As soon as I sat at the Gryffindor table, the applause began to fade, but the admiring gazes lingered.
"You're a Gryffindor, aren't you ?" asked a girl with curly brown hair, looking at me as if I were some kind of legendary statue.
"It's an honor to have you with us," added an older boy, probably in his third or fourth year. "Never thought I'd live to see a direct descendant here."
"So… are you like, the grandson of the founder or something ?" asked another, a bit hesitantly.
I smiled, a touch of timidity and politeness in my tone.
"Not exactly a grandson… but yes, I am a descendant of Godric Gryffindor. And I appreciate the warm welcome. I hope to be worthy of the name and the house."
Some nodded, others murmured words of support, and genuine smiles began to appear.
That's when two identical red-haired boys approached the table with mischievous glints in their eyes.
"George, are you seeing this ?" said the one on the left, his tone playfully dramatic.
"I'm seeing it, Fred, and feeling it. It's like we're in the presence of royalty!" replied the one on the right, making an exaggerated, mock bow before me.
"Sir Aurelius, heir of the Lion, would you grant two humble peasants the honor of an introduction ?" said Fred.
"Fred and George Weasley, at your service," George added with a cheeky grin.
I couldn't help it. After all the tension and reverence, this felt like a breath of fresh air. I let out a genuine laugh.
"Pleasure to meet you both… peasants," I replied, playing along.
The whole table burst into laughter. That was it. That was what I needed. Not adoration, not reverence… but friendship.
After the enchanted feast, we were led to the Gryffindor tower. The stone corridors grew narrower as we climbed, until finally, the Fat Lady appeared in her portrait.
"Password ?" she asked, with a dramatic smile.
"Bravery of heart !" replied Percy Weasley, putting on his best prefect demeanor.
The portrait swung open, revealing the common room. It was cozy, with deep red rugs, worn but comfortable armchairs, and the warm glow of flames dancing in the fireplace.
As soon as I entered, everyone began to scatter — some heading to the dorms, others collapsing into armchairs or exploring the space.
But then… something unusual happened.
A golden glow appeared on the side wall of the room. Slowly, the stones shifted, as if responding to an ancient call, and a golden door materialized, perfectly embedded in the architecture of the hall.
Everyone stopped. Silence.
"That… wasn't there before, right ?" asked a third-year student, staring at the door.
"Definitely not," replied Angelina Johnson, frowning.
That's when the air grew slightly colder, and the ghost of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington — Nearly Headless Nick — floated into the room with his usual dramatic air.
"Oh, sweet Merlin," he murmured, eyes widening with surprise. Then he turned to me with a delighted smile.
"So it's true. The heir has returned."
"Sorry… returned what ?" I asked, confused.
Nick smiled, spinning in the air theatrically.
"Each Hogwarts founder created, through ancient magic, a personal chamber within their house's common room. These chambers, however, remain inaccessible and invisible — unless a true descendant once again walks the halls."
"You're saying that… this…?" I began, pointing to the golden door.
"Yes, young Gryffindor. That is Godric's chamber. And now, it belongs to you."
A murmur swept through the common room. Eyes turned to me with curiosity, admiration… and respect.
I stood still for a moment. The weight of the moment was immense, but at the same time… something inside me had always known this was coming.
"I… accept it with gratitude," I said, stepping toward the door. "And I'll honor the name entrusted to me."
The door opened smoothly, revealing a polished stone staircase leading to an upper chamber.
Before entering, I looked back at the others.
"After classes, I can show you. If you're curious."
"We're definitely curious!" exclaimed Fred. "I just hope it has a magical bed that makes itself."
"And a secret stash of candy !" added George.
When I entered the hidden room, the golden door closed behind me with a soft whisper, as if the castle itself were welcoming me. I climbed a short spiral staircase and reached a circular room with reddish stone walls carved with ancient runes. A massive fireplace lit the room with a living, constant flame — despite having no wood.
The room felt frozen in time.
Old books bearing the Gryffindor crest filled sturdy shelves, an enchanted suit of armor stood motionless in the corner, and a four-poster bed with red and gold curtains rose like a throne between ancestral tapestries. At the center rested a sword embedded in a decorative stone — not the legendary Sword of Gryffindor, but an enchanted replica that pulsed softly with light at my touch, recognizing me.
That night, I followed a hidden corridor I discovered thanks to an ancient map tucked beneath the mattress of Godric's bed. It led directly outside the tower. Using a simple Disillusionment Charm, I descended to the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
"Saphira ?" I whispered among the trees.
The darkness stirred.
Then, two large blue pupils opened in the shadows, and Saphira materialized, her form still partially invisible.
'You took your time,' she said in her deep, familiar tone.
I smiled and approached, placing a hand on her glistening scale. 'I can't just go flying across the castle rooftops.'
'You could try. It would be fun to watch.'
She rested her snout against my forehead for a second — a silent gesture of affection.
'The forest is dense, full of strange creatures. But none dare come close when I'm around. I'm safe. And you ?'
'Surprisingly… yes.'
She gave a low rumble. 'You seem more… lively.'
'I think so. Everyone welcomed me kindly. Classes start tomorrow. Will you be able to hunt in the forest ?' I asked.
'Yes. I found a group of deer on the eastern side of the forest. They'll suffice,' she replied in her usual proud tone.
'Good. I think it would be hard to sneak over fifty kilos of meat into the forest without raising suspicion or attracting monsters.'
We talked for a while, enjoying each other's company before I quietly returned to the castle. No one knew about that reunion — and for now, it had to stay that way.
Our class's first lesson was Potions — a subject many older students claimed was unbearable because of the professor. It was time to find out the truth.
The Potions classroom was cold, smelling of bitter herbs and preserved roots. Cauldrons bubbled softly on the tables as students took their seats. I sat alone at the end of a bench, organizing my supplies.
That's when I noticed.
Lucian walked in.
He was surrounded by a small group of Slytherins. Two of them spoke animatedly, clearly trying to impress him. A girl kept asking nonstop questions about his heritage, as if he were some rare artifact in a museum. But he didn't smile. His face was cold, rigid, and his green eyes scanned the room as if searching for something.
Then he saw me.
And in that instant… the ice melted.
A small smile appeared on his lips. Subtle, but genuine. He completely ignored the group around him and walked straight to me, under the stunned stares of his housemates.
The room's noise seemed to halt. Everyone watched as if witnessing the prelude to a titanic clash.
Lucian stopped beside me, eyes gleaming with that familiar playful glint.
"You didn't tell me you were a Gryffindor," he said, with a faint smile.
I held back a laugh. "And you didn't tell me you were a Slytherin."
We were silent for a second, as if the universe itself waited for the impact.
But then… we laughed. Light, sincere, natural.
The room didn't know what to make of it.
Lucian pulled up a chair and sat beside me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"They're going to lose their minds over this," I murmured.
"Let them," he replied, calmly opening his potions book. "They'll have to get used to it."
The Potions room had a heavy, damp air, as if every stone in the walls drained energy from the atmosphere. The smell of boiling ingredients and ground roots clung to the air, and the constant sound of stirring spoons filled the tense silence between students. I was focused, stirring my cauldron with precise, rhythmic movements, when I felt that gaze.
Snape's gaze.
I looked up and found him staring at me with that sharp, analytical… almost predatory look. He stood just a few steps from my bench. Beside me, Lucian kept slicing ingredients, but I could feel the tension in his shoulders — he'd noticed the change in the air too.
Snape narrowed his eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to decipher something between me and Lucian. Perhaps he found it odd seeing us working together — two new students, from different houses, yet cooperating perfectly. But he didn't let it show for long. His mask of coldness returned instantly.
"Mister Gryffindor," he said, voice low and menacing.
I stopped stirring the cauldron and calmly raised my eyes. I knew what was coming.
"What is the primary difference between Valerian root and Mandrake root when used in deep sleep draughts ?"
The room fell silent. Several students glanced at me sideways, clearly expecting me to stumble, or blurt out something absurd. Snape obviously expected the same. The question wasn't simple — it was advanced level, something even older students wouldn't answer easily.
But for me… it was basic.
"Valerian root induces a gradual relaxation of the central nervous system, ideal for potions with slow and prolonged effects. Mandrake root, on the other hand, is extremely potent and unstable. When used in sleep draughts, it causes immediate deep sleep induction but can lead to paralysis if improperly dosed. Moreover, Mandrake must be neutralized with Foxglove essence to prevent respiratory collapse," I answered, looking directly into his eyes.
The silence deepened.
Snape blinked. It was almost imperceptible, but I saw it. He hadn't expected that.
"Hm…" he muttered, turning sharply with a swirl of his robes. "Correct."
Some students whispered, others looked at me like I'd just turned lead into gold. Lucian simply gave a faint smirk, as if he'd expected nothing less.
But Snape wasn't done.
"Very well, Mister Gryffindor," he said, stopping a few steps away. "If you're so well-read, tell me: why is constant heat essential when preparing the Dreamless Sleep Potion, and what happens if the temperature drops during the decanting process ?"
I smiled internally. He wanted to knock me down. But all he was doing… was lifting me up.
"Constant heat maintains the stability of Lavender essence and Mimbulus resin, both of which are volatile at low temperatures. If the temperature drops during decanting, the resin crystallizes and separates from the liquid base, rendering the potion useless and causing agitation as a side effect — the opposite of what's intended," I answered clearly.
This time, Snape said nothing. He just stared at me for a long second. His black eyes seemed to pierce mine, searching for any trace of arrogance or pride. But all he found was certainty.
He turned on his heel and walked to the back of the room. His voice echoed, cold and precise:
"Five points to your house, Mister Gryffindor. At least someone here has read more than the labels on the vials."
I watched Snape being forced to swallow his own venom. Students looked at me in silence — some stunned, others clearly uncomfortable with the idea of someone they couldn't predict.
I simply resumed stirring my cauldron. The day was only beginning.