Anduin slowly cut into a piece of lamb chop, observing the room while he ate. He wasn't particularly hungry, thanks to Vivian's excessive snack buying, but he noted the quality of the Hogwarts cuisine was surprisingly high—far superior to the greasy fare he remembered from the non-magical world. The seasoning was rich, though still heavy by his standards.
Suddenly, the feast was interrupted by the dramatic appearance of several Ghosts. They materialized through the stone floor and descended from the enchanted ceiling, causing a ripple of gasps and high-pitched screams among the uninitiated first-years.
Anduin, however, watched with a scientist's intense fascination. His eyes shone as he reached out his hand to intercept a passing specter, feeling only the cold, sharp rush of air as his fingers passed through its ethereal form.
"The projection is non-corporeal, yet it exerts a chilling localized effect. This suggests the spectral form is composed of highly condensed, low-temperature magical energy, perhaps keyed to the emotional imprint of the deceased consciousness. This is an alchemist's dream. I must study the composition of ghosts," Anduin thought, a flicker of genuine excitement crossing his face. In his sudden, analytical hunger for forbidden knowledge, the Sorting Hat's choice of Slytherin seemed entirely appropriate.
The social dynamics quickly confirmed his House's reputation. As the initial shock of the ghosts wore off, the first-years at the Slytherin table began to circulate, their conversations revolving entirely around family history and background.
The questions were pointed, seeking lineage, alliances, and social standing. Cousins and distant relatives, already acquainted from summer visits, greeted each other with practiced familiarity. The Wizarding World was indeed small, and this House was its exclusive, clannish core.
Anduin, a quiet Muggle-born, was functionally invisible, a stone in a stream of flowing water. He calmly ate his food, watching the intricate dance of pure-blood politics unfold around him.
A first-year boy with slick, short blonde hair soon approached, pulling up a chair next to him.
"Hey, mate, I'm Randall Rozier," the boy said, offering a practiced, friendly smile. "You're Anduin Wilson, right? We've never heard of the Wilson name before. Are you from some obscure foreign wizarding family?"
Anduin instantly recognized the probing question and the boy's subtle shift in posture. Rozier had been sitting near Sampur Travers moments before. He was a scout, sent to determine Anduin's status.
"I am not from any foreign family," Anduin stated, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. He turned his deep, unsettling gaze directly on Randall. "You haven't heard of the Wilson name because I am Muggle-born. Is there something else you wished to know?"
The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. Randall's smile dissolved, replaced by a strained look of discomfort. A sudden, pregnant hush fell over the surrounding cluster of first-years. Heads whipped around, curious and judgmental. While a few maintained a curious, slightly sympathetic neutrality (likely the half-bloods), the majority wore expressions ranging from surprise to outright contempt.
Anduin ignored them, returning to his lamb chop. He found their reaction childish, and their opinions irrelevant. He was not here to integrate into their toxic family hierarchy; he was here to study. However, this immediate alienation solidified the truth: he would be a target.
The House that valued pure-blood supremacy contained the very students who might idolize the Death Eaters. His need for advanced self-defense mastery went from an academic goal to an immediate necessity.
Randall Rozier, unable to withstand Anduin's unwavering, emotionless stare, muttered an awkward excuse and quickly retreated back to Travers. The two whispered furiously, and Travers glanced at Anduin.
Their eyes met across the table. Anduin fixed him with a cold, intense look, a silent challenge that betrayed nothing. Travers, unnerved by the lack of fear in the Muggle-born's eyes, quickly shifted his gaze and ceased his whispering.
Vanessa Greengrass, the Prefect, subtly but effectively silenced the loudest murmurs with a single, sharp glare. Anduin offered her a slight, appreciative nod before resuming his meal. His strategy was set: remain calm, maintain strength, and observe.
The magnificent feast concluded swiftly. Professor Dumbledore, rising once more, delivered the final, official warnings: never enter the Forbidden Forest and, more ominously, he advised against approaching the school grounds entirely, explaining that the situation outside was delicate, and many Aurors were patrolling the perimeter.
"And now, before we depart," Dumbledore announced, his eyes sparkling, "it's time for my favourite part of the evening! Let us all sing the school song!"
With a flourish of his wand, golden ribbons shot from the tip, unfurling above the tables to display the lyrics. Then, the entire Hall—students and teachers alike—rose and launched into a cacophonous, chaotic mess. Everyone sang at their own pace and in their own preferred key.
To Anduin, it was a terrifyingly free-form disaster, a soundscape of individual whims and utterly mismatched harmonies. He was forced to mouth the words randomly, utterly unable to find a common rhythm.
He watched the great wizard Dumbledore, singing with an expression of ecstatic, unreserved joy, and found the contrast between the man's immense power and his sheer, giddy eccentricity to be bewildering.
The final, staggered chord of the song died out. Professor McGonagall immediately took charge, instructing the Prefects to lead their respective Houses back to their dormitories.
Descent to the Dungeons
The Slytherin first years were led away by Vanessa Greengrass and a fifth-year male prefect. They descended into the lower levels of the castle, a journey that involved navigating several winding staircases and damp, cold corridors. The air grew progressively cooler, the light dimmer.
Finally, they halted before a blank stretch of damp stone wall in the dungeons.
"The password is Ouroboros," the male prefect commanded.
At the sound of the word—the ancient symbol of the serpent devouring its tail, representing eternity and the cycle of self-creation—a section of the stone wall smoothly and silently swung inward, revealing a dark, narrow entrance.
They filed through, the newly Sorted students breathing in the cold, subterranean air. The Slytherin Common Room was long, low, and built into the castle's foundations. A narrow set of seven stone steps led down into the main chamber.
The room was furnished with heavy, intricately carved chairs and sofas upholstered in dark leather, all bathed in an eerie green luminescence. Anduin realized the cause immediately: one long wall and several recessed windows of the common room looked directly into the Black Lake. The water filtering the moonlight gave the room its distinct, cold, underwater glow.
The walls and ceiling were rough, hewn stone, but the ornate fireplace, though burning with a small, defiant fire, could do little to cut the deep chill that permeated the dungeon. It was a space designed for ambition and seclusion, utterly removed from the warmth and sunshine of the world above.