The Welcome Feast at Hogwarts was lavish, and the food tasted surprisingly good—much better than what Lycos had imagined British cuisine would be.
But with Professor Quirrell occasionally shooting him furtive glances, Lycos couldn't help but feel anxious about his future at Hogwarts. His appetite all but vanished.
Someone with even less of an appetite than Lycos was Malfoy.
Directly across from him sat a pale, gaunt ghost soaked in blood from head to toe, his face sunken and cold. The nearby upper-year students, speaking in hushed, fearful tones, had referred to him as the Bloody Baron.
With this chilling specter looming in front of him, Malfoy felt as though he were dining in a slaughterhouse… at his own execution.
"I can't take this anymore!"
After forcing down half a helping of black pudding, Malfoy slammed his hand on the table and stood up in protest.
"Crabbe! Switch seats with me!" he barked, slapping the shoulder of the hefty boy beside him.
Crabbe had been devouring a steak, but at Malfoy's command, he froze mid-bite.
With exaggerated seriousness, he glanced at the Bloody Baron diagonally across the table, then turned with equal gravity toward Malfoy.
"Draco, I think… I've gone deaf," he mumbled, cheeks bulging with unchewed meat.
Malfoy trembled with fury, his thin lips quivering.
"You idiot! You think that excuse would fool a ghost?!"
Fuming, he kicked Crabbe's meaty behind and turned to Goyle, who was one seat over, lifting his chin like royalty. "Forget it—Crabbe's useless. Goyle, you switch with me!"
Goyle cast a furtive glance at the Bloody Baron—only to lock eyes with the ghost's dead, penetrating stare. A shiver ran down his spine.
He did some quick (if limited) mental math: upsetting Draco Malfoy might earn him a bruising, but sitting face-to-face with that ghost might kill him.
So Goyle, too, turned to Malfoy with utmost solemnity and said:
"Draco… I think I'm deaf too."
"You absolute morons!" Malfoy screeched. Enraged, he stormed behind Crabbe and started tugging on his arm to haul him out of the seat.
But the size difference was far too great. No matter how much force Malfoy exerted, Crabbe didn't budge an inch. Malfoy, on the other hand, ended up panting and crouched between the two long house tables, drained and defeated.
Lycos munched leisurely on an apple, thoroughly enjoying the three stooges' comedic display. For a moment, his worries about Quirrell and Voldemort were pushed aside.
But then Malfoy noticed the amusement in his eyes—and his own lit up with a flash of inspiration.
"Hayden! Quick—switch seats with me!" Malfoy sprang up like he'd just found salvation and grabbed Lycos by the wrist—specifically the left one holding the apple.
Lycos's smile faded instantly.
"No." His tone was flat. He wasn't about to indulge this spoiled brat.
"Don't be like that, Hayden. My father's a Hogwarts governor!" Malfoy declared, as if that settled everything. "And you're just some no-name half-blood. If you want to survive in Slytherin, you'll need my protection!"
"Not interested," Lycos replied dryly, yanking his arm in an attempt to pull it free.
But Malfoy was used to getting his way—and wasn't about to back down so easily.
He tugged harder. "I can't move Crabbe or Goyle, but you? You're coming with me!"
With a harsh scraping noise, the bench shifted slightly as Lycos was jerked forward. The apple he had barely started eating slipped from his hand and landed on the floor—definitely not salvageable now.
Now he was getting annoyed.
He wrenched his hand back and stood up, staring coldly into Malfoy's face.
"Are you done?" he asked icily.
For a moment, Malfoy was stunned by the flash of anger in those gold-tinged eyes.
"I-It's just a seat swap—no need to be so aggressive," Malfoy stammered, suddenly unsure of himself. He glanced nervously at Crabbe and Goyle, signaling them for backup.
The two hefty boys nodded heavily, stood up together, and glared menacingly at Lycos.
Their combined mass blocked the aisle completely, casting a figurative (and literal) shadow over anyone standing in their way.
But Lycos remained where he was—utterly unmoved.
He could feel something strange stirring inside his body, a flickering pulse of unfamiliar energy. His right hand twitched slightly, as if on instinct… reaching toward the inner pocket of his robes.
The urge to draw his wand and cast a spell surged through him.
As for Malfoy, being stared down by Lycos gave him chills worse than sitting across from the Bloody Baron.
"L-Look, the Malfoys don't fight injured people, alright?" Malfoy tried to save face, puffing out his chest. "Once you've healed up, I'll gladly duel you properly!"
"Injured?" Lycos frowned.
"Yeah! Why else would you be wearing bandages?" Malfoy pointed to the floor.
Lycos looked down—there it was: a loose strip of cloth on the ground.
He suddenly remembered that Malfoy had yanked something off his wrist earlier.
Curious, Lycos lifted his left sleeve to check for any wound.
The next moment, his pupils contracted sharply.
On the inside of his left forearm was a faint, blood-red skull, with a massive serpent slithering out of its mouth like a horrifying tongue.
The Dark Mark.
The signature symbol of the Death Eaters.
Only Voldemort could brand someone with this mark—an indelible symbol of loyalty to the Dark Lord.
Lycos's face paled.
"See? I told you, you're injured!" Malfoy's triumphant voice rang out, shattering Lycos's stunned silence. "You look like death warmed over—go see the matron, for Merlin's sake!"
Lycos said nothing. He quietly tucked his left hand back into the sleeve of his robe and picked up the fallen bandage.
"The seat's all yours," he muttered, turning away without a second glance.
Now wasn't the time to be caught up in petty squabbles. The most urgent priority was hiding the Dark Mark on his arm.
As he walked through the aisle, Lycos quickly re-wrapped the bandage around his arm. His expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked up toward the staff table.
Professor Quirrell sat there, still stammering as he tried to chat with the other professors, putting on a convincing performance of nervous friendliness.
Good acting. Really good.
But now Lycos was certain.
Quirrell hadn't called him to his office just for a chat.
Voldemort was going to give him a task.
And all Lycos could think was:
Isn't this a little too intense for Day One?!