At that precise moment, before Adrian could move away down the corridor and continue his inspection, a freckled boy with a mouthful of chocolate sitting across from John Selwyn suddenly reacted with surprise.
He'd been only half-listening to the conversation while focused on his candy, but the name had apparently registered belatedly in his mind.
"Selwyn?" the boy exclaimed, his eyes widening with recognition and interest. Chocolate was smeared across his front teeth, giving his expression a funny look. "Wait—are you from the Selwyn family? Like, that Selwyn family?"
His tone carried a hint of curiosity mixed with something else. He leaned forward in his seat, suddenly much more interested in his quiet compartment-mate than he had been moments before.
Clearly, this particular freckled boy had heard of the surname before and understood its significance in certain wizarding circles. His parents had probably drilled pure-blood family names into him from an early age.
John Selwyn turned his head slowly away from the window to look at the freckled boy with curiosity. He asked in return, his voice soft and puzzled, "The Selwyn family??"
The question seemed sincere, without guile or false modesty. He genuinely didn't seem to know what the boy was talking about.
The freckled boy's eyes narrowed slightly with assessment. He looked John up and down more carefully this time.
His gaze lingered particularly on John's robes which were somewhat worn and clearly secondhand, with slightly frayed edges and faded fabric.
The freckled boy seemed to reach some definitive conclusion based on this visual assessment. His tone became rather lackluster and dismissive, losing all its previous excitement.
"Oh... I see," He said flatly, almost with disappointment. "You're not from that Selwyn family, then. Never mind."
He turned back around in his seat, presenting his back to John and resuming his previous struggle with his Chocolate Frog, which kept trying to escape from his hands. He offered no further explanation or conversation.
Adrian watched this entire brief exchange with some complex emotion stirring in his chest.
These were merely first-year children, barely eleven years old. Children who should have been excited about magic and friendship and adventure.
Yet they were already so... realistic.
The poison of pure-blood ideology had already taken root in them before they'd even reached Hogwarts.
The Selwyn family—the real one, the one that mattered to people like this freckled boy was indeed one of the twenty-eight families officially recognized in certain wizarding genealogical texts as maintaining supposedly pure bloodlines untainted by Muggle ancestry.
The "Sacred Twenty-Eight," as they were called by those who cared about such things.
Of course, all of this genealogical obsession and blood-purity nonsense had nothing to do with Adrian.
But it was still disappointing to see children already indoctrinated into these divisive beliefs.
John Selwyn also didn't seem bothered or hurt by the freckled boy's dismissal. He simply turned back toward the window without comment or reaction, resuming his quiet observation of the scenery rushing past outside.
He sat there peacefully, as if the entire conversation had never happened.
Adrian observed all this from his position in the corridor. But he said nothing more.
To him, John Selwyn was just a somewhat interesting child, nothing more than that for now.
Later That Evening
The Hogwarts Express arrived at Hogsmeade Station smoothly on schedule, pulling in with great clouds of steam and the screech of brakes.
The journey had been completely uneventful. Just a normal, peaceful train ride filled with excited students and candy wrappers.
After helping coordinate the disembarkation and handing the massive crowd of students over to Hagrid's care who was already bellowing his traditional "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"
Adrian chose not to wait for the carriages or walk the long road up to the castle.
Instead, he had one of the Thestrals that pulled the carriages carry him directly ahead to arrive at the castle earlier than the students.
He dismounted at the castle's main entrance and made his way inside.
Adrian encountered Professor McGonagall at the entrance to the Great Hall—she was standing there waiting, preparing to welcome and supervise the arrival of the new students for the Sorting ceremony.
"Good evening, Professor McGonagall," Adrian greeted her politely.
Professor McGonagall acknowledged him with a nod of her head.
"Good evening, Adrian," She replied in her Scottish accent. "Go on in quickly and take your seat. The new term is starting, and we need to maintain proper procedure and punctuality. The students will be arriving within minutes."
Adrian looked at her more carefully, really studying her face rather than just exchanging pleasantries, and didn't immediately obey her instruction to enter the Great Hall.
He remained standing there.
"What is it?" Professor McGonagall asked after a moment of his continued scrutiny. "Is something wrong? Do I have something on my face?"
"You seem somewhat unhappy tonight," Adrian said with complete certainty. "More troubled than usual. Is everything alright?"
Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows and instinctively touched her cheek. "Is it that obvious?"
Adrian nodded honestly. "Compared to your usual expression, yes. Your face is set a bit more severely. You're holding yourself more rigidly."
Professor McGonagall was genuinely surprised by Adrian's keen observation and careful attention to such subtle details.
She let out a soft, resigned sigh that seemed to deflate her slightly, "It's nothing specific you need to worry about, Adrian,"
She paused, seeming to debate whether to explain. Finally, she added softly, "I just sincerely hope this year can be a bit more peaceful and normal than the last few have been."
"Let's hope so," Adrian agreed with a sympathetic smile, understanding her frustration perfectly. He'd had similar thoughts himself.
Every year seemed to bring some new crisis or catastrophe to Hogwarts. It would be pleasant to have a single peaceful term for once.
He gave her a final nod of understanding and stepped through the tall double doors into the Great Hall, leaving her to her preparations.
At the same time, outside the castle's main gates, by the distant shore of the dark Black Lake with its mysterious depths and hidden creatures, small dots of lamplight were slowly, steadily approaching across the water.
The traditional fleet of small boats carrying the first-year students across the lake was making its way toward the castle.
Inside the Great Hall, which was already magnificently decorated for the start of term with floating candles and the enchanted ceiling showing the evening sky above, the professors had already taken their seats one by one at the staff table at the front of the hall.
The table was arranged with empty golden plates and goblets that would soon be filled with the welcoming feast.
Adrian's gaze swept across the gathered faculty, taking quick mental record of who was present and noting positions. His eyes quickly locked onto a somewhat unfamiliar figure seated near the center—Dolores Umbridge. She occupied the position to Dumbledore's right.
Umbridge still looked exactly as Adrian remembered her—short and stout, her body was thick and squat in a way that looked genuinely unfortunate. She wore an uncomfortably bright pink cardigan covered in small bows and frills.
She looked, Adrian thought, exactly like an oversized toad that someone had dressed in doll's clothing.
Though judging people purely by their physical appearance was not good or fair—Adrian found he could immediately sense something else about her beyond just looks.
There was a sort of spiteful, bitter, mean-spirited quality that seemed to emanate from her like an almost visible aura.
At that moment, she was observing the entire Great Hall with an appraising and greedy gaze, as if assessing the value of this new territory.
Adrian walked toward his seat at the staff table without showing any emotion on his face.
In fact, he had no choice about where to sit. The only empty seat remaining at the table was directly next to Umbridge's position, which was deeply unfortunate but unavoidable without making a scene.
He approached with internal resignation.
Umbridge noticed Adrian's approach. Her face instantly transformed itself into an extremely artificial, pretentious smile that looked like it had been painted on.
"Good evening, Professor Westeros," She said in a voice so excessively sweet and high-pitched it was genuinely nauseating.
"We meet again. What a pleasant surprise! It seems we'll be colleagues working closely together for the coming year."
"Yes, Ms. Umbridge," Adrian replied with minimum politeness, settling into his chair and subtly shifting it a bit away from her position.
"That's Professor," She corrected him immediately, her smile growing even wider and falser, spreading across her face like thick syrup being poured.
But Adrian acted as if he hadn't heard this emphasis at all or perhaps simply didn't care enough about her preferences to adjust his address.
Instead, he turned his attention away from her to on Professor Flitwick on his other side.
"Professor Flitwick," Adrian asked with interest, "how was your summer holiday? Did you manage to get that research project finished that you mentioned last term?"
Professor Flitwick immediately turned his head toward Adrian. "Oh, quite good overall, thank you for asking!"
Then a thoughtful, slightly troubled expression appeared on his face. He stroked his white beard pensively.
"Actually, I've been thinking very carefully over the summer break, reviewing my curriculum and considering the current situation, I've decided to make some adjustments to my teaching strategy this year."
"What kind of adjustments specifically?" Adrian asked with sincere curiosity, leaning slightly closer to hear better.
Professor Flitwick glanced briefly but meaningfully at Umbridge's profile and spoke softly.
"I believe that in the current... ahem... environment we're facing, students need to learn some more practical spells. Magic that can actually protect themselves and others in genuine danger, not just remain stuck memorizing theory and practicing trivial entertainment charms that serve no real purpose beyond parties."
"That sounds more like something the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor should be focused on, doesn't it?" Adrian replied casually.
Professor Flitwick immediately gave Adrian a long "you cannot possibly be serious" look. His eyebrows rose almost to his hairline.
He leaned in even closer and said quickly, "Adrian! For Merlin's sake! You cannot seriously expect that..."
He stopped himself mid-sentence, using one finger to point extremely subtly in Umbridge's direction. His face practically screamed "you know exactly what I mean."
"...to teach the children anything genuinely useful? I'd bet my entire Gringotts vault she couldn't even cast a proper Shield Charm! Or a decent Stunning Spell! Or frankly any practical defensive magic whatsoever! She's a Ministry bureaucrat, not a teacher or a fighter!"
Adrian couldn't help it—he chuckled quietly at Flitwick's vehement assessment.
Clearly, Professor Flitwick had seen through exactly what kind of person Umbridge was quite early on, probably within minutes of meeting her.
"If you need any assistance with developing new curriculum or sourcing practice materials, I'd be genuinely happy to help," Adrian offered seriously.
Umbridge, seated beyond Adrian on his other side, naturally hadn't been able to hear Adrian and Professor Flitwick's quiet conversation over the general ambient noise of the hall.
Instead, she was enthusiastically, almost aggressively chatting with Dumbledore, who sat beside her in the headmaster's central position.
Dumbledore had his fingertips pressed together on the table, his expression calm, looking like he was listening attentively.
But Adrian, watching from the corner of his eye while maintaining his conversation with Flitwick, had the feeling that Dumbledore was actually completely spacing out behind that attentive facade.
He was performing "active listening" purely through muscle memory and decades of practice at political meetings.
It was actually a rather comical scene when you noticed it.
Umbridge clearly believed she held the conversational power and was successfully exerting influence over the headmaster, impressing him with her insights and authority.
But obviously, her entire behavior and monologue was completely within Dumbledore's control. He was allowing her to talk, letting her feel important, while actually giving her absolutely nothing of substance.
Soon, right on schedule, the massive double doors at the entrance to the Great Hall were pushed open from outside.
The older students entered in a steady stream into the hall. They made their way to their respective House tables, greeting friends they hadn't seen since June, comparing summer tans and new robes, settling in with noisy enthusiasm.
The Great Hall was immediately filled with the pleasant buzz and hum of hundreds of excited conversations happening simultaneously. The sound of wooden chairs scraping against stone floors, of cheerful greetings being called across tables, of laughter and gossip and the general happy chaos of reunion.
After a while, as students finished settling and finding their seats, the initial excited noise gradually died down to a more manageable level.
Many students, once seated and comfortable, began noticing and pointing out the unfamiliar pink-clad figure seated at the staff table.
Whispers spread rapidly through the hall as students speculated about the new professor's identity and role.
Umbridge, very aware of the attention and clearly relishing it, surveyed each student section with that same openly appraising posture she'd used on the empty hall earlier.
Down below at the Gryffindor table, sitting with Ron and Hermione near the middle of the bench, Harry suddenly found himself being stared at by Umbridge and he couldn't help but shiver at the intensity and quality of that gaze. He felt somewhat uncomfortable.
"Who's that woman in the awful pink?" Seamus Finnigan asked from beside Harry. He was craning his neck to get a better look at the staff table. "New professor? She looks like she swallowed something sour."
"Our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, apparently," Harry answered in a low voice, likewise scrutinizing Umbridge carefully from his position, trying to understand what exactly about her set off such strong negative instincts.
Well... though judging by appearance wasn't good, Harry could immediately sense a sort of spiteful, bitterness emanating from her.
After that, the attention of the hall shifted as Professor McGonagall appeared at the entrance.
Her expression was solemn and stern as she led in a long, nervous line of pale-faced first-year students. The children looked tiny and frightened in their brand-new robes as they took in the magnificent Great Hall for the first time.
The annual Sorting ceremony was about to begin.
Professor McGonagall placed the old four-legged wooden stool in the center of the Great Hall where everyone could see it clearly.
Then she carefully lifted that dirty, patched, ancient-looking Sorting Hat from where she'd been carrying it and set it on the stool.
The entire Great Hall fell into expectant silence.
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