Everyone present knew that the reason they could gather here today, to learn magic under one roof, was all thanks to the man now standing at the center of the dais.
To the young wizards of Sylas's territory, this was not merely a headmaster, it was their lord, the figure their parents spoke of with reverence and awe.
They had grown up on tales of his wisdom and power, of how he brought peace and prosperity to the realm.
To meet him here, to study in his school, filled them with pride and trembling admiration.
Sylas rose from his golden chair, smiling gently. His expression was kind, but his presence carried the weight of quiet authority. When he spoke, his voice wasn't loud, yet every syllable carried effortlessly through the Great Hall.
"Welcome, everyone, to a new school year at Hogwarts."
"Before the feast begins, I must remind you of a few rules. First-years, listen well. Beyond the castle grounds, in the region where the golden and silver trees grow, is strictly forbidden to students."
"Second, unless granted special permission, students are not allowed to visit Hogsmeade on weekends. Only from your third year onward, and with parental consent, may you do so."
"Third, the Quidditch trials will be held during the second week of term. Those interested in joining your House teams, please see Professor Gandalf."
At the mention of Quidditch, the young wizards of the territory burst into excited chatter.
The elves and Dúnedain children, however, exchanged puzzled looks, most had never heard of the sport.
But soon, as their new classmates eagerly explained, curiosity spread like wildfire, and the strange word "Quidditch" began to sound magical in itself.
From the staff table, Gandalf grinned broadly and gave a playful wave to the students, his twinkling eyes making him look more like a mischievous grandfather than a strict professor.
Then Sylas's tone shifted slightly. His expression grew serious.
"Finally," he said, "I must warn you, do not disturb the sleeping dragon.
If you value your life, do not approach the door beside the cellar.What lies beyond it breathes fire, and does not take kindly to being woken."
A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the hall, but the glint in Sylas's eyes suggested he was not joking.
Many students had already heard rumors: that deep beneath the castle slept a dragon, vast and ancient, guarding a mountain of treasure.
That dragon, they whispered, was Smaug, once the terror of the dwarves and the master of the Lonely Mountain, now the tamed guardian and mount of the Headmaster himself.
No one dared test whether those tales were true.
Children might be curious, yes, but they were not foolish.
Sylas, watching their wide-eyed faces, hid a smile. The warning was meant to instill respect rather than fear. After all, the door to Smaug's lair was sealed with powerful wards and a key known only to him, and even if the children somehow wandered in, the dragon would do little more than roar them back out.
"Now then," Sylas said at last, his tone brightening once more. "Let the feast begin!"
He raised a golden goblet.
At once, the empty plates on every table shimmered, and in the next instant, they were piled high with food: roasted meats, steaming pies, glistening fruits, and golden loaves of bread that filled the air with warmth.
A wave of astonished gasps rose from the first-years.
At the Phoenix House table, Anlomir sat with his elven friend Alanil, joined by Adam Bailey, a boy from Hogsmeade.
Adam tore eagerly into a chicken leg, talking between bites, his voice brimming with pride.
"My dad's going to lose his mind when he hears I got into Phoenix House! He always says the Headmaster's Animagus form is the only phoenix in all Middle-earth! That's why our House bears the phoenix crest, it's literally the Headmaster's own legacy!"
Anlomir and Alanil exchanged confused looks.
"Animagus?" Anlomir asked, tilting his head. "What's that?"
Adam blinked, then laughed sheepishly.
"Honestly, I'm not sure either," he admitted. "Dad says that kind of magic's far above our heads. It's a form of advanced Transfiguration, the kind where a wizard can turn into an animal at will. Only true masters can pull it off.
And apparently, our Headmaster is the only wizard whose Animagus form is a phoenix. Everyone else turns into something ordinary, cats, dogs, hawks… that sort of thing.
Oh, and Professor Edward, the one who led the Sorting? He's a registered Animagus too, but no one knows what animal he turns into."
Anlomir and Alanil stared at him, wide-eyed.
"Turning into an animal…" Anlomir murmured, awe mixing with disbelief.
"That's incredible," Alanil added softly, his silvery brows lifting in wonder.
Their shared astonishment melted into laughter, and soon the three were chatting like old friends, swapping family stories, trading questions about spells, and sharing wide-eyed excitement about the future ahead.
Around them, the Great Hall buzzed with life. The students, human, elf, and Dúnedain alike, were talking and laughing, the earlier nervousness fading away.
Among them, the elves drew the most attention. Their perfect features and quiet grace made them a magnet for curiosity and admiration. Even though many of them were, by elven standards, centuries old, their childlike appearance and gentle manners made the human students treat them with affectionate protectiveness.
When the plates finally emptied, the last bite vanishing as though swallowed by invisible magic, the tables gleamed again, spotless and golden.
Then Sylas stood once more. With a casual flick of his wand, a long ribbon of light unfurled above the tables, shimmering with glowing runes that slowly reshaped into words.
"Everyone!" he said cheerfully, his voice ringing with mischief. "Let's sing the school song, to whatever tune you like! Ready? One, two, three, sing!"
The students blinked, unsure if they'd heard him correctly. Then they looked up and read the floating lyrics:
Hogwarts, Hogwarts,
Teach us all you can,
Whether we're old and balding,
Or scraped-kneed children, man!
Our minds are mostly empty,
Full of flies and dust,
So teach us something useful,
It's Hogwarts that we trust!
Fill our heads with knowledge bright,
Remind us what we've lost,
We'll study hard both day and night,
Until we turn to dust!
Everyone sang, but each to their own tune.
Some dragged the melody like a funeral dirge, others belted out cheery tavern rhythms, and the elves, with their crystalline voices, tried valiantly to keep harmony alive.
It was, objectively, a catastrophe.
The professors were no better. Gandalf nearly choked on his drink laughing. Galadriel pressed her lips together, eyes glimmering with amusement. Even Arwen, sitting near her grandmother, failed to suppress a chuckle.
But soon, something extraordinary began to happen.
A magical fluctuation, perceptible only to those with profound and sensitive magical abilities, resonated continuously amidst the students' singing.
An invisible connection, more like a contract, had been established between the castle and the students: the castle would protect the safety of each student, while simultaneously absorbing the children's overflowing magical energy and their ever-active emotional energy.
As the castle's master, Sylas felt this most deeply. He could sense that somewhere within the castle, the children's emotional energy and excess magical energy were gathering, slowly nurturing something.
Sylas thought that perhaps when the time was right, the castle would give birth to a "spirit," thus truly becoming a "living" castle.