The Welcoming Feast
The Great Hall, lit by thousands of floating candles, buzzed with a sound that felt half excitement and half awe. Every student's conversation seemed to loop back to one person: Phoenix Hellflame, the boy whose name had cracked the composure of the ancient Sorting Hat.
Phoenix sat at the Ravenclaw table, his silver-white hair and amethyst-purple eyes making him stand out even amidst the brilliant students of his new house. He watched the remainder of the Sorting, noting the powerful emotional reaction when Harry Potter was finally placed in Gryffindor. Dumbledore's welcoming speech followed, brief and eccentric, culminating in a dramatic warning about the forbidden third-floor corridor. Phoenix, already fully aware of the philosopher's stone's nature and the details of its guard, merely allowed himself a slight, mental note to confirm the exact defensive configuration.
The great feast began, a glorious, chaotic display of culinary magic. Phoenix ate with unhurried precision, observing the hierarchy of the faculty and the dynamics of the older students. Later that night, he followed the stream of Ravenclaws to their tower. He effortlessly solved the ancient riddle of the brass knocker—a complex conundrum concerning time—and stepped into the high, circular common room. Having secured special placement in a private corner of the dormitory, he cast intricate, silent wandless privacy wards around his bed and spent an hour reviewing the entire first-year curriculum, confirming that only highly specialized, dark, or ancient magic would require true research.
The First Morning
Phoenix rose early, performing a series of internal energy circulation exercises derived from his dragon core. He arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast, still immaculate and strikingly beautiful, drawing the usual chorus of whispers.
He spotted Harry, Ron, and Hermione at the Gryffindor table and joined them briefly, his presence instantly elevating the tone of their conversation. Hermione, already organizing her textbooks for the day, was pleased by his punctuality.
"We have Charms with Professor Flitwick first," Hermione stated, tapping her timetable. "We have to be prompt. I've calculated the optimal path; you two, try not to get lost." She glanced pointedly at Ron.
Phoenix offered a slight, confident smile. "I'll ensure they don't lose an arm or leg, Granger. Though getting lost can sometimes be the best way to discover true knowledge, in this case, I will defer to the necessity of timely attendance."
Transfiguration Chaos
The following day, however, provided a chance for Phoenix to demonstrate his unique navigational skill, or lack thereof, when associated with chaos. Their class with Professor McGonagall—Transfiguration—was a navigational nightmare for the less organized.
Hermione, naturally, arrived precisely on time, sitting in the front row with her matchstick and parchment ready. Phoenix, Harry, and Ron were, predictably, the last to arrive, rushing through the door five minutes late.
Professor McGonagall, severe in her tartan robes, watched them approach.
"Well, look what the Cat dragged in," she said, her voice dry ice. She glared at the disheveled pair of Gryffindors before her gaze landed on Phoenix—immaculate, silver-haired, and unsettlingly composed.
"You are five minutes late," McGonagall stated, addressing the three boys. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for tardiness. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, your excuse?"
Ron mumbled something about a trick staircase and a poltergeist. Harry looked defeated.
McGonagall turned her cold stare on Phoenix. "And you, Mr. Hellflame. Given your precise nature, why are you late?"
Phoenix stopped perfectly still, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
"Professor," Phoenix said, his tone utterly polite but carrying no deference. "I was not late. The path from the Ravenclaw Tower to this room takes precisely seven minutes and fifty-two seconds. I arrived within that window. These two," he gestured coolly at Harry and Ron, "lost their timetable and were confused by the portrait of Sir Cadogan. I was merely tagging along to avoid the tedium of retrieving them from a lost corridor, as no one specifically asked me to guide them beforehand."
Ron and Harry's faces flushed, exchanging furious, disbelieving glances at Phoenix's calculated truth—he had essentially declared them incompetent while maintaining his own perfect record. Hermione, seated in front, pressed her lips together to stifle a sudden, inappropriate burst of laughter, a subtle twitch forming around her left eye.
McGonagall stared at him for a long moment. He had meticulously accounted for his personal transit time. He was, technically, not late.
She let out a single, sharp sigh, a sound of profound resignation only earned by decades of dealing with magical genius. "Take your seats, Mr. Hellflame. And twenty points to Ravenclaw for... perfect logistical timing."
Phoenix then sat down. While Hermione successfully transformed her matchstick into a needle, Phoenix did not even touch his. When McGonagall approached his desk, she found him already reading ahead in Intermediate Transfiguration.
"Mr. Hellflame, you are not participating."
Phoenix looked up, his purple eyes conveying slight annoyance at the interruption. "Professor, I completed this rudimentary transfiguration an hour ago, wandlessly, while waiting for the class to begin. It is a simple elemental change."
He looked at the matchstick on his desk, and without moving his lips or wand, the matchstick shimmered and instantly transformed not into a simple steel needle, but a flawlessly faceted, glimmering sapphire needle.
McGonagall, who had witnessed the Hat incident, merely blinked once. "Very well, Mr. Hellflame. Do not distract the others. You may use this time to review the non-verbal applications of the Geminio spell."
Potions and Dark Arts
The class schedules were unforgiving. In the dungeon classroom, Potions Master Severus Snape loomed over the students, an immediate, palpable dislike radiating from him toward Harry Potter. Phoenix had strategically chosen to sit with Harry and Ron.
Snape's lessons were pure intimidation. When the task was assigned—a simple Cure for Boils—Ron was struggling immediately, and Snape was circling, waiting for Harry to fail. Phoenix, however, moved with an unearthly calm. He brewed the potion with flawless, quiet precision, his concentration absolute. At one point, Ron was about to add the wrong ingredient, which would have resulted in an explosion. Phoenix did not speak or move, but a silent, intense thought—a surge of sheer will—flashed into Ron's mind, making him hesitate and choose the correct vial. Snape noticed the subtle, non-verbal shift in the atmosphere and paused at their table. He scrutinized Phoenix's work: a perfect, simmering brew. Snape offered a sharp, rare nod—the highest, most begrudging compliment possible—before gliding away, his hatred of Harry now intensified by the association with this flawless, silver-haired prodigy. Phoenix had filed away the information that Snape was a danger to Harry, and thus, a predictable asset in the larger game.
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, the students faced the nervous, turban-wearing Professor Quirrell. The moment Phoenix entered the room, the chilling reality of Quirrell's affliction slammed into his enhanced senses. He instantly sensed the cold, parasitic presence clinging to the back of Quirrell's head. Phoenix, having dealt with ancient, dark entities before, registered the presence as powerful but stable. He would not alert anyone yet. Instead, he played the part of the polite, intensely focused student, occasionally asking a highly complex, obscure question about historical Dark Arts—such as the true origin of the Horcrux concept—that forced Quirrell into a terrified, halting stammer, subtly marking the professor as weak and the anomaly as a subject for private study.
By the end of the first week, Phoenix Hellflame was known not just as the ethereal silver-haired boy who broke the Sorting Hat, but as the most academically intimidating, psychologically aware, and untouchable first-year student Hogwarts had ever seen. He was the undisputed prodigy of Ravenclaw, maintaining a curious, detached proximity to the famous Boy Who Lived.