Slytherin?
Sean's mind reeled, a mix of disbelief and betrayal.
Sorting Hat, are you kidding me?
He'd begged—begged—to avoid Slytherin, and the Hat had seemed to listen. Was its so-called respect for choices reserved for Harry Potter alone?
He wanted to snatch the tattered Hat and demand answers for its double-dealing, but Professor Minerva McGonagall lifted it from his head, her smile tight. Under Severus Snape's cold, hollow stare and the Slytherin table's silent scrutiny, Sean trudged to his new house.
Despair gnawed at him as he sank onto the bench, the green banners above mocking his hopes.
Moments later, Miles Bulstrode swaggered over, his broad frame looming across the table. "Sean," he said, voice low, "if you hand over the artifact now, I might still—"
"I'm in no mood," Sean snapped, eyes flashing. "Keep yapping, and you'll end up like Malfoy."
Miles froze, his retort dying. He snorted, then stalked to join other Slytherins, casting a wary glance back. Sean rubbed his temples, a headache blooming.
Slytherin wasn't the core issue. True, the sorting blindsided him, and navigating its snake pit would be tricky, but Hogwarts was safe enough.
Caution could dodge most trouble. No, the real problem was Slytherin's shadow—its ties to You-Know-Who's followers, the Death Eaters.
For now, things were calm.
But in a few years, as You-Know-Who's influence crept back, Slytherin's pure-blood zealots would stir. When the Dark Lord returned, this house would be a maelstrom, and as a Slytherin, Sean risked being swept in. His dream of coasting through seven quiet years at Hogwarts—studying, dueling, staying low—had crumbled.
To avoid becoming cannon fodder, he needed a plan: build skills, grow strong, protect himself.
The fight with Draco Malfoy and Gregory Goyle flashed to mind. His mysterious magical panel, a gift of his unique power, often rewarded victories with random skills from opponents. Beating Draco and Goyle should've granted something useful. Sean focused, willing the panel to appear in his mind's eye. Glowing text flickered into view.
[Challenge: Draco Malfoy in a duel.]
[Victory achieved. Random ability drawn…]
[Acquired: Pure-Blood Dining Etiquette]
Sean's mouth twitched. Dining etiquette? Useless. He read on.
[Challenge: Gregory Goyle in a duel.]
[Victory achieved. Random ability drawn…]
[Acquired: Wizard Chess Cheating Tactics]
He rolled his eyes so hard they nearly stuck. Cheating at chess? These skills were worse than his cousin's half-baked hexes. Draco, heir to the lofty Malfoys, and Goyle, his lumbering shadow, offered nothing but parlor tricks. Pathetic.
The Sorting Ceremony wrapped up, and McGonagall returned to the staff table.
Albus Dumbledore rose, his voice warm as he began his welcome speech. At that moment, the house hourglasses shimmered.
Forty red gems vanished from Gryffindor's—Harry and Ron's twenty-point penalties each for the brawl. Slytherin's green gems plummeted by one hundred ten: twenty each for Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle, plus Sean's fifty-point bombshell, a record for first-day chaos.
McGonagall, Gryffindor's head, sipped her goblet with a smug glint, clearly relishing Slytherin's worse fate. Snape, Slytherin's brooding overseer, stared at his plate, his usually vacant eyes swirling with regret, anger, and a flicker of disbelief.
His knife screeched against the plate, carving steak with vicious force.
How, he seemed to fume, did a reckless upstart like Sean land in Slytherin?
He'd meant to sink Gryffindor, but his own house took the fall.
Dumbledore's speech ended, and the tables groaned under a sudden feast: roast chicken, pumpkin juice, treacle tarts, and more, conjured in a golden haze. Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor erupted in chatter, students diving into the spread. Slytherin, though, was subdued.
The point loss stung, and their polished demeanor—unlike the other houses' cheerful chaos—held firm. Most Slytherins ate with deliberate grace, a nod to their pure-blood pride, though Crabbe and Goyle shoveled food like starving trolls.
At the Slytherin table's far end, two fifth-year prefects, Samuel and Irina, leaned close, their voices low. Samuel, tall and sharp-featured, hailed from a rising pure-blood family. Irina, with piercing eyes and a knack for charms, came from a smaller lineage but shone with talent.
Both were elite, chosen as prefects for their skill and status.
"Samuel, what about the new first-years?" Irina asked, slicing her chicken with precision.
"Draco Malfoy and Miles Bulstrode stand out," Samuel replied. "Big names, solid roots. Their potential's high, even if we don't know their ceilings yet."
Slytherin's prefects, unlike those of other houses, were picked through a house vote, not just Snape's whim. The process favored wealth, power, or brilliance. Samuel and Irina embodied both, unlike Draco, who'd later coast on his name, or You-Know-Who, whose raw talent had once dazzled.
Irina's fork paused. "That Sean Bulstrode, the one who thrashed Draco—he's a Bulstrode too, right?"
Samuel nodded, sipping pumpkin juice. "Gossip's been swirling. Sean's father, a Squib, was cast out years ago. Married another Squib, had Sean. When Sean's magic sparked, the family took him back—parents too. Old Gideon Bulstrode, the patriarch, dotes on him. Even gave Sean a rare artifact meant for Miles, which ruffled feathers."
Irina frowned, her voice dropping. "Sounds like a setup. A Squib's son, ignored for years, suddenly welcomed when he shows magic? And handed a prized artifact over Miles, the heir? Gideon's playing a game."
Samuel glanced at Miles, chatting smugly nearby, then at Sean, eating with eerily perfect etiquette—likely that useless skill from Draco. "If that's true," he murmured, "Sean's in for a rough ride."
Irina sighed, shaking her head. "He seems impulsive, naive. If he trusts Gideon's 'favor,' he's doomed." She switched topics, dismissing Sean.
To them, he was a curiosity, not worth their time. Miles, the true Bulstrode heir, was the smarter bet for their network-building.
Sean, oblivious to their whispers, stared at his plate.
Slytherin's chill seeped into his bones, but his mind raced. The Hat's betrayal, the point loss, Miles' threat, You-Know-Who's looming shadow—he'd need every ounce of cunning to survive this snake pit.
He felt eyes on him—Slytherins sizing up the troublemaker, other houses gawking at the brawl's instigator—but Sean brushed it off. His goal was clear: stay low, grow strong, fast. Friends? Irrelevant. Power was his priority, not popularity.
He sliced through a piece of roast chicken, its savory aroma mingling with the feast's warmth, and reached for another helping.
Across the Great Hall, at the Gryffindor table, Harry Potter caught his eye. Harry waved, his expression a mix of regret and confusion—likely sorry for the fight's fallout but puzzled by Sean's Slytherin sorting.
Sean offered a faint smile and a nod, then turned back to his plate, eager to avoid attention.
But a small figure plopped down opposite him, plate clattering.
A first-year wizard, with a mop of untidy hair and a bright grin, leaned forward. "I saw you wave at Harry Potter," he said, eyes gleaming. "Are you a fan of his too?"