Alan methodically cut into a thick, perfectly seared lamb chop, eating with slow, deliberate precision. In truth, he wasn't particularly ravenous; he had already consumed a massive amount of magical sweets during the train ride. However, he quickly noted that the culinary standard at Hogwarts was exponentially higher than the bleak offerings at his London orphanage. While the dishes were still undeniably heavy and saturated with typical British grease, the seasoning profile was actually quite robust and highly satisfying.
Not long after the magnificent feast began in earnest, a sudden, chilling drop in ambient temperature swept through the Great Hall. Pearlescent, translucent ghosts began to materialize one after another in a spectacular display. Some glided gracefully down from the enchanted ceiling, while others abruptly phased right up through the heavy oak tables, causing several of the more sheltered first-years to shriek and jump back in genuine fright.
Alan, conversely, watched these ethereal entities with gleaming, fascinated eyes. This was his very first time witnessing the actual, conscious deceased manifesting in the physical plane. Driven by cold, scientific curiosity, he deliberately reached out and swiped his hand directly through the torso of a passing ghost. His physical hand passed seamlessly through the apparition's body, registering absolutely zero tactile resistance, only a localized, freezing drop in temperature.
*It would be incredibly tactically beneficial if I could somehow capture and dissect one of these spectral entities for magical research. They are a phenomenally rare manifestation of pure energy,* Alan mused, a dark, calculating spark igniting in his mind. In fact, evaluating his ruthless pragmatism and cold ambition, Alan was beginning to realize that the Sorting Hat might have been entirely accurate in placing him in Slytherin.
All around him, the newly sorted students were eagerly utilizing the feast to network and establish social hierarchies. However, Alan quickly observed that the Slytherin table operated with a distinctly ruthless, political efficiency. The very first questions out of anyone's mouth were aggressive inquiries regarding family backgrounds, bloodline purity, and ancestral history. He watched as several first-years rapidly traced their complex family trees, excitedly acknowledging distant kinship and forming immediate alliances. Furthermore, a vast majority of these aristocratic children already knew each other intimately; much like Vivian, their families had likely spent the summer attending the exact same exclusive high-society galas.
Vivian herself was thoroughly in her element, cheerfully greeting several older students she had clearly mingled with over the past few months.
The magical aristocracy truly was an incredibly small, insular circle. Watching the Slytherin first-years aggressively cozying up to their established contacts, Alan sat among them like an invisible phantom. Seemingly entirely unaffected by the intense political maneuvering, he simply kept his head down and quietly continued to dismantle the lamb chop on his plate.
"Hey there, friend. I'm Randall Rozier," a smooth, overly friendly voice suddenly interrupted his solitude. A young boy with neatly combed, light-blonde hair slid into the empty space on the bench beside him, offering a perfectly practiced, aristocratic smile. "Why are you sitting here eating all by yourself so quietly? Your face is completely unfamiliar to me. I overheard the Hat call you Alan Wilson, but I confess, I have absolutely never heard of the surname Wilson in our circles. Are you, perhaps, the heir to some prominent, foreign wizarding dynasty?"
*If I told you I was a hardened, reincarnated soldier from an entirely different reality, your fragile, pampered little mind would probably shatter into a million pieces,* Alan noted internally, completely unimpressed by the boy's thinly veiled interrogation. He slowly turned his head, his dark eyes instantly recognizing Rozier. Just moments ago, this blonde boy had been sitting directly beside Sampel Travers. Alan's tactical mind effortlessly deduced the play: Travers had dispatched this sycophant as a forward scout to aggressively probe Alan's background.
"No, Rozier. I am not the heir to any foreign wizarding dynasty," Alan replied, his tone chillingly flat and utterly devoid of emotion. He locked his dead, unblinking eyes onto the boy. "It is perfectly normal that you haven't heard of my surname, because I am a Muggle-born wizard. Do we have a problem?"
Subjected to Alan's freezing, predatory gaze, the polite, aristocratic smile plastered across Randall Rozier's face instantly stiffened and fractured.
The surrounding young wizards, possessing highly tuned ears for gossip, caught the blunt declaration. The entire immediate radius of the table fell completely silent. Dozens of students turned their heads to stare openly at Alan, before quickly leaning in to aggressively whisper and share the scandalous intelligence with their companions.
It was an exceedingly rare, almost unheard-of anomaly for a Muggle-born wizard to be sorted into the elite ranks of Slytherin House. Some of the younger students merely looked at Alan with intense, morbid curiosity, while the vast majority narrowed their eyes, glaring at him with naked, undisguised hostility and disgust.
Alan found the petty, orchestrated intimidation tactics of Travers and Rozier to be incredibly childish. He remained completely, stoically unconcerned by the barrage of venomous looks being thrown his way. In his battle-hardened eyes, these highly trained aristocrats were nothing more than a bunch of spoiled, arrogant toddlers playing at war. He possessed absolutely zero desire to integrate into their toxic, pure-blood brotherhood. His sole, driving objective was to study in peace, rapidly research combat magic, and ensure that anyone foolish enough to disturb his operational focus learned a swift, painful lesson.
However, Alan was not strategically naive. He had already gathered vital intelligence from Vivian on the train: while some Slytherins were half-bloods from incredibly prestigious lines, the house was overwhelmingly dominated by radical pure-blood supremacists. For an orphaned Muggle-born like Alan to be dropped directly into the center of the snake pit, violent friction was a statistical certainty. Therefore, Alan secretly reaffirmed his core military philosophy: raw, overwhelming strength was paramount. He absolutely had to prioritize mastering lethal self-preservation methods immediately. The magical world was currently tearing itself apart in a brutal shadow war, and it was entirely inevitable that the radicalized students who actively worshipped the Dark Lord would eventually target him to prove their loyalty to the cause.
Having successfully extracted the requested intelligence, Randall Rozier felt a deep, instinctive unease crawling beneath his skin under Alan's unwavering stare. He quickly mumbled an excuse, stood up, and hurried back down the table to sit beside Travers. The two boys immediately put their heads together, whispering furiously. After digesting the intel Rozier had provided, Travers's face twisted into a vicious, cold sneer of triumph.
Travers arrogantly looked down the table to gloat, only to find that Alan was already staring directly back at him.
Alan's deep, pitch-black eyes were entirely devoid of fear or submission; they held the terrifying, still intensity of a coiled viper. The sheer, lethal weight of that veteran's stare struck Travers like a physical blow, sending an involuntary, freezing chill violently racing down the aristocrat's spine. Thoroughly unnerved, Travers forcefully swallowed his sneer, sharply broke eye contact, and deliberately avoided looking in Alan's direction for the remainder of the feast.
The surrounding murmurs gradually died down as the students returned to their meals. After all, aggressively discussing a housemate's blood purity in such a highly public setting was considered incredibly poor form, even for Slytherin. Furthermore, Prefect Vanessa Greengrass actively swept her sharp, authoritative gaze over the first-years, effectively silencing the loudest gossips with a single, stern look. Alan offered Vanessa a microscopic, polite nod of gratitude, highly appreciative of the enforced silence, and returned to methodically savoring his dinner.
Until he possessed a comprehensive tactical layout of the house's internal power dynamics, Alan decided it was strategically best to maintain a low profile and observe from the shadows.
Soon enough, the magnificent dinner concluded. The golden plates wiped themselves completely clean, and Professor Dumbledore once again rose to his feet at the head table to deliver a few mandatory operational warnings. He explicitly forbade any student from entering the dark tree line of the Forbidden Forest, and strongly cautioned everyone against wandering near the outer perimeter of the school grounds. Due to the highly sensitive, wartime climate, a heavy contingent of Ministry Aurors had been permanently stationed to patrol the outer boundaries of Hogwarts.
"And now, my absolute favorite time of the evening! Before we all march off to bed, let us stand and sing the school song together!" Dumbledore announced jovially. With a flamboyant flick of his Elder Wand, a long, shimmering ribbon of golden light shot into the air, twisting and contorting to form the glowing lyrics high above the tables.
The entire Great Hall—both the faculty and the student body—reluctantly dragged themselves to their feet and began to belt out the school song, each individual deliberately choosing their own completely random melody and tempo. Alan stood rigidly among them, entirely off-key, simply moving his lips and blindly attempting to mimic the chaotic rhythm.
In Alan's highly disciplined opinion, forcing hundreds of people to simultaneously sing a song to entirely different, clashing tunes was an acoustic war crime. The vast majority of the staff and older students sang the lyrics with painfully strained, constipated expressions, desperately wanting it to end. Only Dumbledore himself seemed to be genuinely, blissfully intoxicated by the horrific cacophony. Watching the bizarre spectacle, Alan couldn't help but form a few new, highly questionable tactical opinions regarding the supposedly greatest wizard of the age.
After the entire hall finally endured the agonizing conclusion of the song, Professor McGonagall dismissed the students, ordering the designated House Prefects to immediately escort their respective first-years down to their dormitories.
Slytherin House's common room and living quarters were strategically located deep within the subterranean dungeons of Hogwarts Castle, situated directly beneath the freezing depths of the Black Lake. The first-years filed out of the Great Hall and followed Prefect Greengrass down multiple, spiraling stone staircases, descending deeper and deeper into the earth until they finally halted before a stretch of blank, damp masonry.
"Ouroboros," a fifth-year male Prefect stated clearly to the seemingly solid rock.
At the vocal command, a massive, concealed stone door seamlessly slid aside, grinding heavily against the floor to reveal the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room.
Stepping across the threshold, the very first thing that assaulted Alan's senses was the distinct architectural shift. The room was essentially a long, narrow, and incredibly low-ceilinged subterranean dungeon corridor. Heavy, spherical lamps suspended from the ceiling by thick iron chains cast an eerie, pervasive emerald-green glow across the flagstones.
At the far end of the corridor, located down a short descent of seven stone steps, lay the primary, expansive recreational space. Elegantly carved, high-backed leather chairs and dark wood tables were arranged in tight, conversational clusters. Silver, polished skulls rested on the mantles and bookshelves, serving as morbid, aristocratic decorations. Because this specific section of the dungeon physically extended outward beneath the actual lakebed, the massive, reinforced glass windows lining the far wall looked directly out into the murky, swirling depths of the Black Lake, bathing the entire room in a shifting, sub-aquatic green hue.
The walls and ceiling were constructed from heavily textured, rough-hewn stone. An intricately carved, massive marble fireplace dominated the center of the room, a roaring fire cracking violently within its grate. Yet, despite the massive blaze, the thick stone walls and the crushing weight of the lake water pressing against the glass ensured the common room remained perpetually dim, damp, and bitterly cold.
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