The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.
The Slytherin table didn't even cheer.
Artoria removed the Sorting Hat with a graceful, fluid motion. She handed it back to a visibly stunned Professor McGonagall, who accepted it with the dazed expression.
Then Artoria turned toward the table of snakes.
Her expression was cool, detached, and utterly confident.
She walked down the length of the Great Hall with measured, elegant steps. The sound of her footsteps echoed in the oppressive silence.
She initially angled her path toward the far end of the Slytherin table, where the rest of the newly sorted first-years were huddled together like frightened mice. But halfway there, she stopped.
Her gaze swept over the wide, deliberately empty expanse in the center of the table. Her mismatched eyes locked directly onto the lone figure occupying that forbidden space.
For a fraction of a second, her immaculate composure cracked. Her pupils contracted to pinpricks, a flash of something sharp and unrecognizable crossing her porcelain features but, soon the mask of pure aristocratic indifference slid back into place.
But her trajectory had changed.
Instead of joining her terrified peers at the safe end of the table, she pivoted gracefully on her heel. Her silver hair caught the candlelight like spun moonlight as she glided directly toward the center of the table.
The Great Hall, previously trapped in a shocked vacuum of silence, suddenly erupted into a furious hissing whisper network.
Up at the Gryffindor table, Fred nudged George so hard that he nearly fell off the bench.
"Five Galleons she doesn't make it to the bench before he hexes her into next Tuesday," Fred whispered urgently.
"Not taking that bet," George whispered back, his eyes glued to the spectacle unfolding. "She's walking into a death sentence."
"Ten Galleons says he petrifies her mid-step," Lee Jordan added, leaning over.
"Twenty says he just stares at her until she spontaneously combusts from intimidation," Fred countered.
Over at the Slytherin table itself, Draco Malfoy had gone so pale he looked like he might actually be a ghost.
"Is she mental?" he hissed to Crabbe, his grey eyes wide with genuine alarm. "She's walking straight toward that absolute lunatic. Does she have a death wish? Did nobody warn her?!"
"Maybe nobody told her?" Goyle suggested stupidly.
Alister Potter, the unwitting center of this brewing catastrophe, was completely and utterly oblivious to the outside world.
He was staring blankly at his empty golden plate, his expression one of mild boredom. But his focus was entirely consumed by the sleek, translucent blue interface floating invisibly in front of his face.
[Apex Chat - Private Channel]
Alister: Gellert. Are you online?
A small typing indicator appeared followed by a line of crisp text.
Gellert: Always, my young friend. What troubles the prodigy of Hogwarts today? Has the curriculum finally bored you into a coma? Have you and Albus finally decided to have your dramatic falling out? I've been waiting for so long.
Alister: Hilarious. No, it's the Sorting. A girl just got placed into my House. Silver hair, one blue eye, one golden eye. Her name is Artoria Grindelwald.
Alister: Did you happen to leave a spare heir lying around somewhere that I should know about? Because she just caused what I can only describe as a localized mass panic attack at Hogwarts.
For a long moment, the translucent blue interface remained perfectly still—like the calm before a storm.
Then, the chat exploded.
Gellert: WHAT?! What is Artoria doing at HOGWARTS?!
Nicolas: A Grindelwald? At Hogwarts? In Britain? Albus, my dear old friend, you really ARE getting bolder in your advanced age. Some might even say reckless.
Horace: MERLIN'S BEARD! Is this actually true?! My word, the Daily Prophet is going to have an absolute FIELD DAY with this! The headlines alone—
Albus: I assure you all, I was quite as surprised as you are when dear Bathilda first approached me regarding the child's enrollment. It was... unexpected.
Bathilda: And what of it?! Listen here, Gellert Grindelwald, do NOT think for one SECOND you can put on your Dark Lord airs with your Great-Aunt! I raised that girl with my own two hands, and I will NOT allow you to restrict her education just because you're sulking in a prison cell feeling sorry for yourself!
Gellert: Bathilda, that is hardly the point! Britain is HOSTILE TERRITORY for our bloodline! The Ministry would love nothing more than to make an example of her! Sending her to Dumbledore's fortress is tantamount to—
Bathilda: Is exactly what she NEEDS! She needs a proper magical education from qualified professors, not to be hidden away in some dusty library listening to YOUR outdated political grievances! She is a brilliant girl with tremendous potential, and Albus PROMISED she would be kept safe!
Albus: Indeed. Hogwarts is a school, Gellert. We do not punish children for the sins of their relatives. That would be rather hypocritical of me, considering.
Gellert: You hypocritical old goat! The Ministry will tear her apart the SECOND she steps even slightly out of line! You know this!
Albus: Which is precisely why she needs to be HERE, under my protection, rather than isolated and vulnerable elsewhere.
Gellert: Oh, how CONVENIENT for you—
Alister watched the glowing blue text scroll rapidly upward, a slight, deeply amused smirk playing on his lips. So she was Gellert's relative—raised by the famous historian Bathilda Bagshot, no less. That explained the sheer aristocratic confidence radiating off her like an aura.
A Grindelwald at Hogwarts. How delightfully chaotic.
He was just about to type a sarcastic reply about how touching this family reunion was becoming, when a sudden, completely unexpected physical sensation shattered his focus entirely.
Tap. Tap.
Two slender, pale fingers gently but firmly tapped against the back of his hand, which had been resting casually on the wooden table.
The physical contact sent an actual jolt of surprise through him.
No one—absolutely no one—had dared come near him or touch him at slytherin table till now.
Alister blinked once, slowly.
With a mere thought, the blue Apex Chat interface dissolved into nothingness like mist.
He slowly, deliberately trailed his eyes upward from the pale fingers resting dangerously close to his own. Past the crisp green-and-silver striped tie. Past the perfectly pressed collar. Up to the porcelain face of Artoria Grindelwald.
She was leaning forward slightly, her head tilted. Her mismatched eyes were locked directly onto his face with unsettling intensity.
"I asked," Artoria repeated in her melodic, crystal-clear voice, "if this seat is taken?"
The entire Slytherin table collectively held its breath.
Students further down the bench were actively leaning forward, straining to hear. Someone had definitely stopped chewing mid-bite.
They were all waiting for the inevitable explosion.
Instead, something completely impossible happened.
The cold, perpetually bored mask that Alister usually wore melted away.
A small, remarkably warm smile appeared on his face.
It was terrifying in its unexpected sincerity.
"Sit wherever you like," Alister said softly, his tone entirely devoid of its usual sharp, cutting edge. He even gestured vaguely at the empty space across from him with something approaching politeness.
Down the table, Cassius Warrington actually dropped his goblet.
It clattered loudly against his golden plate with a sound like a bell tolling for the dead. Nobody even glanced at him. They were all too busy staring in absolute, slack-jawed bewilderment as Artoria gave a slight, elegant nod of acknowledgment.
Then she gracefully folded herself into the seat directly across from him.
Artoria smoothed her robes with practiced precision, entirely unbothered by the hundreds of eyes drilling into her back from every table in the Great Hall. Once she was settled comfortably, she leaned forward slightly, dropping her voice to a conspirator's whisper that only Alister could hear.
"Were you absorbed in the Arcane Network?" she asked conversationally.
Alister froze.
The small smile vanished instantly, replaced by a wall of absolute, unreadable stillness. He sat in perfect silence, his mind racing at maximum speed.
Arcane Network?
What in Merlin's name is that?
Seeing his moment of genuine blankness Artoria's lips curved into a knowing, subtly smug smile.
"The system," she clarified smoothly, gesturing vaguely but deliberately at the empty air where his interface had been hovering moments before. "The one created by the Architect. The global magical network that appeared two months ago? Shocked the entire world? Caused international incidents? The thing literally everyone with magic has access to now?"
She tilted her head, her golden eye practically glowing with amusement.
"It seems the collective masses have taken to calling it the 'Arcane Network' recently. Very dramatic. Somewhat pretentious. Personally, I think 'World Mind' had more gravitas, but democracy has spoken."
Alister opened his mouth—a dozen pointed, increasingly aggressive questions ready to be fired like artillery—but he was interrupted by a sudden, sharp clinking sound that echoed through the cavernous room.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
At the High Table, Albus Dumbledore had risen to his feet with practiced theatrical timing. He was gently tapping his crystal goblet with a silver spoon, the sound magically amplified. The furious whispering of the Great Hall died down almost instantly, though students' eyes kept darting nervously back to the Slytherin table like they were watching a bomb that hadn't exploded yet.
"Welcome!" Dumbledore's voice boomed warmly, his blue eyes twinkling as they swept over the sea of students. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our magnificent feast, I must ask for your attention regarding a few start-of-term notices."
Alister kept his eyes locked directly on Artoria, though he tilted his head slightly to indicate he was listening. She met his gaze without flinching, a small smile still playing at the corners of her mouth.
"I must inform you all of a rather late change to our staffing roster," Dumbledore continued, his tone taking on a more solemn, apologetic note. "Professor Quillin, who was originally slated to take the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts, will unfortunately not be able to join us this year due to... unforeseen circumstances."
A low murmur of confusion washed over the older students like a wave. The Defense Against the Dark Arts position was famously cursed everyone knew that but losing a professor before the welcoming feast was a new record even by Hogwarts standards.
Several students exchanged knowing looks. The job was cursed. This was just further proof.
"However," Dumbledore raised one hand, magically silencing the hall once more with the gesture. "We are incredibly fortunate to have found a last-minute replacement of exceptional quality. Please join me in welcoming our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor..."
He paused for dramatic effect. The old man did love his drama.
"Professor Lucid Drake."
Right on cue the massive, ancient oak doors of the Great Hall were pushed open with a deep, resonating creak.
Every single head in the room turned as one.
A man strode through the doorway with fluid, predatory grace that instantly commanded attention. He was strikingly handsome with sharp cheekbones, aristocratic features, hair as black as a raven's wing falling neatly around a pale face that looked like it had been carved from marble.
But it was his eyes that stopped people mid-breath.
As he walked past the tables toward the High Table, the candlelight caught his face from multiple angles, revealing eyes with absolutely pitch-black pupils. Looking into them was like looking into the void itself.
They weren't just dark.
Students instinctively leaned back as he passed.
Professor Drake reached his place at the High Table. Then his pitch-black gaze swept slowly across the Great Hall, moving methodically from table to table.
Finally, inevitably, his eyes came to rest directly on the Slytherin table.
More specifically, on the center of the Slytherin table.
Even more specifically, on Alister.
Soon Professor Drake's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.
And Alister Potter smiled back.
Up at the Gryffindor table, Fred leaned over to his twin.
"Okay," Fred whispered, his eyes darting between Potter, the new professor, and the Grindelwald girl. "Is it just me, or does this year feel like it's going to be monumentally more fun than usual?"
"It's not just you," George confirmed, never taking his eyes off the Slytherin table. "I give it two weeks before something explodes."
"I give it three days," Lee Jordan added grimly.
"Optimist," both twins said in unison.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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