The fleet of little boats bumped gently against the shore, and the first-years clambered out, following Hagrid up a narrow, winding path cut into the rock. The giant's lantern swayed with each step, throwing long, uneven shadows against the cliff face. The castle loomed above them, windows glittering like a hundred watchful eyes.
At last they reached a huge oak door. Hagrid raised a fist the size of a dinner plate and knocked three times. The sound echoed like a drumbeat, rolling through the stone corridors within.
The door swung open. A tall witch stood framed in the light of the Entrance Hall, her black hair pulled into a severe bun, emerald-green robes falling in crisp lines to the floor. Her sharp eyes swept over the line of nervous eleven-year-olds.
"The first years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid rumbled, giving her a short nod.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I'll take them from here."
Hagrid turned, his lantern bobbing as he strode back into the night, the soft crunch of gravel under his massive boots echoing through the stillness. The castle loomed above them, its towers jagged against the starlit sky, windows glimmering like watchful eyes, each stone seeming to hum with centuries of secrets. McGonagall regarded the children for a moment, her expression unreadable, emerald eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight, then stepped aside and gestured for them to follow.
They crossed the flagstone floor of the vast Entrance Hall, the high vaulted ceiling arching overhead like the ribbed hull of some ancient ship, torchlight dancing across the cold stone and casting long, wavering shadows. The walls were lined with suits of armor and tapestries depicting scenes of battles long past, the colors muted but alive with a strange vibrancy. Ahead, a pair of magnificent double doors stood closed, dark wood polished to a deep sheen, and the muffled roar of hundreds of voices spilled from beyond them, carrying a promise of excitement and apprehension.
The students craned their necks, eager and anxious, taking in the enormity of their new surroundings, the echo of their footsteps mingling with the whispers of history that seemed to cling to every surface. Yet McGonagall led them instead to a small chamber off to the side, tucked away from the grandeur, its walls lined with portraits whose eyes followed their every move, adding a quiet, almost imperceptible weight to the air.
Then some ghosts drifted past. One of them said, "Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not even really a ghost."
The speaker was a thin, severe-looking spirit addressing a short, plump ghost with short brown hair and a small tonsure, dressed in a ghostly monk's habit tied with a rope belt.
"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" said the Friar cheerfully, turning toward the first-years. "My old house, you know."
Once they had all crowded in, she faced them, hands folded neatly before her, the folds of her robes sharp and precise. Even in this smaller room, the echoes of the castle's magic seemed to settle around the children, pressing gently against their imaginations, promising wonders and challenges yet to come.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she began, her voice precise and carrying. "The start of term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is of great importance, for while you are here, your House will be something like your family. You will have classes with the rest of your House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend your free time in your House common room."
Her eyes flicked over them, cool and assessing.
"The four Houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each has its noble history, and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your House points, and any rule-breaking will lose points. At the end of the year, the House with the most points will be awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever House becomes yours."
She let the words hang a moment, allowing their weight to settle.
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes, in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you smarten yourselves as much as possible while you wait."
Her expression sharpened ever so slightly, as if daring anyone to speak.
"I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."
With that, she swept from the room, the door closing with a soft click behind her.
The heavy door clicked shut behind Professor McGonagall, leaving the chamber hushed. The only sounds were the faint muffled roar of voices from the Great Hall beyond, and the rustle of nervous shifting as the first years glanced at one another.
Harry's stomach fluttered uncomfortably. All around him, boys and girls were straightening robes, fiddling with sleeves, or whispering anxiously about what this Sorting might involve.
The silence shattered as a pale, sharp featured boy with slick blond hair stepped forward, flanked by two burly companions who seemed to loom even taller in his shadow. His cold gray eyes swept the room before settling on Harry.
"It's true, then," the boy drawled, voice thick with self-importance. "What they're whispering on the train… Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts."
Murmurs rippled through the hall, and Harry felt every gaze burn into his back.
The blond boy, whom Harry had met briefly at Madam Malkin's, extended a hand with casual precision. "Draco Malfoy," he said, his tone measured, deliberate. Glancing at the two boys at his side, he added "Crabbe and Goyle."
He smirked faintly as Ron gave a muffled cough, betraying a suppressed laugh.
Draco's gaze flicked to him, lips curling with thin amusement. "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask yours. Red hair, hand-me-down robes, freckles… you must be a Weasley."
Ron's face burned scarlet; fists clenched at his sides.
Draco returned his attention to Harry, hand still outstretched, his voice slick with condescension. "You'll soon learn some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to fall in with the wrong sort. I can… guide you."
A low, icy chuckle cut through the tension, drawing every head toward the source. Rigel stepped forward, green-steel eyes glinting with a dangerous amusement.
"You know, Potter," he murmured, voice smooth, calm, yet chilling, "he isn't entirely wrong."
Draco's smirk faltered. Confusion flashed across his face as Rigel tilted his head, a faint predatory grin tugging at his lips.
"The only problem," Rigel continued softly, voice velvet edged with steel, "is that the Malfoys… they hardly qualify as the 'better' families. Particularly pathetic, really, when it comes to true high class… as you can see by his manners right now."
The chill in Rigel's tone made the room shift uncomfortably. Draco's hand fell uselessly to his side, his face flushing crimson.
Then Rigel's voice softened, almost imperceptibly, the menace tempered by a polite precision.
"By the way, I never introduced myself," he said, extending his hand toward Harry, small confident smirk in place. "Rigel. A pleasure."
Harry blinked, caught between intimidation and curiosity, yet found himself returning the gesture with a hesitant smile.
From across the circle, Ron's jaw dropped. Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide in shock, thinking that her friend had been in the wizarding world barely a day and was already making powerful enemies. Susan's lips twitched in an attempt to stifle a laugh, but it slipped into a subtle grin as she watched the boy with whom she had begun to forge a tentative friendship.
Draco's face flushed crimson. He opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. He muttered under his breath, almost inaudibly, "This… this isn't over…"
Rigel's gaze snapped to him, green-steel pupils narrowing just enough to send a shiver down the spine. A faint hiss of amusement curled at the edge of his lips. "Oh, I'm counting on it… and I trust you'll make our next encounter… worth my attention," he said, his voice smooth, cold, and deliberate silk sliding over steel.
The tension in the room was palpable. Draco's cronies shuffled nervously, exchanging uneasy glances. Even the other first years felt the weight of Rigel's presence, a boy whose confidence and sharp tongue sent shivers down anyone's spine.
Harry, still holding Rigel's outstretched hand, felt a small surge of reassurance. Here was someone unafraid, someone whose sharpness matched his own curiosity. Ron muttered something under his breath that sounded like a laugh, and Hermione's wide eyes followed Rigel's confident posture, sensing the shift in dynamics before anyone else did.
Before anyone could say more, the heavy door at the end of the chamber clicked open again. Professor McGonagall stepped inside, her robes swishing around her, eyes sharp and assessing as they swept over the first years. The air seemed to tighten with her presence, a quiet authority that demanded attention without a word.
The first-years were ushered through the massive doors, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous hall. Above them, the enchanted ceiling mirrored the night sky outside, a breathtaking canvas of stars that shimmered and danced, casting a spell of quiet wonder over the room.
The Great Hall stretched endlessly, four long tables, one for each house, flowing like rivers of polished wood. Hundreds of older students were already seated, their low murmurs blending into a soft hum of anticipation for the arrival of the new housemates.
Floating candles hovered overhead, their flames flickering gently, scattering a warm, golden light across the sea of eager faces. The hall seemed alive, a perfect blend of magic and majesty, each corner whispering secrets of generations past.
Rigel's green-steel eyes swept over the hall, absorbing every detail with unnerving precision. The way the house tables stretched like rivers of polished wood, the soft gleam of floating candles, even the whispered conversations and restless movements of students all were cataloged and analyzed in his mind. The warm scent of melted wax mingled subtly with the aroma of ancient stone and aged wood, giving the Great Hall a presence both alive and timeless.
He moved with calm confidence, each step measured and almost imperceptible, a predator threading through a nest of fledglings.
From the edge of his awareness came a soft, tentative voice. "I read it in Hogwarts: A History," Hermione whispered, her tone a mix of curiosity and excitement. Rigel's eyes flicked toward her, a faint, amused smile tugging at his lips as he murmured to himself in Parseltongue,
Harry, Ron, and Hermione trailed behind him, Draco Malfoy's sharp, piercing gaze never leaving Rigel, suspicion and irritation flickering across his face. It was clear he recognized something in the boy perhaps a rival, perhaps an enemy, especially after Rigel's pointed comment about his family.
They came to a halt at the far end of the hall, where the staff table ran along the length of the raised platform. In front stood the high-backed chair of the Headmaster, simple yet imposing. The table itself was long and plain, lacking the enchanted abundance of the student tables, though neatly set with plates, goblets, and cutlery. Above, the floating candles cast a soft, steady glow, reflecting off the polished wood and illuminating the gathered faces below.
From the corners of the hall, whispers rippled outward, mingling names, rumors, and guesses like threads in the air. Yet Rigel remained still, a calm center in the storm, cataloging every glance and gesture with an unsettling precision.
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