Whoosh!
The train hissed to a halt at the station, pale moonlight bathing the Hogwarts platform as young wizards, clad in their robes, disembarked and formed orderly lines. The new students left their trunks on the platform, trusting the upperclassmen to act as porters and haul their belongings to the dormitories. In these bygone days, smartphones with all their modern distractions weren't commonplace in the wizarding world – so the older students wouldn't get any social media clout for their labors.
It was practically a Hogwarts tradition.
As for why Filch wasn't doing it... was someone trying to work the Squib to death? The poor caretaker wouldn't know magic, and lugging so much luggage would be a death sentence, especially now that Harry and Malfoy had inspired a new generation of aspiring Death Eaters, many of whom liked to stash dumbbells in their trunks. Even without magic, a wizard's physical strength could be strained by such burdens.
"This way!"
A familiar voice, a familiar lantern, a familiar towering "giant."
"New students, come this way!"
Hagrid bellowed, his booming voice echoing across the station. His ten-foot height, combined with his wildly waving hand, drew every wizard's attention.
"..."
Harry's eyes clouded over - the scene felt like only yesterday in his mind's eye.
If asked to name the most regrettable thing he'd ever done, he might not be sure. But if asked what the most nostalgic thing he'd ever done was, it would probably be choosing to go with Malfoy that day.
Graduation was breathing down his neck. It felt like he'd only just started at Hogwarts–it had gone so fast.
He snapped out of his reverie as Hagrid greeted him, returning the half-giant's nod with a smile.
"What are you daydreaming about, Scarhead! It's our turn to move the luggage this year!"
Malfoy's voice yanked him back to reality.
"Coming!"
Harry's face fell as he resigned himself to beast-of- burden duty. There was no way around it; the seventh-year wizards were the most magically and physically capable, and they were about to graduate. If they weren't used like draft horses now, it would be too late. Thus, the unenviable task of luggage-lugging usually fell to them.
...
Hogwarts, Great Hall.
As the Sorting Hat announced the last new student's house, "Slytherin!" Behind the Great Hall, two ancient ghosts floated, bearing contrasting expressions.
"Heh heh heh... looks like I won."
The bald, bearded ghost crossed his arms, his upper body tilted close to the head of the other, middle-aged specter.
The Gryffindor ghost, humiliated by Slytherin's arrogance, scoffed. "Hmph, don't get too cocky. The winner is the 'Tom Riddle' House; it just so happens that you share the same last name."
"Hey! You old bastard!"
Salazar Slytherin lunged forward in a rage. "I'll kill you!"
"I'm already dead!"
Godric Gryffindor retorted mockingly. "Come at me if you dare!"
The two founders had been competing to see whose house admitted more new students this year. Tom's presence had undeniably boosted Slytherin's popularity; many young wizards yearned to join, and some Muggle-borns, influenced by their peers, even managed to persuade the Sorting Hat to place them in Slytherin. After all, being Muggle-born didn't entirely preclude entering Slytherin, so long as one possessed the right qualities.
This was, of course, a rarity.
Even so, Slytherin had overwhelmingly triumphed over Gryffindor, boasting nearly 1.5 times as many new students this year.
"..."
The students watched the squabbling ghosts with curiosity. The professors remained helpless; their age was a factor. What right did they, as distant descendants, have to lecture their ancestors?
Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald amusedly discussed who would win the argument. Dumbledore, in particular, felt that his founder--a master duelist and swordsman--possessed a very strong soul... a considerable advantage. Even as the headmaster, he couldn't resist challenging Grindelwald to a duel. Unfortunately, Grindelwald didn't favor Slytherin either; not because of any bizarre soul-related theories, but mainly because the quiet researchers of Slytherin were no match for the battle-obsessed Gryffindors in terms of magical dueling skills.
Seeing the two old fools' irresponsible behavior, Professor Minerva McGonagall coughed twice to regain their attention. "Ahem..."
Her gaze fell upon her own House Founder, and she managed to suppress her anger, maintaining a respectful tone. "Gentlemen, the banquet has not yet begun."
However, the two old devils were too engrossed in their fight, completely ignoring her.
"..."
Professor McGonagall was on the verge of exploding.
Then, a clear, melodious voice cut through the air. "Grandpa Salazar! Grandpa Godric!"
Cassandra Volle, sitting at her seat, frowned slightly, and her beautiful face turned cold, clearly annoyed by the noise.
The two old ghosts froze, though they still smacked their lips resentfully.
"Hmph! Old ghost! You're lucky today!"
"You're talking nonsense! If it weren't for my dear granddaughter speaking up, I would have beaten you to a pulp!"
The two ghosts continued to argue until a cold gaze fell upon them, at which point they could only retreat from the Great Hall, their grumbling fading into the distance.
"..."
The professors' gazes silently fell upon the Slytherin table. Their students held more sway than they did.
Seeing the situation escalating in a strange direction, Dumbledore quickly rose to restore order. "Before the banquet begins, I would like to say a few words."
Before he could speak, the young wizards below began to speculate about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. "Who will it be this year?", "Could it be someone famous?", and "Did anyone see anything in the Daily Prophet?"
"First of all, there are two changes in professorships."
Dumbledore looked at the students with a smug expression. "Heh heh, didn't expect that, did you?"
"Horace Slughorn will be your Potions professor this year."
"And your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year is... Professor Severus Snape!"
---
Chapter 395: Did Snape's Applause Just Last a Year?
In the ensuing silence, Severus Snape rose, masterfully suppressing the smirk that threatened to betray him. Maintaining his air of cool indifference, he surveyed the stunned young wizards, offered a curt nod, and resumed his seat. Following the lead of his good-for-nothing godson, a smattering of applause broke out tentatively.
Snape hardly reacted; he was well aware that he wasn't winning any popularity contests among the students. But then a wave of applause thundered through the hall. He'd forgotten that, save for the uninitiated first-years, almost all the other students were now, in essence, junior Death Eaters. Even if most didn't particularly care for Snape, their "superior" had set the tone; they had to show some respect, didn't they? Besides, in a way, Snape was their superior.
Coming to his senses, Snape's initial surprise quickly faded, replaced by his usual impassivity. However, those with keener eyes, like Albus Dumbledore, could tell that the unprecedentedly enthusiastic applause had clearly pleased the dour professor. He surmised that for the next week—at least three days—he might be a little "gentler" with these fledgling wizards.
Dumbledore's smiling, slightly curved gaze telegraphed exactly the scene he'd hoped to see. Then, after Professor McGonagall restored order, Dumbledore, as in years past, delivered his usual welcome speech. The banquet commenced.
Amidst the clatter of cutlery and joyful chatter, a few startled gasps punctuated the ghosts' usual antics. Draco Malfoy, as always, chewed his food while conversing with Harry Potter, who, though somewhat impatient, remained engaged. Ron Weasley, the "Pangolin," who had thoroughly conquered Gryffindor, was surrounded by his fellow Gryffindor Death Eaters, a chicken leg clutched in each hand, radiating pure contentment. Ginny Weasley approached the Ravenclaw table, curiously peppering Luna Lovegood with questions, which Luna calmly answered, punctuated by Ginny's occasional wide-eyed reactions.
Surprisingly, Hermione Granger herself was seated at the Slytherin table. Hermione and Cassandra Volle sat together, deep in discussion about matters of pressing importance.
As for a Muggle-born wizard sitting at the Slytherin table, wouldn't those little snakes have something to say...?
Who would dare say anything? Hadn't Malfoy made it clear that anyone who bothered Hermione would face the consequences? Besides, strictly speaking, Hermione was practically their "superior." Rank had its privileges; if they wanted to avoid retribution, they'd better mind their manners.
At the teachers' table, Snape stared intently at Harry, as was his habit. Tom Riddle sat beside Dumbledore.
"Old Dumbledore," Tom began, his tone immediately darkening Dumbledore's expression. But Tom didn't seem to notice, or rather, this was the effect he desired. "I'm thinking of asking Harry and the others for a leave of absence."
Tom casually pushed the food around on his plate with his fork, his tone sounding less like a suggestion and more like a declaration. Snape's ears perked up at these words, but his eyes remained fixed on Harry.
"Hmm?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, pursed his lips, and spoke with obvious displeasure. "Where are you planning to whisk these children off to now? Before, at least it didn't interfere with their studies, but now you're not even intending to teach them at all?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Do you really think Harry is still at a student level? They've already mastered everything this school has to offer." Tom put down his fork and glanced at the tall old man beside him. "Besides, I'd believe that argument coming from anyone else, but to say it would affect their studies... you're the last person who'd care about that."
Although Dumbledore was the Headmaster, his approach to student development was somewhat unorthodox. He didn't concern himself with how well a student performed in a particular subject; he preferred to let students learn through experience and hardship. Perhaps this was related to his personal philosophy, just like his disdain for Tom's pursuit of power, and his oft-repeated saying, "Love is the greatest magic."
Unfortunately, this approach didn't work for everyone. For an ordinary wizard, no matter how intense your love, you couldn't physically withstand an Avada Kedavra. Lily's success wasn't just due to her strong emotions, but also to her exceptional abilities and her connection to the magic. After all, magic, no matter how wondrous, didn't appear out of thin air.
However, it couldn't be said that Dumbledore was entirely wrong; emotions and magic were indeed intimately connected.
"However, for how many days?"
Just as Tom expected, Dumbledore wasn't particularly concerned about the leave of absence or skipping class. After all, he himself had skipped classes during his school years; he was a Gryffindor student, after all.
"A year."
"Oh, one..."
???
Dumbledore was certain he wasn't old enough to be deaf. Even so, he couldn't be sure he hadn't misheard. His aged face swiveled towards Tom, the disbelief etched upon his features barely concealed by his waist-length beard.
Aside from Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald, who had been resting his chin on his hand and looking rather bored, straightened up slightly. The other professors did the same; as accomplished wizards, they had all heard the conversation clearly.
"Lord…" Even the usually composed Snape voiced his anxiety. No way? I just secured my coveted position as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and now I'm being told I have to leave before I even sit down?
"It's alright, you don't have to go."
Tom knew what he was thinking, but hearing this only exacerbated Snape's distress. Snape simply slumped back in his chair, his eyes hollow. He had planned to "build bridges" with Harry this year; after all, now that Harry had received his Potions notes, it had been difficult for him to penalize Harry in class. Now, with Defence Against the Dark Arts, although Harry's grades in that subject were passable, Snape was confident he could continue to make things difficult for him. What a pity...
"Tom, what are you lot planning?" Grindelwald, seemingly unable to contain his excitement, interjected, "How about I come along? I'm not as freakish as you, but my strength is adequate, isn't it?"
Tom, finding this amusing, was about to agree.
Dumbledore glared at Grindelwald, then composed himself and turned back, his voice filled with concern. "Tom, why did you just say..."
"No, I misspoke. It wasn't a year."
Dumbledore visibly relaxed.
"You'll still be back for the N.E.W.T.s."
"..."
---