Chapter 21: It Blew Up
"Good heavens!"
A sharp cry came from the professors' table. Professor Flitwick had leapt to his feet, hands clutching his face in utter shock—only to lose his balance and tumble clean off his chair.
And honestly, no one could blame him.
Just moments ago, the Sorting Hat had proudly placed Phineas Fawley into Ravenclaw—Flitwick's own House. But the boy had responded by ripping the Hat off his head and throwing it to the floor.
Since the founding of Hogwarts by the Four Great Houses, never had a first-year dared to do something so outrageously disrespectful.
"Phineas Fawley, what on earth do you think you're doing?!"
Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the silence like a whip. She took a deep breath, visibly fighting to keep her composure.
She could understand Flitwick's outrage. If she had just watched a newly Sorted Gryffindor behave this way, she doubted she would have taken it any better.
Phineas's face was pale but defiant.
"I'm a pure-blood!" he declared loudly, his voice echoing across the Great Hall. "I belong in Slytherin! Why should I accept what that filthy, ragged old hat says?"
Gasps rippled through the hall. The words pure-blood and Slytherin hit like sparks in dry tinder.
McGonagall's lips tightened into a thin line. For a moment, it looked as though she might scold him further—but then, perhaps realizing nothing she said would reach him right now, she simply closed her mouth.
Her chest rose and fell as she exhaled heavily, the sound sharp in the still air.
She hadn't expected that to be his reason.
A stunned silence settled over the hall, heavy as stone.
Every student, from the wide-eyed first-years to the seasoned seventh-years, turned to watch. Even the ghosts had drifted closer, translucent faces tense with disbelief.
From the staff table, the Sorting Hat gave a low, irritated groan where it lay on the floor.
Russell sat frozen at the Ravenclaw table, his expression unreadable. His fingers tapped once against the wood before falling still.
So that's what this is about, he thought. Bloodline pride. Typical.
He couldn't help the faint, sardonic smile tugging at his lips.
The night had started as a celebration—but in the blink of an eye, Phineas Fawley had blown the roof off Hogwarts' perfect little ceremony.
Dumbledore finally rose from his seat.
If he didn't step in now, there was no telling what kind of nonsense young Fawley might blurt out next.
"Mr. Fawley," he began, his tone calm but edged with quiet authority, "the Sorting Hat's decision is final. It has always been so, and there will be no exceptions."
Though his lips curved in that familiar, grandfatherly smile, the blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles gleamed with unmistakable steel.
Even a man of Dumbledore's patience and grace could not entirely mask his irritation.
Phineas Fawley's bravado faltered. His voice trembled as he protested weakly, "B-but… but pure-bloods are supposed to be in Slytherin, aren't they?"
Today had been nothing short of a catastrophe for him.
He had almost missed the boats, been mocked with strange Muggle idioms, then hurled through the air by a furious lake monster—and now, to top it all off, the Sorting Hat had placed him in Ravenclaw.
To a pampered boy raised on family pride and entitlement, this was the final humiliation.
A slow, deliberate voice spoke from the staff table.
"And who told you that, Mr. Fawley?"
Every head turned.
It was Professor Snape.
He leaned forward slightly, hands folded, his tone calm but cutting.
"One of Slytherin's oldest traditions," he said softly, "is knowing when to read the room. To understand one's position, one's allies, and one's limits."
His black eyes narrowed.
"By that standard alone, you've already proven that you do not belong in Slytherin."
A faint, almost sinister smile flickered across his lips.
"If you are truly dissatisfied, however," Snape continued smoothly, "you may request to withdraw from Hogwarts. I can speak with your mother personally. After all, Europe offers alternatives—Beauxbatons, perhaps. Or Durmstrang."
The blood drained from Phineas's face.
He froze like a deer before a predator, then began shaking his head frantically.
"N-no, sir! I—I'll stay! I'm willing to join Ravenclaw!" he blurted out.
Russell watched the entire exchange with an unreadable expression. Then, suddenly, a quote rose unbidden in his mind.
"If you say a room is too dark and ask to open a window, they will refuse. But if you suggest tearing off the roof, they will compromise and agree to a window."
As Fawley walked stiffly toward the Ravenclaw table, Russell heard a low murmur behind him.
Turning slightly, he saw two older Slytherin students whispering just loudly enough for others to hear.
"Adrick, did you know?" one of them said with a smirk. "My father told me the Fawley line's already gone extinct. This boy's probably adopted from some half-blood branch. And he dares to call himself 'pure-blood'? Pathetic."
"Truly?" the other replied, half-amused.
"Of course. Look at him—does he seem like a Slytherin? Hardly."
Their tone carried that special kind of aristocratic disdain that only pure-bloods could muster.
But the conversation ended abruptly when Fawley passed by.
Though they looked down on his bloodline, even Slytherins knew better than to provoke an old family outright.
Still pale and shaken, Phineas took his seat. He didn't utter a word, keeping his head bowed.
Unfortunately, his earlier outburst had already alienated the Ravenclaws around him. No one tried to start a conversation—not even Prefect Amelia Slughorn, whose usual warmth was replaced by an icy glare.
Professor McGonagall, looking drained, quietly gathered the Sorting Hat and left the dais.
Dumbledore removed his spectacles, polished them slowly, and rose once again. His genial smile returned as though nothing at all had happened.
"Welcome, everyone," he began in his gentle voice, "to another new year at Hogwarts. It brings me great joy to see so many bright, curious young faces among us once more."
The tension in the room eased slightly—until his expression grew solemn.
"But before we begin our feast," he continued, "I must share a rather regrettable piece of news."
A hush fell over the hall.
"Our former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Meegan, was attacked by a vampire late last year. When we found him…"
Dumbledore paused briefly, "…he had already been drained dry."
Gasps rippled through the students.
"So this year," Dumbledore said after a respectful moment of silence, "we welcome a new instructor to fill the position. Some of you may already recognize him. Please greet Ivan Corvey—renowned traveler and curse-breaker."
A tall, elegant wizard stood from the staff table.
His hair was dark and wavy, his posture refined, his demeanor calm and intellectual. A faint smile touched his lips as he adjusted his glasses and gave the students a polite wave.
The hall erupted into thunderous applause.
"No way!" Fred Weasley leapt to his feet, eyes wide with excitement. "That's the Ivan Corvey! He used to be Gringotts Egypt's top curse-breaker before he quit to travel the world! I've got to ask him if the mummies in pyramids actually move!"
Across the hall, a few witches were sighing dreamily.
"He's so handsome… I think I'm already a fan," one whispered.
Of course, others were more skeptical.
"Let's just hope he's not as hopeless as the last one," a Ravenclaw student muttered. "We could use a professor who actually teaches useful spells."
It was a fair point.
Ever since Voldemort's failed attempt to claim the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, the position had become cursed. No professor had lasted more than a single year, leading to wildly inconsistent teaching quality.
No wonder so many Aurors can barely cast a proper Shield Charm, Russell thought drily. Thanks a lot, Voldemort.
He sighed inwardly. In two years, they'd have a professor so incompetent it would make this one look like Merlin himself.
Granted, that man's memory charm was impressive—but it wasn't exactly something he could teach.
Dumbledore's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Ivan," he said warmly, turning toward the new professor, "would you care to say a few words?"
"Of course, Professor," Corvey replied with an easy smile, stepping forward under the hall's golden light.
All eyes turned toward him.
Even Russell leaned forward slightly, curious.
The feast might not have started yet, but it was already shaping up to be an interesting year at Hogwarts.