Chapter 21 Hogsmeade Station
Bole, as if granted a reprieve, pulled his right hand back to his chest, curling up on the floor and gasping for air. His five fingers could still move, but every movement made them tremble with pain—they weren't broken, but they were definitely injured.
Cassius returned to his seat and sat down.
He glanced at Draco.
Draco's expression was somewhere between ecstasy and terror—the corners of his mouth were turned up, but his eyes were wide. Such an expression usually wouldn't appear on a person's face simultaneously, but Draco had managed it.
"Crabbe. Goyle." Cassius said.
The two fat boys shivered simultaneously.
"Throw these three out. Clean the floor."
Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a look. They stood up from their seats and walked to the door, looking at the three fifth-year seniors piled on the floor.
Two were already unconscious. Bole was still conscious but curled on the floor, not daring to move.
Crabbe bent down, grabbing one by the collar with each hand, and dragged them into the corridor like sacks. Goylegrabbed Bole by the ankles and pulled him out of the compartment. The back of Bole's head struck the threshold with a "thud," but he didn't dare even to groan.
The three of them were dragged into the corridor and piled together.
After Crabbe returned, Draco drew his wand and cast "Scourgify." He had been practicing this spell for a month, and it was perfect for cleaning up pumpkin juice—the orange liquid and glass shards on the floor all vanished. The bloodstains were gone too.
The compartment door closed.
In the corridor, the three fifth-year bodies were piled next to the partition. A few older students peeked and saw this scene—saw Bole's blood-covered face and the other two unconscious.
No one came forward to ask.
No one went to fetch a Prefect.
No one did anything.
The news began to spread.
It started from the carriage where Bole had fallen, spreading forward and backward simultaneously. The speed at which students passed news by word of mouth was faster than an owl—especially news of this caliber.
A first-year student. From Malfoy Family.
Smashed Bole's front teeth with a bottle of pumpkin juice.
Then, sitting in his chair, without even really lifting his hand, he took down two fifth-years in two seconds.
The whole process took less than three seconds.
Bole knelt on the ground begging for mercy.
The five words "Cassius Malfoy" spread throughout the entire train within twenty minutes. From the Slytherinupper-year circles to the Gryffindor Prefect carriage, from the Ravenclaw bookworm cliques to the Hufflepuff gossip network.
Every version carried varying degrees of embellishment. Some said he broke Bole's neck with one punch. Some said his eyes turned blue when he cast spells. Some said he didn't even have a wand and could take on ten people with his bare hands.
Only the last one was true.
In the Gryffindor Prefect carriage, Percy Weasley stood up after listening to his younger brother Ron's embellished accusation. He straightened the Prefect badge on his chest, his expression serious.
"This kind of behavior is absolutely intolerable." Percy's voice carried the righteousness typical of a Prefect. "I am going to find him. At least—at least I must give him a verbal warning."
He walked out of the Prefect carriage.
He walked all the way to the back of the train, to the door of that compartment. He stopped.
The door was closed. Through the glass, he could see the four people inside—Draco was saying something, Crabbewas eating, and Goyle was eating too. Cassius was sitting by the window, eyes closed.
A chill seeped through the gap in the door. It wasn't wind. It was magic.
Percy stood outside the door for fifteen seconds.
Then he turned and left.
On the way back to the Prefect carriage, he came up with a reason. He told himself: The first-years hadn't been sorted yet, and Prefects had no jurisdiction over unsorted first-years. It was the rules. He was just following the rules.
This reason was very sufficient. Sufficient enough that he almost believed it himself.
The train continued to head north. The hills outside the window turned into mountains, and the mountains into wilderness. The sky gradually darkened. Dark clouds pressed in from the west, lead-gray and heavy.
The announcement sounded. A voice notified all students to change into their school robes.
Cassius opened his eyes and took his school robes out of his trunk.
This robe had been specially custom-made by Narcissa at Madam Malkin's. The fabric was the same as ordinary school robes, but a very thin defensive array was sewn into the lining. It wasn't anything powerful—it could probably block one or two standard "Expelliarmus" spells—but Narcissa had insisted on adding it. "A mother always has to do a little more for her child."
When Cassius changed into his school robes, he noticed something.
The robes were slightly tighter than when he had tried them on at Madam Malkin's shop. This month of high-intensity magic training hadn't just improved his spellcasting ability; it had also caused subtle changes in his physique—his shoulders were a bit broader, and the lines of his arms were more defined.
Eleven years old. The growth spurt hadn't truly begun yet. But the long-term permeation of magic was already reshaping the foundation of his body.
The train slowed down. A small stone platform appeared outside the train window. There was no lighting on the platform, only a few dim yellow oil lamps hanging on iron frames, swaying in the wind.
Hogsmeade Station.
Cassius picked up his trunk and walked out of the compartment. The corridor was already crowded with students, and the noisy chatter and the sound of luggage bumping around filled the entire carriage.
But as he passed by, the voices around him lowered.
The students on both sides of the corridor leaned toward the walls in unison. The movement wasn't large, but it was uniform. A few people only continued talking after he had passed, their voices a notch lower than before.
Cassius walked to the carriage door and jumped off the train.
Cold wind mixed with drizzle hit his face. In the Scottish Highlands in September, the temperature at night was already quite low.
At the other end of the platform, a huge lantern swayed in the darkness.
"First-years! First-years over here!"
Hagrid's voice echoed in the night wind.
Cassius walked in that direction. He was walking in the middle of a group of first-years, but there was a vacuum zone with a radius of about two meters around him—no one walked beside him.
Hagrid stood at the end of the platform, the light of the lantern shining on his large face.
He was shouting. The voice was very loud. It was his usual style.
Then he saw Cassius.
The shouting got stuck.
Just like a record player needle skipping.
Hagrid's mouth remained in an open shape, but no sound came out. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
Then he shifted his gaze away.
He continued to shout. But the volume was at least thirty percent lower than before. The direction had also changed—his head was slightly tilted to the left, facing the opposite direction of Cassius as he shouted.
"First-years... over here... watch your step..."
Cassius walked past him.
The distance was less than a meter.
Hagrid's body leaned back slightly. The movement was very small. About five degrees.
If you didn't look carefully, you would think it was blown by the wind.
Chapter 22: The Entire Leyline Submits
Hagrid held the giant oil lamp, shrinking his neck in the cold wind.
His eyes, like black beetles, twitched unconsciously as they swept over Cassius. An instinct carved into his bones, coming from his Half-giant blood, told him to stay as far away from this blonde boy as possible.
"No more than four to a boat!" Hagrid shouted, a tension in his voice that even he didn't notice.
The freshmen, like startled quails, quickly searched for companions on the platform.
Harry and Ron climbed into a small boat, and after a moment's hesitation, Hermione stepped in as well. As she sat down, she looked back at Cassius, her hand tightly gripping the wand that had just regained its warmth.
Cassius led Draco, unhurriedly walking toward the boat at the very front.
The moment he stepped onto the gunwale, the wooden boat, which had been moored steadily by the shore, actually let out a muffled "creak." It wasn't because of weight, but because the faint magic field on Cassius's body produced a certain repulsion when it touched the magic-coated boat.
Crabbe and Goyle followed tremblingly. After the two human towers sat down, the boat's waterline was actually much higher than usual.
"Settle in!" Hagrid shouted. "Forward!"
Dozens of small boats set off at once, driven by invisible magic, like a flock of white waterbirds cutting through the mirror-like surface of the Black Lake.
It was very quiet all around.
Only the sound of lake water lapping against the gunwales could be heard.
Atop the distant cliff, the magnificent silhouette of Hogwarts Castle, accompanied by dots of lamplight, appeared solemn and ancient in the night.
Cassius sat at the bow.
He didn't let out cries of surprise like Draco, nor did he curiously look around like the other freshmen.
He kept his eyes closed.
Inside him, the Dual-Soul Furnace suddenly accelerated without warning.
This acceleration wasn't due to combat, but a kind of... "resonance."
Cassius could feel the dense network of magic circuits interwoven beneath the unfathomable depths of the Black Lake, under the silt and rocks. Those were the magicleylines that had settled into the earth over the thousand years since Hogwarts was founded.
They were like sleeping dragons, quietly coiled beneath the ancient Castle.
As Cassius's boat rowed into the center of the lake, these leylines seemed to be awakened by an existence of the same level.
"Hum—"
A low hum exploded in Cassius's mind.
This wasn't a sound, but a resonance of magic.
Cassius felt it.
Hogwarts was "looking" at him.
The defense arrays of this thousand-year-old Castle and the magic source underground were all scrutinizing him at this moment.
Cassius did not choose to restrain himself.
Instead, he released the limiters of the Dual-Soul Furnace.
If you want to see, then I'll let you see clearly.
Ten percent power.
In an instant, an invisible wave of magic spread underwater in a ring, centered on Cassius.
The originally calm lake surface suddenly erupted into giant waves without warning.
It wasn't the wind.
Something underwater was struggling violently.
"What's that?" Draco cried out, clutching the gunwale tightly, his face pale as he stared at the water's surface.
Directly beneath their boat, a massive shadow was diving rapidly.
It was the Giant Squid.
This abyss lord, who had lived in the Black Lake for countless years and even dared to play jokes on adult Wizards, was now frantically waving its tentacles as if it had encountered a natural predator, trying to get away from the boat.
It felt it.
The one sitting on that boat was not an eleven-year-old freshman.
It was a walking human volcano.
A terrifying source that could evaporate the entire lake at any moment.
A giant whirlpool appeared on the lake surface, stirred up by the squid's escape. The water surged violently, causing several nearby boats to rock along with it.
"Heavens! Hagrid! There's something in the water!" Nevilleshouted from the boat behind, so scared he almost fell off.
Hagrid was also stunned.
He had never seen the Giant Squid show such a state of terror.
In his view, that old fellow usually loved to float up to sunbathe or catch students who fell into the water.
But now, it was fleeing.
Fleeing in utter terror.
Harry sat in his boat, watching Cassius's boat ahead, which remained as steady as ever.
No matter how turbulent the surrounding water was, no matter how much the other boats tossed, Cassius's boat remained as if nailed to the lake surface, without even a tremor.
Cassius still had his eyes closed.
His consciousness had followed the leylines and touched the foundation stones of the Castle.
He felt four distinct magical wills—bravery, shrewdness, erudition, and loyalty.
Those were the remnants of the Founders.
But when these four wills touched Cassius's Dual-Soul Furnace, they all actually drew back slightly.
Because in his magic, there was no stance.
Only extreme, pure, and unshakable violence.
"This place will become my home field."
Cassius whispered in his heart.
The corners of his mouth curled up slightly in an arc filled with the desire for conquest.
The boat passed through a curtain of ivy hanging over the cliff face and entered a vast underground tunnel.
At the end of the tunnel was a harbor located beneath the Castle.
As Cassius stepped off the boat and onto the damp stone steps, the entire Hogwarts Castle seemed to tremble slightly.
It was the leylines welcoming him.
And the leylines submitting.
The stone steps led upward to a massive oak door.
Hagrid stood before the door with the freshmen, his palms covered in sweat.
He looked back at Cassius.
The boy was standing at the very back of the crowd, hands in his pockets, his expression as cold as a monarch inspecting his territory.
Hagrid swallowed, turned around, raised his giant fist, and knocked heavily on the Castle door three times.
"Knock! Knock! Knock!"
The muffled sounds echoed through the corridor.
The door slowly opened.
A tall Witch in emerald-green robes stood at the door. Her hair was pulled back tightly, her expression stern, and a pair of square glasses sat on the bridge of her nose.
Professor Minerva McGonagall.
The Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts and the Dean of Gryffindor House.
Professor McGonagall's gaze swept across the freshmen.
When her gaze fell upon Harry Potter, a flicker of indiscernible tenderness and nostalgia flashed in her eyes.
But when her gaze swept to the back and fell on Cassius, her brow furrowed sharply.
As a veteran high-level Witch, Professor McGonagall was extremely sensitive to magic.
She felt that the air around the boy in front of her was "distorted."
That distortion wasn't because of a spell, but because the magic density within him was so high that it caused the surrounding physical rules to shift slightly.
"The first-years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid reported in a booming voice.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."
Professor McGonagall turned around and led the freshmen through the magnificent hall.
Chapter 23: Slytherin
Torches lined the stone walls of the Great Hall, and the ceiling was so high that its top was invisible.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall's voice rang out clearly in the empty corridor. "The start-of-term banquet is about to begin, but before you take your seats, you must first be sorted into your respective houses..."
Draco stood beside Cassius and whispered, "Look, that's the McGonagall the Ministry of Magic officials mentioned. My father says she's an old-fashioned stickler, but very capable."
Cassius didn't say a word.
He was observing the Castle.
His gaze passed through Professor McGonagall, looking deeper into the distance.
There, he could sense several powerful and distinct sources of magic.
One was like a ball of never-extinguishing white light, gentle yet unfathomable—that was Dumbledore.
One was like a venomous snake lurking in the shadows, cold and viscous—that was Snape.
And then there was one that carried a chaotic, evil, and extremely unstable stench of decay.
Cassius's eyes turned cold.
Quirrell.
Or rather, Lord Voldemort.
The [Dual-Soul Furnace] had a natural aversion to such damaged soul fragments.
In Cassius's eyes, Lord Voldemort's current state was like a pile of foul-smelling trash.
"If you dare to cause trouble on my turf," Cassius's fingers twitched slightly in his pocket, "I'll burn that last soul fragment of yours as fuel."
Professor McGonagall led them into a small room.
The first-years huddled together, talking nervously.
"The Sorting Ceremony?" Ron whispered to Harry. "Fredsaid we have to fight a Troll. I think he's lying to me, but I'm still nervous."
Hermione was nearby, rapidly reciting the spells she had memorized. "I think it should be some kind of test, or an assessment of talent. I've prepared over twenty basic spells..."
Cassius listened to these childish conversations and found them somewhat tedious.
He leaned against the wall, waiting for the moment to arrive.
Suddenly.
Dozens of ghosts burst through the back wall.
The first-years let out a chorus of screams.
These pearly-white, translucent ghosts floated over the first-years' heads, discussing the sorting.
The Fat Friar ghost noticed Cassius.
He intended to float over and say hello, but as he came within three meters of Cassius, his body suddenly flickered violently.
"Oh! My goodness!" The Fat Friar let out a cry of alarm, jerking backward as if he had been struck by an electric shock.
"What's wrong, Friar?" another ghost asked.
"That child..." The Fat Friar pointed at Cassius, his transparent face filled with terror. "His soul... it's burning! Stay away from him! He'll suck us dry!"
The ghosts scattered one after another, staring at the calm, blonde boy with suspicion and uncertainty.
Cassius gave them a cold sweep of his eyes.
Beings like ghosts were essentially residual mental energy.
In front of the [Dual-Soul Furnace], they were indeed no different from fuel.
Professor McGonagall returned.
"Now, form a single line," she said sternly. "Follow me."
Cassius walked at the very end of the line.
He stepped over the threshold.
At that moment, hundreds of students at the four long tables in the Great Hall turned their heads simultaneously.
Thousands of candles floating in the air illuminated the entire Great Hall as bright as day.
The ceiling was enchanted to look like a starry night sky.
Cassius's gaze swept over the crowd and landed on the center of the staff table.
Sitting there was an old man with a long, silvery-white beard.
Behind half-moon spectacles were a pair of bright blue eyes that seemed capable of seeing through a person's heart.
Albus Dumbledore.
Their gazes met in the air.
Dumbledore's hand, holding a silver fork, paused slightly.
A flicker of deep doubt and wariness flashed in his eyes.
As the greatest white Wizard in the magical world today, he actually felt a power from an eleven-year-old child that was enough to threaten the balance of the entire Castle.
And beside Dumbledore.
That man with black hair, a hooked nose, and a gloomy expression was staring intently at Cassius.
Snape's hands were braced on the table, his fingernails almost digging into the wood.
"Lucius, what kind of monster have you sired?" Snapewhispered in his heart.
Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of the first-years.
She then placed a pointed Wizard's hat on the stool.
The hat was very dirty, ragged, and covered in patches.
Silence fell over the Great Hall.
The hat twitched.
Then, a rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and it began to sing loudly.
When the song ended.
Professor McGonagall unrolled a long scroll of parchment.
"Now, when I call your name, you will sit on the stool and put on the hat."
"Hannah Abbott!"
The Sorting Ceremony began.
One first-year after another went up.
"Hufflepuff!"
"Ravenclaw!"
"Gryffindor!"
When Hermione Granger's name was called, she almost ran to sit on the stool. The hat hesitated for a long time on her head before finally shouting "Gryffindor."
When Harry Potter took the stage, it caused a massive commotion throughout the hall.
"Gryffindor!"
Thunderous applause echoed through the Great Hall.
Draco went up, and before the hat even touched his hair, it shrieked "Slytherin."
Draco walked triumphantly toward the Slytherin table, and after sitting down, he stared ahead nervously.
Finally.
Professor McGonagall took a deep breath.
Her voice was trembling.
"Cassius Malfoy!"
The entire hall instantly fell into a dead silence.
It was even quieter than when Harry had stepped up earlier.
The title of "Diagon Alley Tyrannosaurus" and the rumors of him taking down a fifth-year on the train made everyone's eyes focus on this boy.
Cassius walked up to the stage unhurriedly.
He sat on the stool.
Professor McGonagall picked up the ragged Sorting Hatand slowly lowered it toward Cassius's head.
The moment the brim touched Cassius's blonde hair—
"AHHH—!!!"
The Sorting Hat let out a piercing, agonized scream.
It didn't sound like it was sorting; it sounded like it was being tortured.
The hat twisted violently on Cassius's head, and wisps of white smoke actually began to rise from the ragged fabric.
"Hot! It's too hot!"
"magic! That's hellish magic!"
"Don't let me look! My eyes are going blind!"
The Sorting Hat roared frantically; it seemed to see something extremely terrifying inside Cassius's mind.
It was like two stars colliding.
It was endless violence boiling within a furnace.
All the Professors stood up at once.
Dumbledore suddenly gripped his wand.
"Slytherin!!!"
The Sorting Hat used every ounce of its strength to let out one last scream.
Then, like a dead fish, it slid limply off Cassius's head.
The white smoke on the hat had yet to dissipate.
It had been scorched.
Cassius stood up and patted his collar.
Without even looking at the stunned Professor McGonagall, he walked straight toward the Slytherintable.
In the entire hall, there was no applause.
Only a deathly silence.
And.
Deep fear.
Chapter 24: What to do? Eat first.
As the Sorting Hat slid off Cassius Malfoy's head, it flipped halfway in the air, brim facing downward, and landed on the stone floor.
It did not bounce.
A normal hat would bounce at least a little when dropped on the floor. But the way the Sorting Hat landed was more like a wet rag—limp and sprawled there, its tip tilted to one side, with wisps of thin white smoke rising from the fabric.
Professor McGonagall stood beside the stool. Her right hand remained in the position it had been when she placed the hat, suspended in mid-air, not yet retracted. Her lips were pursed, pursed very tightly, the lip line forming a thin white line of almost zero thickness.
There was no sound in the Great Hall.
It was not the kind of silence where things are "quiet for a second or two before someone starts clapping." It was the kind of silence where everyone stopped all movement simultaneously. At the Gryffindor table, a fourth-year boy was putting a chicken leg into his mouth; the chicken leg stopped three centimeters in front of his lips, his mouth open, unable to take a bite. At the Ravenclaw table, a girl was passing a note to a companion; halfway through the pass, both their hands froze.
Cassius stood up from the stool.
His movements were normal. He stood up and brushed the non-existent dust off his robes—a habitual action, devoid of any meaning. Then he stepped toward the Slytherintable.
His footsteps were the only sound in the Great Hall.
His leather shoes tapped against the stone floor, one by one, in a steady rhythm. The echoes bounced back from the vaulted ceiling, sounding exceptionally clear in the vast hall.
At the Slytherin table, Draco sat in the middle section near the aisle. His face wore a very peculiar expression—half pride and half shock, the two emotions warring with each other, causing his features to appear somewhat uncoordinated. The corners of his mouth were curled upward, but his eyes were wide open.
Cassius walked over to Draco, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
The chair legs scraped against the stone with a short, sharp friction sound. This sound acted like a switch, and time in the Great Hall began to flow again.
Professor McGonagall bent down and picked up the Sorting Hat from the floor. When her fingers touched the edge of the hat, she flinched—the hat was still hot. Using her robe sleeve as a pad, she carefully picked up the Sorting Hat.
The hat did not speak again.
Since the founding of the school, the Sorting Hat had sorted countless students over a thousand years. There was no record indicating that it had ever been "burned." It had read the mind of the Dark Lord, sorted the soul of Dumbledore, and touched the consciousness of countless geniuses and madmen.
But today, after touching the scalp of an eleven-year-old boy, it had smoked.
When Professor McGonagall placed the hat back on the stool, she noticed the inside of the hat—the side that had directly touched Cassius's hair—the color of the fabric was a shade darker. It wasn't scorched. It was a mark left by high heat.
She straightened up and cast her gaze toward the teachers' table.
Dumbledore sat in the high-backed chair in the very center. His silver fork was placed beside his plate, his fingers interlaced, resting on his chin. The blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles were looking in the direction of the Slytherin table.
Not at Draco. At the one next to Draco.
In Dumbledore's long life, he had seen many kinds of power. Grindelwald's power was like a blade, precise and lethal. The power of the Dark Lord was like poisonous mist, diffusing and corrosive. His own power was like a deep pool, with a bottomless abyss hidden beneath the calm surface.
But the power of Cassius Malfoy was like none of them.
Dumbledore could not define it. The magic overflowing from the boy had no inclination—it did not lean toward light, nor did it lean toward darkness. It was simply "vast." So vast that the Sorting Hat could not withstand it. So vast that the ley lines of Hogwarts fluctuated when he walked into the Castle—Dumbledore had felt this, because he had a connection to this Castle spanning several decades.
"Albus." Professor McGonagall walked back to the teachers' table, sat down beside Dumbledore, and lowered her voice, "The Sorting Hat has never experienced such a situation."
Dumbledore did not answer immediately. His gaze remained on Cassius.
"I know, Minerva."
"What do you intend to do?"
Dumbledore was silent for two seconds. Then he picked up his silver fork.
"Eat first."
Professor McGonagall glanced at him. She had known Dumbledore for over forty years and knew that "Eat first" was not a dismissal, but meant "I need time to think."
On the other side of Dumbledore.
Snape's posture had not changed—his back straight, his hands placed flat on the table, his chin slightly tightened. But his left index finger tapped lightly on the table three times.
This was his habitual action when nervous.
He was looking at Cassius.
Snape had met Lucius. They were in the same year in Slytherin and had spent seven years in the same common room. Lucius had displayed magical talent far exceeding his peers during his student days, but that talent was within the category of "excellent," something that could be understood and quantified.
Cassius was not in that category.
The image of the Sorting Hat smoking from being burned still lingered on Snape's retina. His brain was doing one thing: assessing the threat level.
The conclusion made him uncomfortable.
He couldn't assess it.
An eleven-year-old child, who had not yet received a single day of formal magic education, already had a magic density in his body high enough to cause physical damage to a thousand-year-old magical artifact like the Sorting Hat. What did this mean? It meant that when he reached adulthood at seventeen and his magic core was fully mature, his output ceiling might—
Snape did not continue thinking. He picked up the goblet in front of him and took a sip of pumpkin juice.
On the far right of the teachers' table, near the corner, sat a man wearing a purple turban. Quirinus Quirrell. The Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was poking at the mashed potatoes on his plate with a fork, his fingers trembling slightly.
That trembling was not because of himself.
It was because of the face on the back of his head.
Lord Voldemort's remnant soul was parasitic on the back of Quirrell's head, wrapped in the purple turban. The moment Cassius walked into the Great Hall, that face had felt a wave of magic that made it extremely uncomfortable.
It was not a sense of threat.
It was disgust.
A physiological disgust from the depths of instinct. Like two mutually repelling magnetic poles, there existed a kind of natural opposition between the [Dual-Soul Furnace] within Cassius and Lord Voldemort's remnant soul.
A layer of fine cold sweat broke out on Quirrell's forehead. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. That was Lord Voldemort speaking to him.
"That boy..."
The voice was very light. So light that only Quirrell himself could hear it.
"Let me... look at him again..."
Quirrell did not turn his head. He dared not.
Chapter 25: Pureblood
At the Slytherin table. After Cassius sat down, there was a gap of about half a meter on both his left and right sides.
Draco sat to his right, but there was a fist's width of space between them—it wasn't that Draco was deliberately keeping his distance; it was that when Cassius sat down, Draco had instinctively scooted over a little.
Crabbe and Goyle sat on the other side of Draco. Further out were the other Slytherin first-years: Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Pansy Parkinson.
Cassius recognized all these names. They were descendants of pureblood families, regulars in the Malfoy Family social circle. Their parents had dealt with Lucius, and some had even knelt before the same Dark Lord.
Pansy Parkinson sat opposite Draco. She had been watching Cassius since a moment ago, without blinking. It wasn't the look of someone afraid; it was an appraisal filled with a certain excitement—the worship of power was carved into the bones of girls from pureblood families.
Zabini, on the other hand, appeared more restrained. He only took one look when Cassius sat down, then returned his attention to the silver plate in front of him. This person was smart—at least he knew when to look and when not to.
Nott was the quietest. He kept his head down and didn't say a word.
The older Slytherins reacted differently. The sixth and seventh-year students sat at the far end of the long table; they had witnessed the Sorting Hat's scream and had also witnessed the hat smoking. Most of them chose to keep their distance from Cassius—not a physical distance, but a psychological one. They continued eating and chatting, but the topics clearly avoided "that first-year student."
Flint was not at the long table.
He was still in the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey was helping him deal with those two front teeth. The injury from the train had not yet healed.
Dumbledore stood up.
He spread his arms, his silver-white beard gleaming slightly under the candlelight.
"Welcome!" His voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, gentle and full of energy, "Welcome to a new school year at Hogwarts! Before we begin to enjoy our food, I have a few words to say. And that is — Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
He sat down again. Applause and laughter rang out through the hall.
Food appeared on the silver plates. Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, boiled potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, and gravy. Each plate was piled high.
Draco began to put food on his plate. He had already recovered from the shock of the Sorting Hat—people from Malfoy Family could maintain a decent appetite in any situation; this was also a kind of upbringing.
"Cassius." Draco lowered his voice while cutting his steak, "The Sorting Hat — was that normal?"
"No."
"Then why —"
"Because it wasn't good enough."
Draco thought about this sentence. A hat passed down for a thousand years, "not good enough." He decided not to ask any further.
Cassius didn't eat much. He put a few roasted potatoes and a slice of steak on his plate and ate slowly. His attention was not on the food.
He was feeling the Castle.
The magic ley lines of Hogwarts flowed twenty meters beneath his feet. Since he had walked into the Great Hall, the reaction of the ley lines had changed from an initial "scrutiny" to a more subtle state—it was neither submission nor resistance. It was more like a giant beast sniffing a strange member of its own kind.
It was judging whether Cassius was an enemy or a resident.
Cassius gave no response. He just stayed there, eating like a normal student. The [Dual-Soul Furnace] was maintained at its lowest power consumption.
The ley lines slowly calmed down.
Dessert arrived. Ice cream, apple pie, treacle tart, chocolate cake. Draco grabbed a large piece of treacle tart, eating until his mouth was covered in crumbs.
Dumbledore stood up again.
This time his expression was more serious.
"Before everyone is full and satisfied, I have a few more things to announce. First-year students, please note that the Forbidden Forest is off-limits to all students. In addition, our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind everyone that no magic is allowed in the corridors."
He paused.
"Finally, I must tell you all that the third-floor corridor on the right side is forbidden this year, unless you do not fear a painful death."
A few students laughed. They thought it was a joke.
Cassius knew it wasn't.
Third-floor corridor. Cerberus. Philosopher's Stone.
He ran through the timeline of the original work in his mind. Nicolas Flamel's Philosopher's Stone was currently hidden in the Chamber of Secrets beneath the third-floor corridor. Dumbledore had set up a series of protective measures—Devils Snare, flying keys, a giant chessboard, a Troll, logic puzzles, the Mirror of Erised.
A carefully designed obstacle course game.
On the surface, it was to protect the Philosopher's Stone. In reality, it was a trial ground tailor-made for Harry Potter. The difficulty of each level was just within the range that three first-year students could pass.
Dumbledore's calculations were very precise.
Cassius had no interest in the Philosopher's Stone itself. The Sorcerer's Stone and the Elixir of Life—he didn't lack money for the former, and for the latter, his Soul Furnacecame with near-infinite magical endurance, so longevity was not a problem that needed current concern.
But he needed to pay attention to the subsequent chain reaction of the Philosopher's Stone incident.
Quirrell would release a Troll on Halloween. Then the Harry trio would begin investigating the Philosopher's Stone around Christmas. At the end of the school year, Harry would break into the third-floor corridor to face the Dark Lord behind Quirrell.
Would these things change because of his own existence?
Most likely. The butterfly effect had already begun. The incident in Diagon Alley, the incident on the train, the incident with the Sorting Hat—every single one was changing the behavioral trajectory of the original characters.
Hagrid's fear of Cassius might affect his relationship with Harry. Ron had suffered a loss on the train, and his hatred for Malfoy Family would be deeper than in the original work. Hermione had experienced the incident where her wand was locked; she had a new understanding of "power beyond books."
Too many variables.
But Cassius did not intend to control these variables. He was not Dumbledore; he had no interest in playing a decades-long game of chess. His policy was very simple: whoever touched Draco, he would destroy. As for the rest, let the original plot run its course.
Unless the Dark Lord came looking for him in advance.
Then he would send him on his way early.
The feast ended. Dumbledore waved his hand, the tableware disappeared, and the long table returned to its smooth wooden surface.
"Prefects, take your first-years to their respective common rooms."
The Slytherin prefect was a sixth-year girl named Gemma Farley. She had regular features, golden-brown hair tied in a ponytail, and a silver-green prefect badge pinned to her chest. When she stood up, her gaze swept over the location of the first-year students. When she saw Cassius, her gaze stopped for less than a second, then moved away.
"First-years, follow me."
Her voice was very steady, without any extra emotion.
The first-years stood up from the long table and followed her out of the Great Hall. Draco walked beside Cassius, with Crabbe and Goyle following behind. Pansy walked on the other side of Draco, glancing towards Cassius from time to time. Zabini walked at the other end of the line, keeping a just-right distance from everyone.
The Slytherin common room was underground.
Farley led them through several corridors, down two flights of stairs, and entered the basement level of the Castle. The temperature in the corridor was several degrees lower than upstairs, and the torches hanging on the walls emitted a green light—the color scheme of Slytherin.
In front of a bare stone wall, Farley stopped.
"Remember the password," she said, "Pureblood."
The stone wall slid open silently, revealing an arched entrance.
Cassius walked in.