Draco's bravado wilted under that piercing stare, like a mouse caught in the gaze of a hawk circling above, ready to swoop down and strike.
"Humph, don't think being some Youth Wizard Representative makes you a big deal!" Draco swallowed hard, his voice shaky, his face pale, his tough talk betraying his nerves. "Mudbloods like you will get what's coming to you one day!"
He spat out the threat but instinctively took a half-step back.
"Expelliarmus!"
Dylan's voice cut through the air, and a blinding beam of holy light shot toward Draco.
Dylan's magical strength was immense—maybe not quite on par with Dumbledore, but close. Even though he held back, the spell's speed was lightning-fast, carrying a forceful punch.
Draco didn't even have time to raise his wand in defense. The light hit his chest, and a massive force sent him flying backward like a kite with its string cut.
Expelliarmus was supposed to disarm, but Draco went sailing through the air.
Thud!
He slammed into the corridor wall outside the compartment and slid to the floor. Crabbe and Goyle, slow to react, were caught in the spell's aftershock, stumbling and crashing onto Draco in a heap.
"Get up! Move it!" Draco scrambled to his feet, licking his pale lips, his face twisted in humiliation and pain.
Crabbe and Goyle hurriedly stood, each grabbing an arm to steady him.
He glared venomously at Dylan, Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the compartment. "You'll pay for this! My father won't let you get away with it!"
His voice trembled with rage and pain as he threw out the threat. Without another word, he turned and fled down the corridor with Crabbe and Goyle, his retreating figure radiating embarrassment.
Ron watched them disappear, shivering slightly and rubbing his arm. "What's gotten into him today? Coming over here to pick a fight like that?"
Harry nodded, puzzled. "Yeah, for three years, he's never dared act up when Dylan's around, no matter how much he wanted to cause trouble. Today, he just waltzes in and goes straight for Dylan? Has he lost it?"
Both found Draco's behavior bizarre, completely out of character for his usual bully-the-weak, avoid-the-strong attitude.
Dylan, though, didn't pay much mind to Draco's insults. He sat back, lost in thought, trying to figure out what had sparked Draco's unusual boldness.
Draco had grown up steeped in Slytherin's environment, raised on the Malfoy family's "pure-blood supremacy" mantra. He'd always looked down on Muggle-born wizards. But even at his most arrogant, he knew better than to pick fights with someone clearly stronger than him.
Could the chaos after the Quidditch World Cup have affected him? Or… had Lucius already met with Voldemort?
Dylan's mind started piecing things together. If Lucius had recommitted to Voldemort, he might've let something slip to Draco, giving him the confidence that the Malfoy family had a powerful backer again. That would explain Draco's newfound bravado, thinking he could throw his weight around with his father's support.
A faint smile crept onto Dylan's face.
It seemed Voldemort's forces were stirring in the shadows, and even the Malfoys were making moves. The days ahead might not be peaceful for others.
But for Dylan? This was just a goldmine of resources and test subjects.
---
The Hogwarts Express slowed, the clatter of wheels on tracks softening. With a long, deep whistle, the train came to a smooth stop at Hogsmeade Station.
Outside, heavy rain pelted the windows, the sky blanketed by thick, dark clouds. Occasional flashes of silver lightning briefly lit up the dim platform.
Students who'd disembarked early, caught without rain gear, were soaked through, their uniforms clinging to their skin, hair dripping as they hugged their bags and dashed for cover under the station's eaves.
Dylan stood, stepped to the compartment door, and raised his wand above his head and those of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Impedimenta!"
An invisible barrier formed, moving with them as they walked. Rain hit the shield and slid off, leaving their clothes bone-dry.
He then pointed his wand at the ground. The muddy, footprint-riddled path hardened under his spell, transforming into smooth, slate-gray stone in seconds. Though still slick with rain, it no longer threatened to cake their shoes in mud. Students stepping onto the path behind them grinned in surprise and relief.
Outside the station, Thestral-drawn carriages waited.
Dylan eyed the skeletal creatures, their sparse black feathers and withered wings giving them an eerie, mystical aura. He recalled collecting dozens of vials of their blood in the Forbidden Forest. The silvery-gray blood, thicker than most animals', held a life force nearly as potent as a vampire's—prime potion material.
Smiling faintly, he noted he'd nearly used up his stash. Looked like a few more trips to the Forest to "borrow" from these loyal creatures were in order.
The carriages rolled through the rain, and soon, Hogwarts Castle's massive silhouette loomed ahead, its black towers piercing the clouds, warm yellow light spilling from its windows.
Dylan stepped off the carriage and hurried through the castle's entrance with the other drenched students, who looked like drowned rats.
In the Entrance Hall, Dumbledore stood nearby. With a casual flick of his wand, he conjured a faint blue portal at the Great Hall's entrance. As students passed through, their soaked clothes dried instantly, hair fluffing back to normal. It was as if ten pounds of rainwater vanished in a heartbeat.
Inside the Great Hall, the staff sat at the high table. Snape, in his signature black robes, looked sour enough to curdle milk, his brow furrowed in obvious discontent.
He'd been passed over again for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, his long-time obsession, and it clearly stung.
"Damn that old bee!" Snape muttered under his breath, his knuckles white as he gripped his hands beneath the table. "He'd rather give the job to an outsider than me!"
Dumbledore, the "old bee" in question, sat at the center of the staff table, his white beard slightly curled, smiling warmly at the bustling students, oblivious to—or ignoring—Snape's grumbling. He was used to Snape's fixation by now.
The real Alastor Moody wasn't in his usual staff seat but perched on a high wooden table at the front of the hall. His scarred face, one gash running from forehead to chin, looked particularly menacing. His magical eye swiveled in its socket, its silver iris catching the candlelight as it scanned every corner of the hall, missing nothing—not even the students hiding in the back.
The students noticed. Many shrank back, intimidated. A few nervous first-years ducked behind their friends or jostled for seats far from the front, avoiding that eerie eye.
Moody saw it all but didn't care. He leaned on one hand, twirling his wand in the other, his Auror's sharp gaze unwavering.
McGonagall stepped forward, placing an old three-legged stool in front of the first-years. The stool was worn, its legs stained with woodgrain smudges. She pulled a tattered wizard's hat from a cloth bag—its brim frayed, surface dusty, patched with mismatched fabric, looking wildly out of place in the grand hall.
The first-years stared, confused.
On the Hogwarts Express, Fred and George Weasley had spread rumors about a "dark Sorting conspiracy," claiming the ceremony might involve dangerous magical tests. The nervous first-years had spent the whole trip fretting, only to see this shabby hat. They sighed in relief, shooting glares at the redheaded twins, who'd clearly pranked them into worrying for nothing.
The hall fell silent. Then, a seam near the hat's brim split open like a small mouth, and a melodic voice began to sing:
A thousand years ago, when I was newly sewn,
Four famous wizards' tales are still widely known.
Bold Gryffindor, from wild and marshy moor,
Wise Ravenclaw, from tranquil rivers' shore,
Kind Hufflepuff, from valley broad and wide,
Sly Slytherin, from fen where shadows hide.
United by a dream, a shared desire,
They built a school to lift young witches higher.
Hogwarts rose within the valley's embrace,
Each founder shaped their house, their chosen space.
Gryffindor prized the bravest hearts, bold and true,
Ravenclaw sought sharp minds to see things through,
Hufflepuff valued hard work, loyal and kind,
Slytherin craved ambition, a driven mind.
While they lived, they chose their students with care,
But when they passed, who'd judge the heirs?
Gryffindor had the answer, took me from his head,
The four imbued me with their thoughts, to lead.
Now place me firmly on your brow,
I've never misjudged, I vow.
Let me peer into your mind,
And choose the house where you'll be aligned!
The song ended, and after a brief silence, the hall erupted in applause. Even Moody gave a rare, light clap.
The Sorting Hat's tune wasn't exactly beautiful—off-key in places, dragging in others—but no one cared. In a wizarding world short on musical talent, a hat composing a new song every year, perfectly tied to Hogwarts' history, was impressive.
As the applause faded, McGonagall unfurled a yellowed parchment scroll, its edges curling, covered in neatly inked names.
"When I call your name," she said, "come forward, put on the Sorting Hat, and sit on the stool. Once the hat announces your house, join your house table."
"Stewart Ackerley!" she called.
A lanky boy stepped out, legs trembling, hands clenched, ears pink with nerves. He gingerly picked up the hat, as if afraid it might break, placed it on his head, and sat, eyes squeezed shut.
"Ravenclaw!" the hat declared after a few seconds.
The Ravenclaw table exploded in cheers. The boy's eyes snapped open, a grin spreading across his face as he hurried to his new house.
The Sorting continued smoothly, with first-years assigned to Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, each table cheering as their ranks grew. When the last student was sorted into Hufflepuff, McGonagall rolled up the parchment.
In an instant, golden light flashed, and the tables were laden with a feast. Golden-brown roast turkeys steamed, their skin glistening with oil. Mounds of mashed potatoes swam in rich gravy. Colorful salads sat neatly arranged, beside silver pitchers of pumpkin juice. Fruit platters brimmed with juicy strawberries and blueberries, their sweet aroma filling the air.
The students, ravenous, dove in, forks and knives flashing.
Dumbledore's pre-feast speech was a single word: "Eat!"
Outside, rain hammered the tall black windows, pattering loudly. A sudden thunderclap shook the hall, the glass rattling. A lightning bolt lit up the golden plates, and in a blink, the main courses vanished, replaced by a dazzling array of desserts.
Chocolate fountains bubbled with rich sauce, paired with fresh fruit skewers. Layered cream cakes sparkled with colorful frosting. Crisp biscuits and soft puddings tempted every eye.
The students attacked the desserts with gusto, and soon, even the last crumbs vanished, leaving the plates gleaming silver.
Dumbledore rose, and the hall's chatter fell silent, leaving only the howl of the wind and rain against the windows.
"Well!" he said, smiling warmly at the students, his voice clear and kind. "Now that you're all fed, I need your attention for a few important announcements."
He rattled off the usual rules: no wandering after curfew, no entering the Forbidden Forest, no dangerous magic in the corridors.
Then he gestured to Moody at the staff table. "This is Alastor Moody, a seasoned Auror, who will be your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year."
Moody stood, nodding curtly, his magical eye scanning the students, sparking whispers.
Dumbledore's tone grew serious. "I must also, regretfully, inform you that there will be no House Cup Quidditch tournament this year."
The hall erupted in shocked murmurs, students exchanging disbelieving looks, especially the Quidditch players who'd been gearing up for the season.
Dumbledore waited for the noise to die down before continuing. "The Quidditch tournament is canceled because a major event will begin in October and run through the school year, requiring significant time and effort from our staff. But I assure you, this event will be just as exciting as Quidditch."
He paused, a spark of anticipation in his eyes, then raised his voice. "I'm thrilled to announce that this year, Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament!"