A lady, tall with a gentle yet commanding presence, stepped forward. She had long auburn hair that cascaded down her back and a serene expression on her face. Her robes shimmered in the dim light, and her voice reached every ear, no matter how far they were from her.
"Hogwarts welcomes its new generation into its halls. May Mother Earth be with you always, and may you have successful years as pupils in the great halls of Hogwarts. Welcome, young wizards and witches."
Sirius stood tall, a soft smile on his lips, though he could sense that many of the other first years were unsure what to do. They stared at him and a few others who, like him, had been raised with certain traditions. The words of the greeting felt familiar, and without hesitation, he joined in with a few others.
"Thank you for the kind welcome Professor. May Mother Magic bless you."
A ripple of confused stares passed through the crowd. Many students looked around, wondering if they were supposed to respond in kind. Sirius could sense their hesitation, but he didn't mind. This greeting, taught to him by his mother, had always been a part of their life—used to greet new people and situations with respect. It was something that felt natural to him, though here, it was certainly met with mixed reactions.
The lady smiled kindly, clearly understanding the momentary confusion. She gave a nod and continued. "I am Eupraxia Mole, Deputy Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Finally, I welcome you all to this sacred place of learning. Please follow me in two lines. Madam Oplye and Mister Alton, please guide the pupils in maintaining decorum."
Sirius glanced around as they were ushered into two neat lines. He caught sight of his friends—Burton and Cloyd—who were still chatting eagerly about the sorting. They were clearly excited, though both kept sneaking glances at the magnificent hall.
Sirius took a deep breath as they began moving forward, feeling the anticipation building. The massive hall stretched out before them, eight long parallel tables gleaming in the light of floating candles. They were guided to benches in front of the tables, where they were instructed to sit in preparation for the Sorting Ceremony. Although the benches looked hard and uncomfortable, Sirius quickly discovered that a simple charm made them soft and welcoming.
As the group settled, Sirius found himself marveling at the sight of the long teachers' table ahead of them. There were many chairs—some simple, some adorned in bright colors, and others unique, like the two purple chairs that seemed to stand apart from the rest. At the center of the second platform just below the teachers table, a three-legged stool sat, topped with an old, tattered purple hat that was clearly the famed Sorting Hat. He could almost feel it watching him, awaiting its turn to work its magic.
Professor Mole stepped aside, taking her place at one of the purple chairs. The air seemed to grow even heavier with anticipation as Headmaster Dexter Fortescue, a tall and dignified man, stood and moved to the front of the room. His presence was enough to silence the chatter instantly. The hall became still, and the flickering lights seemed to dim in reverence.
"Welcome, pupils—old and new—to the sacred halls of our beloved Hogwarts. We hope everyone had a good time during the break from studies, and that our new pupils are equally as enthusiastic to begin their journey."
A murmur of appreciation rippled through the hall, and the Headmaster paused, his gaze sweeping across the students.
"We have 152 new members joining us this year, and we hope they have the best time here, with students and teachers old and new. We also bid farewell to 102 young aspiring adults last year who joined us at your age, and they accomplished great things, making their futures bright. We wish the same—and more—for each of you."
At his words, applause erupted from both the students and faculty. The warm sound filled the Great Hall like a wave, and Sirius couldn't help but smile at the thought of all the potential that lay ahead of them.
"And yes," Headmaster Fortescue continued with a slight twinkle in his eye, "many of you are waiting for the marvelous food our little helpers have prepared for us. But before that, dear first years, please wait for your respective sorting call. Then, Gryffindors, move to red and gold if bravery is your trait. Hufflepuffs, move to yellow and coal if hard work soothes your soul. Ravenclaws, move to blue and bronze if being wise is your goal. And lastly, noble Slytherins, move to green and silver if achieving your ambitions is your ultimate resolve."
The Sorting Hat, which had been silent until now, suddenly stirred to life. It opened its brim and began to sing, its voice echoing throughout the hall, warm and wise yet slightly mischievous.
"Oh, one might not label me beautiful,
For I'm no mundane cloth!
A dull face, a patch on the left,
A rip on the brim, but a piece of craft!
Look beyond the surface for a few olden facts,
Don't be surprised, poise your act!
For I've got more brains and wit,
Than any other hat you will ever meet!
I live to sort, to sing and shout,
Where you belong at the beginning of your life!
Should you be in Gryffindor?
Where lie those brave at heart?
Should you be in Ravenclaw?
Where dwell the bright and smart?
Should you be in Hufflepuff?
Where belong the just and fair?
Or should you be in Slytherin?
Where guile and ambition are a pair?
Young lassies and frightened lads,
Do come forward and never fret!
For there is nothing I haven't seen,
Nothing I haven't heard!
So waste not a moment now!
Let me adorn your brow,
And tell you of who you're worthy for,
I am a Hat of literature,
Made to decide your adventures!"
The song ended with a flourish, and applause rang through the hall. The magic of the Sorting Hat was undeniable, and a wave of excitement passed over the students. Headmaster Fortescue clapped his hands twice and said with a warm smile, "Begin."
At his signal, Deputy Headmistress Mole stood, a floor length scroll in hand, and began calling names. Sirius, his heart racing, sat with his friends, ready for his turn. There was no rhyme or rhythm to the order of the names being called, and as the first name rang out, the Sorting Ceremony began.
Sirius was called after five Lions, six Badgers, five Ravens, and four Snakes had already been sorted. He was the twenty-first student to be called—coincidentally, the same as his birth date. But with 152 students in total, it was nothing more than that: a coincidence.
He stepped forward and placed the Sorting Hat gently on his head. The moment it settled, a voice echoed in his mind.
"Ambitions sky high, cunning to achieve them… not afraid of hard work, and you value intelligence even more than some who dwell where wit is prized. Proud of your heritage, yet brave enough to stand against parts of it. Hmm… quite the mix. So tell me, young mage, where do you wish to make your fortunes?"
In his mind, Sirius answered firmly: "Slytherin."
Without hesitation, the Hat cried aloud, "Slytherin!"
Sirius removed the Hat, handed it back to Madam Mole, and made his way toward the long table draped in green and silver. Four newly sorted Slytherins were already seated there. Some were sampling the light snacks arranged in silver trays down the center of the table, but most eyes in the Great Hall were still fixed on the Sorting. As each new student was announced, the upper years clapped courteously, welcoming them into their respective Houses.
As Sirius took his seat, he glanced at his watch again—an old habit, one that had lain dormant since his last life but now seemed to be returning. It was 7:10 PM. At the pace the Sorting was going, it seemed likely to conclude a little after 8 o'clock. The enchanted list in Madam Mole's hands continued to unfurl smoothly, each name rising toward her as if guided by an invisible breeze.
Sirius had barely settled onto the green-bannered bench when he heard the next name called aloud in the hall.
"Flint, Burton."
Burton, tall for his age with an easy confidence in his stride, marched up to the stool without hesitation. He gave Sirius a quick grin before slipping the Sorting Hat onto his head. The hat paused for only a few seconds before shouting—
"Slytherin!"
Burton tossed the hat back to Madam Mole with a casual flick of his wrist and made his way down to the Slytherin table, sliding onto the bench beside Sirius.
"Not bad company," Burton muttered with a smirk, eyeing the green decor. "Suppose we're stuck together now."
Sirius returned the smirk, "Weren't we always?"
Next came a name that Sirius knew would be interesting.
"Prewett, Cloyd."
Cloyd, sandy-haired and slightly round-faced, looked less confident than Burton but still walked steadily toward the stool. He threw one last uncertain look over his shoulder—partly to Sirius, partly to no one in particular—before placing the hat over his head.
There was a pause, longer than most.
"Slytherin!"
Cloyd yanked the hat off and let out a small breath of relief before descending the steps quickly, shooting Sirius and Burton a quick grin as he joined them.
"Told you I'd make it," he whispered, sliding into place. "Hat didn't think I had it in me."
"You're a Prewett," Burton replied, clapping him on the back. "No one ever does—until you surprise them."
Sirius smiled faintly at that, warmed by the company of his friends. In the sea of unfamiliar faces, the fact that they were now together in the same house, at the start of this new chapter, gave him a quiet sense of comfort—and confidence.
From the high table, the Sorting continued. Names were called, cheers rang out, and the new house tables slowly filled with students, each beginning their journey in the magical world of Hogwarts.
By the time the last student was sorted—one Zeller, Maribelle to Hufflepuff—the hall echoed with applause. A few older students whooped and clapped extra loudly, clearly signaling the end of a long ceremony.
By 8:12, the Sorting came to an end. The distribution had settled at thirty-seven Gryffindors, forty Hufflepuffs, thirty-nine Ravenclaws, and thirty-six Slytherins. With everyone still wearing identical pointy hats, it was impossible to guess the boy-to-girl ratio just yet.
Headmaster Fortescue stood once more, his voice carrying easily across the Great Hall.
"We would save more lectures for tomorrow. Now, food is ready for us by the blessings of Mother Magic. Savor it."
And with a clap of his hands, the tables filled with food—platters of roast meats, bowls of golden potatoes, thick gravies, fresh bread, glistening vegetables, and warm pies of every variety.
At the Slytherin table, Sirius leaned back and allowed the rich scent to flood his senses. Burton was already piling his plate; Cloyd, still looking faintly stunned, blinked at the sudden feast.
Dinner began promptly at 8:15 PM—a late start, perhaps, but no one was complaining.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Sirius said with a crooked grin, lifting his goblet.
"To seven years of mischief," Burton added, clinking his cup to Sirius's.
"And surviving them," Cloyd said with mock-seriousness, raising his own.
They dug in, three boys beneath a green banner, the newest generation of Slytherins—together
The Great Hall buzzed with conversation and clinking cutlery as dinner unfolded. The newly sorted Slytherins sat grouped at one end of the long green-bannnered table, surrounded by older students who watched them with varying degrees of curiosity, indifference, or subtle appraisal.
Sirius Rigel Black, seated beside Burton Flint and Cloyd Prewett, found himself easing into the rhythm of Hogwarts faster than he'd expected. The three boys chatted between bites, plates piled with roast meats, soft bread rolls, and thick gravy-soaked vegetables.
Burton, mouth half-full, nudged Sirius lightly. "Not bad for school food, eh?"
Cloyd snorted as he helped himself to a second helping of mashed turnip. "You didn't see the way that roast duck tried to fly off the platter when I poked it."
"Probably a welcome charm gone wrong," Sirius replied with a slight grin. "Or a house-elf having fun."
Around them, the rest of their housemates were engaged in similar conversations. Many of the first-years were introducing themselves—some shyly, others with the polished airs of practiced courtesy. A few seemed to be copying the etiquette of their peers, watching how to hold cutlery or when to speak.
Sirius sat back slightly, trying to keep track of the names around him. It was difficult with the chatter overlapping and his head beginning to throb mildly. Still, he nodded politely where expected and murmured pleasantries when prompted.
Eventually, a boy seated directly opposite to Sirius leaned forward, his voice smooth and clipped.
"Greetings. I am Felix of House Nott. And you are…?"
Sirius turned to meet the boy's gaze, noting the finely cut green-trimmed robes and a posture that screamed pedigree. He replied with a practiced nod, "Greetings, Felix Nott. I'm Sirius Rigel of the House of Black."
That earned him a few sidelong glances from nearby students. His name, evidently, had some weight.
Felix arched a brow, faint recognition dawning and said in a slight edgy tone. "Ah. I saw you at the Yule Ball, didn't I?"
"I apologize," Sirius said coolly, suppressing the urge to rub his temples. "I was occupied that evening. Still, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
His smile was polite—just enough to pass for genuine. Felix accepted it with a slight incline of his head.
With that, more students began introducing themselves. One by one, Sirius committed their names to memory: a tall girl named Calpurnia Mulciber, who spoke like every word was a decree; Cassian Rosier, soft-spoken but watchful; a lean boy named Arlo Vaisey, who said little but gave Burton a firm nod of approval after hearing his name.
Some students, however, kept their circles tight. Sirius noticed a few muggleborns and half-bloods being pointedly excluded from conversations by certain older students—not all, but enough to be noticeable. It was subtle: a conversation turned aside, a glance passed over. Sirius didn't like it. But he wasn't about to let that stop him. He greeted each person who approached with the same calm courtesy, regardless of lineage.
Soon enough, he was eating and conversing in equal measure. Burton kept things light with clever quips about the ceiling charm—"reckon it's programmed to make the sky more dramatic"—while Cloyd launched into an impassioned defense of the Black Lake being filled with sea monsters. "I read it in Wand & Waterways! It's a cursed trench!"
Desserts replaced the main course as the hour wore on. The steaming platters vanished without warning, replaced by dishes of fruit, tarts, chocolate mousse, and a creamy strawberry pudding that Sirius allowed himself to try. It was lighter than he expected, the perfect close to the meal.
By the time the clock struck nine, the food vanished from the tables entirely, leaving gleaming plates and spotless goblets behind. Conversations had quieted. Across the hall, students leaned back in their seats, full and content.
From the Slytherin table, two prefects stood and called for the first-years. A tall, sharp-eyed girl and a dark-haired boy with a captain's confidence stepped forward.
"All first-years, line up behind us, please," she called. "Two lines."
As they stood and began forming into neat rows, Sirius glanced at Burton and Cloyd. They were still grinning, clearly enjoying the chaos of it all. Behind them, two more prefects began a headcount, murmuring quietly as they tallied the group.
The rest of the hall stirred at a more relaxed pace—older students stretching, joking, and exchanging stories from their summer holidays. As the new Slytherins began to move, swept along by the crowd, Sirius quickly lost track of where they were heading. Too many students, too many shifting bodies.
The group of first-year Slytherins arrived at a grand portrait two staircases below the ground floor. The painting depicted a regal-looking couple, robed in elegant silver and green. Their eyes, sharp and knowing, followed the students with lifelike curiosity.
A male prefect stepped forward and addressed them clearly, his voice echoing slightly in the stone corridor.
"This is one of the entrances to the Slytherin House common room. It operates on a verbal password, which changes monthly. The password for September is 'Secrets are Sacred.'"
He gestured to the moving figures inside the portrait as he continued. "Lord and Lady Silvian will only permit entry if the password is spoken correctly."
"Very well said, young man," said Lady Silvian from the portrait, nodding approvingly. With a graceful motion, she and her companion stepped aside within the frame, and the portrait swung open, revealing a wide, well-lit dungeon corridor draped with colorful tapestries.
The prefect began walking forward again. "These tapestries mark the other ten known entrances into our common room. They connect to hidden staircases scattered throughout the castle. You'll learn more about them over the next few years."
The students followed the prefect deeper into the corridor and emerged into the heart of the Slytherin common room. It was a vast, multi-leveled chamber carved into the foundation of the castle. Warmth radiated from several fireplaces, their golden glow dancing across walls draped in shades of green, grey, silver, black, and white. Large glass panes offered a mysterious view into the depths of the Black Lake, where flickers of aquatic life glided past like phantoms in the dark.
The room was both majestic and comfortable. Couches, armchairs, and benches were arranged in loose patterns across the floor, each paired with low tables and writing desks. Silver curtains partially concealed alcoves tucked into the walls, offering privacy or quiet for reading or reflection. Winding staircases led to upper and lower levels, and balconies hung with ivy and bookcases peeked out from above. The vaulted ceiling bore a painted mural, a vivid tale of ancient Slytherin victories and legends, bathed in firelight from the hearths.
Students milled about the space—some climbing stairs, others gathering in clusters on the plush furniture. The new first-years were directed into a semicircle around a group of older students waiting to address them.
A tall, confident seventh-year boy stepped forward. "I am Markus Flintstone, seventh-year prefect," he announced. "With me are your house prefects and student council."
He gestured down the line as he introduced each by name and year: "Gemina Markeley, also seventh-year. Louis Rowle and Alie Littcott, sixth-year. Samuel Ericstone and Christabell Yaxley, fifth-year. Walter Orpington, Humfrey Ogden, Elseth Crabbe, and Allison Harriswool, fourth-year. Gabriel Flame, Helen Scrimgeour, Joanne Chapman, and Sussane Bones from third-year. Edwin Perris, Madilon Hopkirk, Barnebye Prince, and Beatrix Rosier from second-year, And finally four among you will be chosen to represent first-years after the end of first month based on your performance."
"These twenty two form the student council of the Noble House of Slytherin," Mark Flint continued. "If you face conflict—whether within our house or beyond—report it to one of us."
He gave them all a measured look before continuing. "Girls' accommodations are upstairs to the left side of the common room. Boys' accommodations are downstairs, also to the left. Follow your assigned council guide to your dormitories. Be ready at 7:30 A.M. for further instructions."
With that, the first-years were divided and guided away to their respective sleeping quarters, still murmuring among themselves in hushed tones about the grandeur of their new home.
The corridors echoed with the shuffling feet and muffled voices of over a hundred students moving together.
But Sirius didn't mind. He was in good company. He had friends beside him, a house behind him, and ahead—an entire castle to explore.
Just two floors below the main common room, the procession of first-year Slytherin boys arrived at a spacious, dimly lit chamber that mirrored the grandeur above. Arched ceilings, flickering fireplaces, and the familiar interplay of silver and green lent a continuity to the space. Though quieter than the common room, it still buzzed with life. Older students drifted through the area—some carrying towels as they made their way to or from the nearby baths, others laughing in hushed voices, deep in whispered conversation as they leaned against doorframes or perched casually on staircases.
The walls were lined with doors bearing polished silver plaques, some already glowing faintly in the low light. Balconies overlooked the room from the floor above, offering glimpses of additional seating nooks and bookcases. Several hallways extended inwards, weaving deeper into the dungeons. The scent of damp stone, faintly tinged with soap and firewood, lingered in the air.
"Alright, gather 'round," came a voice from the front.
Two fourth-year students stepped forward. One was tall and thin, with short-clipped straw-blond hair and sharp eyes: Walter Orpington. The other was shorter but broader, his nose slightly crooked as if it had once been broken and never quite healed right: Humfrey Ogden.
Walter scanned the group like he was appraising a set of items in a shop window. "Let's not drag this out. You'll be assigned rooms—don't argue, don't whine. If you're unsure of anything, ask me or Ogden here. Otherwise, follow instructions, mind your tone, and you'll get through your first week just fine."
Ogden gave a grunt of agreement. "And keep it down. Some of the upper-years have early rotations. Don't be the reason they hex you before breakfast."
Sirius stood near the front, flanked by Burton Flint and Cloyd Prewett. A few others clustered near them—Felix Nott, a boy named Carrow, and several others whose names Sirius hadn't memorized yet. Toward the back of the group stood six boys—two with the faint air of unease around them. Sirius recognized one of them from earlier: Henry Pilch, a Muggleborn. Another, Wesley Moore, looked similarly out of place, glancing subtly at the tapestries and portraits with a mixture of awe and tension.
"Black, Sirius Rigel," Walter called.
Sirius stepped forward.
"Single or shared?" Ogden asked, quieter this time, voice barely above the crackle of the nearest fire.
"Single," Sirius replied evenly, aware of several ears perking at the response.
Ogden nodded without comment and made a quick note. "Room 1. Down the left corridor. First on the right. Name's already on the plaque."
Sirius gave a short nod and stepped back.
"Flint, Burton. Prewett, Cloyd."
The two boys walked forward together.
"Twin-share?" Walter asked, already assuming.
"Together," Cloyd said, a little too quickly.
Walter smirked.
Cloyd bristled but didn't respond. Ogden just scratched the name on his list and pointed. "Room 3. Opposite end of Black's hall. Don't break anything."
As Sirius returned to his seat, he noticed Felix Nott step forward next.
"Nott," Ogden muttered. "Double. With Carrow."
Carrow looked smugly pleased, as if being paired with Nott was a personal victory. The two were assigned a room across from Flint and Prewett.
As the sorting continued, the list became less subtle. When it came to names like Henry Pilch, Wesley Moore, or the half-blood boys—Andrew Roper, Callum Fiske, Benji Dorn, and Tomas Meade—no choices were offered.
"Six-share. Room 8," Walter announced flatly, without even asking preferences. The largest dormitory, tucked into a far corner of the lower floor, practically in the shadows. "Don't make a mess. Don't touch anyone's trunk but your own. And if something goes missing, we assume the worst."
A flicker of discomfort crossed Henry's face. Tomas Meade clenched his jaw but said nothing. The rest followed, subdued. None of the noble boys were assigned to that room.
Sirius watched this exchange with a tightening in his chest. No words were spoken outright, but the message was clear. Discrimination in Slytherin didn't always shout—it whispered, it shifted, it assigned.
The sorting finished shortly after, and the fourth-years offered no additional guidance beyond vague gestures toward the bathrooms and the location of their rooms.
As the new first-years began drifting toward their chambers, the ambient life of the House continued around them. A sixth-year boy in green-striped pyjamas stepped out of a nearby door, yawning and levitating a book toward the armchair by the fire. Two second-years giggled as they raced up the stairs to fetch something forgotten. An older girl leaned over a railing on the balcony above, deep in conversation with a seventh-year prefect, both of them sipping tea from conjured mugs.
Sirius lingered a moment, waiting for Burton and Cloyd to catch up. When they passed, he clapped Cloyd lightly on the shoulder. "Settle in well. I'll see you both tomorrow."
"You got the single, didn't you?" Burton asked with a half-smile.
Sirius raised an eyebrow but kept his voice mild. "Would you expect anything else?"
Cloyd snorted softly. "I suppose not. Good night, Sirius."
"Good night."
He turned down the corridor Ogden had pointed out, and soon came to a door bearing his full name:Sirius Rigel Black – 1st Year.
He stepped inside and closed it softly behind him.
The room was quiet. Private. His.
A large four-poster bed stood proudly in the center, its curtains done in green and silver damask. A study desk with clean parchment and fresh ink waited by the window. A small fireplace glowed gently, casting soft gold onto the stone walls. Two armchairs sat beside it, framing a low table. The cupboards stood empty, waiting. The bookcase, bare but full of promise.
Sirius stepped to the small, round submarine-style window and looked out into the black lake, where shadows of strange fish flickered by like ghosts. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
It wasn't home—not yet. But it was his. And in Slytherin House, that was already a kind of power.