, picked up his cutlery with stiff fingers, and stared down at his plate as though it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
The Head Boy straightened, adjusted his robes, and returned calmly to his seat as if nothing had happened.
Around us, the Slytherin table breathed again—but quietly.
Warrington didn't look at me.
Didn't lift his head.
But he spoke anyway, voice low, brittle with restrained fury.
"Don't think this is over," he muttered.
"You'll pay for humiliating me. I'll ruin your entire family."
A pause. Then, venomously—
"My brother would probably humiliate your mother publicly while your father watches."
My fingers twitched.
They moved toward my wand before I consciously allowed it.
The words cut deeper than he realized.
Just then—
The Sorting Hat screamed from the stool at the front of the hall:
"YOU ARE NOT FRED—YOU ARE GEORGE!"
Laughter exploded across the Great Hall.
The twins' attempted switch—clever, idiotic, perfectly them—snapped the tension like a stretched cord finally breaking.
The sound grounded me.
I inhaled slowly.
Let my hand fall away from my wand.
Violence here—now—would be foolish.
But silence?
Silence would be worse.
I turned my head just enough to look at Warrington.
Then I stood.
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't shout.
I spoke evenly—quietly—but the way the table had gone still before made the words carry.
"You've just made the biggest mistake of your life."
Warrington froze.
I continued, calm as winter.
"I will remember every name—every person—who dares support Warrington in Hogwarts or outside it."
A subtle pause.
"Anyone brave enough to stand with him," I finished, "will be an enemy of the Salvius–P family."
The words settled like iron.
I stepped away from the seat beside Warrington and moved down the table, taking another place without looking back.
The effect was immediate.
Chairs scraped.
Students shifted—subtly, instinctively.
One by one, the seats around Warrington emptied.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just… few chose to sit near him.
Except for a few early-years who didn't yet understand what had just happened and few who were ignorant towards the influence this name had.
By the time the feast truly began, Warrington sat confused—staring at his plate, shoulders stiff, surrounded by people as ignorant as himself.
And for the first time that night—
Slytherin had chosen.