Professor McGonagall stepped forward the moment the Great Hall doors closed behind us.
Her presence alone was enough to still the crowd.
Straight-backed, tartan robes crisp, expression sharp as a blade honed on discipline itself—she looked exactly as Hogwarts' Deputy Headmistress should. Someone who had seen generations pass through these doors and would see generations more, long after we were gone.
She surveyed us over the rim of her spectacles.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she began, voice clear and precise, carrying easily across the stone walls. "In a few moments, you will be Sorted into your Houses. While you are here, your House will be something like your family within Hogwarts."
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"Your triumphs will earn House points. Any rule-breaking will lose House points. At the end of the year, the House with the most points will be awarded the House Cup."
Her gaze swept the line again, piercing and perceptive.
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place shortly. Until then, I expect you to conduct yourselves with decorum befitting students of this school."
Her eyes flicked—just briefly—in my direction.
I lifted my hand in a small, almost imperceptible wave.
For the barest fraction of a second, her stern expression softened.
She returned a very slight smile.
Then it was gone, replaced by professionalism as she turned on her heel and disappeared back into the Great Hall.
The doors closed.
And just like that, the tension snapped.
The line erupted into murmurs, whispers, half-panicked theories bouncing from student to student.
"I heard you have to duel a prefect."
"No, no—my cousin said they make you answer questions."
"My mum said it judges your blood."
"That's rubbish, it reads your mind!"
Someone insisted it involved potions. Another swore there was a secret written test. The theories grew wilder by the second.
I tuned most of it out.
Blake stood beside me, calm on the surface, though I could feel the faint tension in her posture. She was ready—but that didn't mean she wasn't thinking.
Then—
Impact.
A solid shoulder slammed into my side.
I staggered half a step, more surprised than hurt.
The boy didn't even glance back.
He strode forward as if the space belonged to him, chin lifted, robes already worn with practiced arrogance. Broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, hair neatly combed back—he moved with the confidence of someone used to being deferred to.
Straight toward the Weasleys.
"Oi," he drawled loudly, voice dripping with mockery. "Didn't expect to smell poverty this early."
Fred and George stiffened instantly.
"So this is what happens," the boy continued, sneering, "when they let anyone in. Red hair, hand-me-down robes—honestly, it's embarrassing."
George's hands clenched.
Fred took a step forward.
I moved before fists could fly.
I stepped into the space between them, positioning myself squarely in the boy's path.
"That's enough," I said evenly.
He stopped.
Slowly, deliberately, he looked me up and down.
"And who," he asked, voice cold with disdain, "are you supposed to be?"
"Alastair Salvius–P," I replied calmly.
He blinked.
Once.
Then scoffed.
"Never heard of that family," he said dismissively. "Don't tell me you're a mudblood who thinks he has the right to interfere."
The word hung in the air like poison.
Before I could respond—
"Tarantallegra!"
The spell rang out clear and sharp.
He yelped as his legs jerked violently, his feet launching into an uncontrollable tap dance. His arms flailed as his body betrayed him, shoes slapping loudly against the stone floor in a ridiculous, frantic rhythm.
Laughter burst out around us.
The Weasley twins looked delighted.
His face twisted in fury and humiliation as he spun, hopped, and staggered, utterly powerless to stop it.
Then—
The Great Hall doors burst open.
Professor McGonagall stepped out again.
Silence crashed down instantly.
Her eyes swept the scene—Warrington dancing, students staring, laughter half-choked into coughs.
With a single flick of her wand, the spell ended.
Cassius collapsed in a heap, panting.
Professor McGonagall's gaze was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Follow me" she said crisply.
No one argued.
We filed past her into the Great Hall, the enchanted ceiling glittering overhead like a sky full of stars.
As I passed Blake, I caught her eye.
She gave me a knowing look—one corner of her mouth lifting ever so slightly.
I almost smiled.
The Sorting hadn't even begun yet.
And already, Hogwarts was proving exactly what kind of place it was going to be.
The stool was placed.
The hat was lifted.
And the Sorting began.
"Bole, Lucian."
A dark-haired boy stepped forward, chin lifted, already wearing a look of quiet certainty. The hat took about ten seconds before shouting—
"SLYTHERIN!"
Polite applause followed as Lucian Bole strode to the green-and-silver table, greeted with approving nods.
Professor McGonagall unrolled the parchment again.
Her voice carried clearly.
"Bla—"
She stopped.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Her eyes lifted from the parchment and locked directly onto Blake.
The pause was so subtle that many might have missed it.
I didn't.
Blake met her gaze calmly.
Then—slow, deliberate—she nodded.
Professor McGonagall inhaled quietly and continued.
"Black, Blake."
Silence.
Not the awkward kind.
The absolute kind.
The Great Hall froze as though someone had cast a full-body Petrification Charm on the entire student body.
Whispers died in throats.
Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to dim slightly.
Black.
Even Albus Dumbledore stiffened.
His eyes—sharp, ancient, endlessly observant—widened just a fraction as realization struck. Arcturus Black's sudden return to political life. His movements. His warnings. His presence.
It all made sense now.
Blake walked forward without hesitation.
Her steps were steady.
Her back straight.
Her chin lifted—not arrogantly, but with resolve.
The Sorting Hat slipped down over her eyes.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
The hall waited, breath held.
The hat murmured—quiet, thoughtful, probing.
And then, at last—
"RAVENCLAW!"
The release was audible.
Dumbledore let out a soft, barely perceptible sigh of relief, fingers loosening on the arm of his chair.
Polite applause followed—careful, uncertain, respectful.
Blake removed the hat and walked to the Ravenclaw table, where she was welcomed with curiosity, awe, and more than a few cautious looks.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
The parchment rolled again.
"Davies, Roger — Ravenclaw."
Cheers.
"Diggory, Cedric — Hufflepuff."
Warm applause, several approving nods.
Cedric shot Blake a quick grin before heading to his table.
"Johnson, Angelina — Gryffindor."
The Gryffindor table erupted.
"Montague, Graham — Slytherin."
A sharp smattering of applause.
"Pucey, Adrian — Slytherin."
Adrian inclined his head politely before moving on, eyes flicking once toward Blake in acknowledgment.
Then—
Professor McGonagall stopped again.
This time, the pause was unmistakable.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the parchment.
She looked up.
Straight at me.
I met her gaze and smiled.
Not smug.
Not defiant.
Just… calm.
She exhaled slowly and spoke.
"Salvius–P, Alastair."
This time, the silence was different.
It wasn't shock alone.
It was recognition.
Grief.
Fear.
Respect.
Some faces went pale.
Others hardened.
A few—very few—lit up with something dangerously close to anticipation.
Professor McGonagall's earlier suspicion crystallized into certainty.
At the staff table—
Severus Snape's face betrayed him.
Just for a heartbeat.
Grief flickered across his sharp features—raw, unguarded—before it vanished behind his usual mask of bitterness and control.
Silvanus Kettleburn didn't look at my face at all.
The moment he heard the name, his eyes snapped to my arm.
To Chromis.
The Occamy lifted her head slightly, silver-black scales catching the torchlight as her tongue flicked once.
Kettleburn's breath hitched.
And then—
Albus Dumbledore.
For the first time since I'd entered the hall, he truly looked at me.
Not as a student.
Not as a child.
But as a consequence.
The Salvius family.
The P family.
The deaths that had forced the entire magical world to defy his pleas for restraint.
The moment when mercy had shattered under the weight of reality.
The violent awakening that had changed the course of the war.
And now—
Here stood the product of that legacy.
Two ancient houses.
Merged.
Reborn.
Before Dumbledore could school his expression—
The Sorting Hat didn't even hesitate.
The brim barely brushed my hair before it shouted—
"SLYTHERIN!"
The reaction was explosive.
Gasps.
Whispers.
Sharp intakes of breath.
Some Slytherins looked stunned.
Others—interested.
A few—calculating.
I removed the hat and walked toward the Slytherin table without breaking stride.
Chromis shifted comfortably around my wrist.
I didn't look back.
Behind me, the world had just changed.
Ahead of me—
Hogwarts had no idea what it had just welcomed inside its walls.