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Chapter 46: The Holy Father's Feast
Darren wasn't lost at all.
He had planned to enter Slytherin.
At first, he'd worried that if the Sorting Hat refused, he could just copy Harry's approach — keep repeating "Slytherin" in his head until the Hat gave in out of sheer irritation.
Though, thinking about it, that sounded a bit unsafe.
Then he remembered Neville Longbottom.
Neville had been a clear fit for Hufflepuff — he loved Herbology, was kind, gentle… just a little cowardly.
Yet the Sorting Hat had placed him in Gryffindor, giving him courage that hadn't fully bloomed yet.
So no, the Hat wasn't rigid. It listened.
With that in mind, Darren played his part carefully.
When the Hat searched his thoughts, he showed courage — too much courage.
Sure enough, the Hat took one look at that overflowing bravery and said no to Gryffindor.
It recommended Hufflepuff, maybe Ravenclaw… until Darren added quietly, "I'd like to be near my brother."
That sealed it.
Slytherin.
The later drama between him and Harry? That hadn't been part of the plan.
As a devoted little Holy Father, how could he not seek his brother's comfort after being placed in the opposite house?
But Harry's reaction left him completely baffled.
Your brother got sorted into Slytherin, and suddenly he's the bad guy?
That logic didn't sit right with him.
He'd been ready — the moment Harry looked his way — to smile, reassure him, say something saintly like "Slytherin and Gryffindor are both filled with good hearts," and earn a solid wave of Father Value.
Instead, Harry's cold silence left him empty-handed.
Reality, it seemed, wasn't as cooperative as his system made it sound.
Darren sighed quietly.
He could practically feel the Father Points slipping through his fingers.
So many missed opportunities!
When the feast appeared, he distracted himself with food.
He tore into a roasted chicken leg, nibbled on a claw someone had sneakily tossed onto his plate, devoured a slice of cake, and scooped up a milk pudding.
He ate "absentmindedly," though the taste was divine.
If not for his carefully maintained image — a heartbroken boy rejected by his brother — he'd have joined the Gryffindors in full-on gobbling mode.
But no. The Holy Father must maintain dignity.
Even in despair, grace.
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From the teachers' table, Snape watched the boy quietly.
He doubted Darren even realized what he was eating. Draco Malfoy, ever mischievous, had dropped a chicken foot onto Darren's plate just to see his reaction — and Darren had eaten it without noticing.
Snape's expression softened for a heartbeat.
When Lily was sorted into Gryffindor, she'd worn that same uncertain look — though she'd laughed afterward.
But Harry Potter… that boy hadn't even looked at his brother.
Didn't he understand what that must have felt like?
Snape's eyes flicked toward the Gryffindor table.
There sat Harry, laughing with the Weasley boy, stuffing his mouth with treacle tart as though nothing had happened.
Snape's lip curled in disgust.
Foolish. Reckless. Blind to the things that matter.
---
Harry, meanwhile, had completely moved past Darren's Sorting.
He was just a child — quick to anger, quick to forget.
He'd been upset that Darren ended up in Slytherin, so he'd ignored him… but he'd already decided he'd talk to him tomorrow.
After all, Darren was his brother.
And honestly, his brother was kind of adorable.
Harry convinced himself that there must've been a mistake.
The Sorting Hat had wanted to put him in Slytherin too, until he refused — maybe Darren hadn't realized he could do that.
Yes. That must be it.
Darren couldn't really be like those awful Slytherins.
He'd only gotten angry earlier because Ron had said Darren was friendly with one of them.
But now, Harry reasoned, that was nonsense.
Slytherins were bad — except Darren.
He'd sort it all out tomorrow. For now, there was a feast to finish.
Harry glanced toward the Slytherin table.
Darren was pushing a slice of cake around his plate, still eating despite looking distracted.
At least he wasn't starving. That comforted Harry enough to keep eating.
By the time he finished, his stomach was so full it almost hurt.
He looked up and noticed Professor McGonagall speaking quietly to Dumbledore, who shook his head, smiling faintly.
At the other end of the table, Professor Quirrell — with that ridiculous purple turban wrapped around his head — was whispering nervously to the pale, hook-nosed Potions Master.
Snape wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on Harry, cold and unreadable.
"Ouch," Harry gasped, clutching his forehead.
"What's wrong?" Percy asked.
"N–nothing," Harry muttered.
The pain faded almost instantly. But he couldn't shake the image of that sallow-faced professor glaring at him with such hatred.
"Who was that talking to Quirrell?" he asked.
Percy followed his gaze. "Professor Snape. He teaches Potions and heads Slytherin House. Best be careful not to get on his bad side — he loves taking points from Gryffindor."
Harry nodded, stealing another glance — but Snape had already looked away.
He turned back toward his plate, thinking about grabbing another pudding… only to find the table completely empty.
Dumbledore had stood up.
"Well," he began, "now that everyone is quite full, a few notices before bed.
First-years are forbidden from entering the Forbidden Forest — as are students of all years.
Mr. Filch would like to remind everyone that the use of magic in the corridors is strictly prohibited.
And finally — anyone who does not wish to die a most painful death should avoid the corridor on the right-hand side of the fourth floor."
A few students laughed nervously. Harry laughed too — though most didn't.
"Now then," Dumbledore said cheerfully, "let us sing the school song!"
He waved his wand, and golden ribbons floated through the air, twisting into glowing words above the tables.
"Everyone — sing along!"
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(Note: In this story, Harry isn't cruel — just a reckless little lion who doesn't always think things through.)
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