Dinner time crept up on us quietly.
Not with a bell.
Not with an announcement.
Just with tired arms, warm muscles, and the slow realization that our stomachs had begun to matter more than spell precision.
None of us moved to leave.
Not one.
I noticed it and allowed myself a small inward nod.
I lowered my wand and glanced toward the entrance. "Bebe."
There was a soft pop.
The house-elf appeared instantly, eyes bright, ears twitching.
"Yes, sir?"
"We'll have our dinner here," I said simply. "Would you set it up?"
Her face lit up like I'd just entrusted her with the crown jewels.
"Of course, sir! Right away, sir!"
Another pop—and moments later, the hall changed.
A long wooden table appeared at the edge of the dueling circle, solid and warm-looking, entirely out of place among stone and spellwork. Plates followed, then bowls, then platters—steam rising, scents spilling into the hall: roasted meat, bread still crackling, vegetables glazed in butter, soups rich and hearty.
It was… excessive.
Exactly what eleven-year-olds needed after hours of training.
We collapsed into seats without ceremony.
No ranks.
No pecking order.
No representative, no expectations.
Just children—finally acting like it.
For a few moments, there was only eating.
Then, slowly, conversation returned.
Montague was the first to break the silence, mouth half-full.
"I'm telling you," he said, waving a fork for emphasis, "if they let me on a broom this year, Gryffindor's going to regret it."
Adrian Pucey snorted. "You? Please. You fly like you cast—too much force, no finesse."
Montague bristled. "That's because you've never seen me play Quidditch."
That got Adrian's attention instantly.
"Oh? You play?"
"Chaser," Montague said proudly. "Back home."
Adrian leaned forward, interest blazing. "No way. I've been playing since I could walk. My uncle had me dodging Bludgers before I learned manners."
Nyx glanced up from her plate. "That sounds… unsafe."
"It was character-building," Adrian said solemnly.
Montague laughed. "See? You get it."
Across the table, Selene Rosier listened quietly, while Lyanna Wynthrope rolled her eyes.
"You boys talk about Quidditch like it's religion."
"It is," Adrian replied without missing a beat.
Celia Morcan smiled faintly. "Explains a lot, honestly."
For the first time since we'd entered the hall, laughter echoed—soft, unguarded.
Selene hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of her goblet. Then she spoke, voice quieter than the others.
"I envy you," she admitted.
The table stilled—not abruptly, just enough to listen.
"I wasn't allowed to like things," Selene continued. "Not openly. Everything I did was… curated. Posture. Speech. Even how long I was allowed to laugh."
She gave a small, wry smile. "Being a 'proper lady' mattered more than being happy."
Adrian frowned slightly. "That sounds miserable."
"It was efficient," Selene said. "But lonely."
Montague shifted in his seat. "You're allowed to like things here, you know."
Selene blinked.
He added, awkwardly, "I mean—uh—Just—stuff."
She laughed then—genuine, surprised. "I'll keep that in mind."
The tension that had clung to us earlier—sharp, ideological, heavy with legacy—had thinned to nothing.
For a few fleeting moments, there were no dark families.
No neutral calculations.
No expectations shaped by surnames.
Just eleven-year-olds eating too much, talking too loudly, and discovering each other piece by piece.
Behind us, the duels on the walls continued.
Founders crossed wands.
Students from past centuries clashed, erred, adapted, triumphed.
History moved—unbothered by our laughter, yet somehow enriched by it.
Far above us—
In the Great Hall—
People began to notice.
Slytherin first years were missing.
Not one or two.
Most of them.
Whispers spread between tables.
"Have you seen the Slytherins first years?"
"Did they leave?"
"Where are the first years?"
And deep beneath Hogwarts, in a hall sealed for generations, a different future was being forged—
Not by blood.
Not by fear.
But by shared meals, honest words, and merit earned between blades.
The absence of the Slytherin first years did not remain invisible for long.
At the Slytherin table, seats that should have been occupied remained conspicuously empty. A few students glanced around once, then twice. Whispers followed—quiet, cautious, threaded with speculation.
Cassius Warrington sat among them.
Alone.
No one had told him to move. No one had ordered others away. Yet an empty space seemed to exist around him, as if an unspoken boundary had formed. He stared down at his plate, jaw tight, neither eating nor speaking. Conversations flowed around him and carefully did not include him.
A pariah in green and silver—isolated not by command, but by absence.
At the staff table, the Slytherin Head Boy approached.
Matthew Fawley moved with the unhurried confidence of someone who understood the castle's rhythms. He crossed the Hall and stopped beside Severus Snape, lowering his voice.
"Professor," he said politely, "the first-year Slytherins are absent."
Snape did not look up from his goblet.
"They are training," he replied flatly.
Fawley paused. "Training… where?"
"They will return by curfew," Snape said, tone final.
That was all.
Fawley studied him for half a heartbeat longer, then inclined his head. "Understood, sir."
He returned to his seat without further questions. In Slytherin, answers like that were not incomplete—they were deliberate.
Across the Hall, at the Ravenclaw table, Blake noticed the same thing.
She had been trying—and failing—to focus on Badeea's excited explanation of an obscure enchantment when her eyes drifted toward the green-and-silver section again. Too many empty seats. Too consistent to be coincidence.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her goblet.
She looked toward the staff table.
Snape met her gaze.
For a moment, nothing passed between them.
Then, subtly—so subtly that anyone else would have missed it—he inclined his head once. A precise, controlled gesture.
Don't worry.
Blake exhaled quietly, tension easing just a fraction.
I'll ask him tonight, she decided. During our walk.
With that thought settled, she forced her attention back to the present—but her mind remained firmly elsewhere.
Deep beneath the castle, the dueling hall remained alive.
Torches burned steadily along the walls, their light reflecting off etched stone and ancient runes. On the portraits, duels continued endlessly—spells flaring, blades flashing, strategies unfolding in silent motion.
At the center of it all, the first-year Slytherins sat together around a conjured dining table.
Bebe had outdone herself.
Platters of warm food covered the table—stews, bread, roasted vegetables, simple desserts. Nothing extravagant, but abundant and comforting. The earlier tension of training had softened, replaced by the easy exhaustion of effort well spent.
When the last plate was cleared, Alastair rose.
"Bebe," he called.
The house-elf appeared instantly. "Yes, sir?"
"You can take the table and plates back," he said. "And then bring a few broken items from the Come-and-Go Room."
Bebe gasped softly.
"Sir knows the Come-and-Go Room?"
Alastair met her gaze calmly. "Please."
She hesitated only a second—house-elf instincts warring with surprise—then bowed deeply.
"Bebe will bring them, sir."
With a pop, she vanished.
Alastair turned back to the group.
"You've all gotten the hang of Lumos," he said evenly. "Control is acceptable. Stability is improving."
A few straightened at the measured praise.
"We'll move on to a new spell," he continued. "One you've all seen countless times, even if you haven't cast it properly yet."
At that moment, Bebe reappeared—arms full of broken objects. Cracked cups. Shattered tiles. Snapped wooden pieces. Bent metal.
She set them down carefully and vanished again.
Alastair gestured toward the pile.
"Reparo," he said. "The Mending Charm."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"It's one of the most important charms any witch or wizard should master. Not because it's impressive—but because it teaches precision, patience, and restraint."
He raised his wand.
"Reparo."
A cracked cup drew itself together, fractures sealing as if they had never existed.
"Now," he said, stepping aside, "you try."
Practice resumed.
Some pieces fused unevenly. Others repaired halfway before collapsing again. A few spells failed entirely—but no one mocked, no one rushed.
Correction followed correction.
Gradually, broken things became whole.
Fifteen minutes before curfew, Alastair raised his hand.
"That's enough."
Breathing hard, wands lowered, the first years nodded—tired, satisfied.
I waited until everyone had gathered their things and the lingering echoes of movement had faded from the hall before speaking again.
"Good work today," I said, voice steady, carrying easily through the space. "You didn't embarrass yourselves. That alone puts you ahead of most first years."
A few tired smiles appeared.
"Tomorrow," I continued, "we start preparing for our first lessons on Monday. Potions and Transfiguration."
A few groans surfaced instinctively.
"I assume both will be new to most of you," I added calmly.
There was a brief pause.
Then Selene Rosier spoke, her voice soft but clear enough to carry.
"Actually… I've practiced a few basic potions at home."
My gaze shifted to her.
Not surprise.
Assessment.
"That's good," I said after a moment. "Very good."
She straightened slightly at that.
"Then after you finish your own potion," I continued, "you'll help me guide the others. Not interfere—guide. Observation matters as much as execution."
She nodded immediately. "Yes."
"For our first Potions lesson," I went on, "we'll be brewing the Cure for Boils."
That got their attention.
"But," I added, "not the standard textbook version."
A few exchanged glances.
"We'll be using a modified recipe developed by our Head of House," I said evenly. "More stable. Cleaner reaction. Faster cooling phase."
Montague's eyes widened. "That'll give us an edge."
"It will," I confirmed. "If you don't ruin it by rushing."
A faint smirk passed through the group.
"Which is why," I finished, "you're all going to rest now. No late-night wandering. No experiments. Clear minds matter more than extra hours."
I let my gaze sweep across them one last time.
"We meet again tomorrow after lunch."
No objections.
No complaints.
They understood when to listen.
We left the dueling hall together, the torches dimming behind us as the ancient doors closed once more, portraits settling back into quiet observation.
At the corridor split, the group naturally broke apart.
I watched until they disappeared from sight.
Then I turned the other way.
I still had plans for the night.
Blake.
The twins.
And the hidden passages await.