After Ivan returned to the line of first-years, his mind was still dazed. He looked around; the Great Hall was still ablaze with light, students murmuring about the strange event they had just witnessed. He could feel those curious or wary stares, like invisible needles pricking lightly between his shoulder blades.
Ivan didn't care. His thoughts drifted uncontrollably back to Kongshan Daoist Temple, the place where he'd spent his childhood.
Ivan had been abandoned at birth. A middle-aged man found him while playing mahjong; because he kept winning with the "one-man" tile all night, the baby was named Ivan.
When Ivan was five, the man died. The man's relatives, convinced Ivan was a jinx, dumped him at Kongshan Daoist Temple. Ivan wailed in terror, and when he was too tired to cry anymore, he slept in a corner.
In a dream, an immortal-looking old man forced him to kowtow and call him Ancestor Master. In this way Ivan became the sole successor of Kongshan Daoist Temple.
At eleven, Ivan mastered Palm Thunder, the most profound Daoist art. One bolt of lightning from his hand collapsed the already ramshackle temple. With no choice, he set out for the big city carrying the only token of Kongshan: a ring made from Ancestor Master's ashes. He had only stepped through a small grove when he appeared in this weird place, his body turned into some kid named Ivan Halls. Fortunately, Ancestor Master was still with him.
So remember: don't just stroll into any small grove—it's dangerous. Small groves are basically the cradle of life.
As the only child in the village who ate from a hundred households, Ivan, under the influence of the other kids, understood this whole transmigration business.
The only pity was his original body. According to Ancestor Master, it had been a natural Daoist body, impervious to all spells. Ivan never noticed anything special—when dogs bit him, it still hurt.
A moment later, Dumbledore entered through a side door, carrying the Sorting Hat, now restored to its original shape. The brim trembled slightly, as if protesting in silence.
"The Sorting will continue," Dumbledore said, his voice calm and commanding, brooking no argument. He set the Hat on the stool; its mouth stayed shut, no longer chattering away. Clearly, the Hat was depressed.
Professor McGonagall nodded and resumed calling names. One by one the first-years stepped forward, donned the Hat, and were assigned their houses. Ivan stood at the very end.
"Ivan Efferi, step forward," Professor McGonagall called, cutting through his thoughts. Ivan drew a deep breath and walked up, feet heavy as though treading on invisible pressure.
Dumbledore stood to one side, watching him with deep-set eyes. Ivan reached the stool and glanced at the Sorting Hat; its brim quivered, reluctant. Without hesitation he lifted it onto his head. The instant the brim touched his hair it muttered, "Oh, not again."
Ivan raised an eyebrow. Before he could speak, the Hat rattled off, "Slytherin! Slytherin! No doubt about it!" Before the words finished it flew from his head as though fleeing something terrifying, its brim shaking violently and emitting a faint "Help!"
The hall fell silent; every eye fixed on Ivan. Dumbledore cleared his throat softly: "Ivan Efferi, Slytherin." His voice was steady, but his eyes held a thoughtful gleam.
Ivan turned. He had no idea where Slytherin was. A group of Little Wizards in deep-green robes, silver serpents embroidered at collars and cuffs, waved him over. He walked toward their table. Slytherins regarded him curiously; a few looked wary. Ivan ignored them, found an empty bench, and sat.
"Welcome to Slytherin," the boy beside him murmured. "Slytherin will help you reach the pinnacle."
What a cringe-worthy slogan. Even Second Dog back in the village wouldn't shout something that lame. Ivan turned to see who was so creative. A golden pompadour filled his vision.
Huh, Brother Fa?—no, Brother Fa's hair is black.
Ivan gave him a glance. "Thanks."
Presumably memories that came with the body; Ivan looked at these tadpole-like letters and found them familiar, able to speak them without difficulty. No risk of being found out.
The pompadour boy, Malfoy, stared at Ivan in displeasure. "Are you pure-blood?"
"Pure-blood? What's that?" Ivan didn't understand the term.
Blood is all pure, isn't it? Did people here have clots in their veins?
"You don't know? Then you're half-blood?" Malfoy's face grew darker.
Ivan shook his head. "I'm type B."
He was sure of that. When he'd fought Second Dog's family dog and got bitten, the village medic had tested his blood.
"Are you mocking me, Mudblood?" Malfoy exploded, loud enough for every nearby Slytherin to hear. They turned, incredulous. Ivan didn't know what "Mudblood" meant, but from their expressions it clearly wasn't a compliment.