Chapter 22: The Feast
"It's a pleasure to meet you all," said Professor Ivan Corvey, his voice calm yet magnetic, carrying easily through the Great Hall. "As some of you may know, I am a traveler. For me, the meaning of travel lies in the pursuit of treasure—each journey, each discovery, each story."
He paused, his smile deepening.
"But here, at Hogwarts," he continued, his tone reverent, "lies the greatest treasure in the world—knowledge. And it's that treasure I hope to share with all of you."
He removed his hat and bowed slightly to the students.
The response was instantaneous—a thunderous wave of applause that swept through the hall like a living thing.
And curiously, it was the Slytherin table that roared loudest of all.
"Why are they so excited?" whispered Cho Chang, her brow furrowed in mild confusion.
A nearby upper-year Ravenclaw chuckled softly and leaned over to explain, "It's simple—Professor Corvey's a Slytherin alumnus. Naturally, they're proud."
Cho nodded, understanding dawning on her face.
At the head table, Dumbledore rose once more, raising his hands slightly. The applause died down almost instantly. His blue eyes twinkled with their usual warmth as he gestured toward the long tables.
"Well then," he said, voice rich with cheer, "let us not delay any longer—tuck in!"
As soon as the words left his lips, a shimmer of magic rippled across the tables.
In an instant, platters and bowls materialized, steaming and fragrant—roast lamb glistening with herbs, golden-brown goose feet, rich beef stew, braised chicken, piles of mashed potatoes, and baskets of freshly baked bread.
The air was filled with the mingled aromas of spices, butter, and roasted meats.
Russell's eyes widened in delight. He hadn't realized just how hungry he was; his last meal had been on the train hours ago.
Without hesitation, he picked up his fork and began to fill his plate—sampling a bit of everything.
Tender lamb, juicy chicken, warm bread dripping with gravy—it was simple, hearty, and utterly delicious.
Hogwarts, he thought between bites, really does know how to make a first impression.
The food was unexpectedly good — not quite on par with the culinary artistry of the Addams family, but far superior to anything served in the Muggle world.
As Russell dug in happily, savoring each bite, something strange happened. From the very walls of the Great Hall, dozens of pearly-white, translucent figures began to drift out, gliding gracefully through the air. They spread out over the four long tables, glowing faintly in the candlelight.
They were ghosts — one of Hogwarts' most famous sights.
Every witch or wizard, upon death, faced a choice. They could move on to the next world… or linger behind, tethered to the mortal plane by regret, fear, or unfinished business. Those who chose the latter became ghosts.
But becoming a ghost was no blessing. It was an existence devoid of warmth or joy — a shadow of life, suspended forever between the living and the dead.
As Russell wrestled with a particularly stubborn roast chicken leg, he suddenly felt a presence — the unsettling sensation of being watched.
He set down his knife and fork, glancing sideways.
A tall, elegant female ghost hovered beside him, her face pale and sorrowful, eyes heavy with centuries of melancholy. The moment their gazes met, she turned away and floated silently toward the corner of the table.
"That's the Grey Lady," Prefect Amelia Slughorn explained when she noticed Russell's curious look. "She's Ravenclaw's house ghost. Her expression never changes — always sorrowful. Someone once asked her why, but she never answered."
Russell knew who she was — Helena Ravenclaw, daughter of Rowena herself. Yet, he couldn't help wondering why she had looked at him that way.
Before he could think further, he felt a sudden weight in his pocket — something had been slipped inside.
"Russell, my friend," came two whispering voices at his ears, one on each side.
Fred and George Weasley.
"We absolutely love you," Fred murmured with mock sincerity.
"Yeah," George added, grinning. "You just made us a lot of money."
"We're men of honor, though," said Fred. "Wouldn't dream of forgetting your share."
"Already in your pocket," George finished, clapping him on the shoulder before the twins strutted off, laughing.
Russell reached into his pocket, frowning slightly. The familiar touch of Galleons and Sickles met his fingers — three gold Galleons and twelve silver Sickles in total.
He stared after them, utterly speechless.
Did they actually start a betting pool on me?
Little gamblers at eleven years old… they were practically born for a career in Gringotts fraud prevention — or Azkaban.
"Cho," Marietta said between sips of pumpkin juice, "what's it like living as a Muggle? Tell me about it."
"Um…" Cho looked uneasy. "It's kind of hard to explain."
She thought for a moment, then said, "Well, every day we go to school, come home, do homework… it's repetitive but normal."
"School?" another student asked curiously. "What kind of school?"
Cho blinked. "Wait — you mean none of you went to primary school before Hogwarts?"
"What's a primary school?" Marietta shrugged. "Before Hogwarts, we just stayed home or played with friends."
Cho's eyes widened. "That sounds… wonderful."
Russell almost choked on his pudding. Wonderful? He could already imagine the chaos — pure-blood children running wild until age eleven, raised entirely on their parents' biases and half-baked wizarding traditions.
Hogwarts taught them spells and potions — skills, not values. And without guidance, those values often mirrored their families' warped ideals.
It was no wonder Voldemort had found such easy support among pure-blood families. Their worldview had already been shaped to mirror his.
The wizarding world's greatest flaw isn't its dark lords, Russell thought grimly, it's its education system.
Still, that wasn't his problem — not yet, anyway. He was just a powerless first-year Ravenclaw trying to survive his first night.
After everyone had eaten their fill, the plates cleared themselves, the remnants vanishing in an instant. In their place appeared an array of desserts — pies, puddings, cakes, and glistening tarts.
Russell couldn't help a pang of disappointment. No cockroach clusters? Dumbledore's favorite treat was missing — a shame, really.
He reached for a slice of chocolate pudding just as Amelia Slughorn hesitated beside him, looking oddly nervous.
"Fythorne," she said softly, "you know the Addams family, don't you?"
Russell turned toward her, noticing the faint glimmer of hope in her eyes.
"Yes," he said. "Why do you ask?"
"If it's not too much trouble… could you ask them if they have any Putrefaction Fungus in stock? I need it to complete a potion I'm developing."
When Russell frowned slightly, she quickly added, "Of course, I'd pay. I'll need a large quantity."
Russell nodded slowly. "All right, Prefect Slughorn. I'll write to them — but I can't promise anything."
Her face lit up. "Thank you! Really, thank you."
Then, to his astonishment, she pulled a small pouch of gold from her robes and handed it to him.
"This is for your trouble. Whether or not they have it, it's yours."
She waved it off as if fifty Galleons were spare change.
Russell weighed the pouch in his hand — it was heavy. At least fifty Galleons, he guessed. Terrifyingly rich.
No surprise there. The Slughorns were one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, their wealth legendary.
Her grandfather, Horace Slughorn, had once been Slytherin's Head of House and one of the greatest Potion Masters in history. His elixirs were sought after worldwide, each one a masterpiece worth a small fortune.
And Amelia herself was no less talented — brilliant, ambitious, already developing original potions before graduation. Among students, her brews were famous, her business booming.
Fifty Galleons to her was nothing more than a token of courtesy.
Russell tucked the pouch away carefully, a small smile tugging at his lips.
First night at Hogwarts, he thought, and I've already made more than most wizards earn in a month.
Not bad for a Ravenclaw.