Scorpius frowned, eyeing Albus's untouched plate. "Here, Albus, you have to eat," he said more gently this time. He reached over and dropped a generous helping of pot roast onto the plate. "I'm not saying to stuff your face—but at least take a bite. You'll be starving later tonight, and by then it'll just be stale biscuits in the dorm."
"I'm not hungry," Albus mumbled, shoving the plate an inch away. He didn't meet Scorpius's eyes.
Scorpius sighed, then grabbed a silver goblet and poured some pumpkin juice. "Then at least drink something. Look—just because you were sorted in Slytherin doesn't mean things will change. You will still attend potions, transfigurations, charms, and stuff. Nothing changed."
A snicker drifted from further down the table. Two older boys in green and silver scarves leaned in close, whispering to each other with glances toward Albus. One of them muttered just loud enough, "Potter probably thinks the Sorting Hat was cursed."
Albus retreated further into his shame. Scorpius shot them a stare and burned their faces into his memory. They would pay for that later. Right now, it was more important to pay attention to the kid's appetite.
"Ignore them, as a grea- ahem, singer once said, haters gonna hate, shake it off."
"Shake it off?" asked Albus," Which singer? Is it the Burnsby Barnacles?"
Scorpius blinked, unable to explain where he would hear about a Muggle singer from America. "Doesn't matter," he said, placing the goblet in front of Albus. "They don't know what to think about a Potter in Slytherin."
Albus looked hesitant, then finally picked up the goblet. He took a small sip—then another, longer one. A beat passed. "Thanks," he muttered.
"See? Progress." Scorpius smirked, satisfied. He turned back to his own plate—then paused.
As Scorpius blinked, the shimmering card before him dissolved into light, and everything around him suddenly dimmed. The vibrant colors of the Great Hall dulled to a faint sepia tone. The golden glow of the floating candles faded into pale wisps of silver, and the lively chatter of the students became a low, distant hum—muffled, like he'd dunked his head underwater.
A translucent card shimmered before him, suspended in the air like a hologram. It bore the Hogwarts crest, animated slightly so that the four animals glinted with a pulse of magic. Beneath it, a golden ribbon unfurled, elegant script glowing softly:
--- Quest Complete ---
Welcome to Hogwarts
What the... Scorpius blinked hard, but the vision didn't vanish. He wasn't hallucinating—at least not in the normal way. It was real. Real to him, anyway.
As the banner dissolved, more messages blinked into existence like a cluttered inbox:
Tip: Use the Charmed Compass to track locations or people.
A new notification bloomed gently in the middle-left corner of his vision, bordered in green and silver:
[New] Claim your quest reward from the Quest Log.
In the bottom-right, a semi-transparent mini-map flickered into life, showing a vague outline of the Great Hall. The dots on the map shimmered in house colors—green for Slytherin, red for Gryffindor, and so on.
In the top-right, a bold Slytherin crest was pinned neatly like a badge. Under it, a thin bar pulsed softly—a progress bar? A level tracker?
Curious and slightly apprehensive, Scorpius reached toward the floating notification—though no one else seemed to notice his actions. When his finger touched it, the world blurred again, and a large, ancient-looking grimoire-style menu spread open in front of him like a magical book come to life.
It hovered slightly above the table, its dark cover etched in glowing silver runes. Around its edges were swirling, living symbols—like orbiting tabs:
Menu
Gear
Inventory
Talents(Locked)
Challenges
Map
Quests
Magic(Locked)
The tabs responded to his gaze, rotating slowly until "Quests" came into focus. The page flipped open, revealing the header:
Completed Quest: Hogwarts Sorting Ceremony
Reward: Standard Slytherin Robes [Equippable]
Scorpius hesitated, then mentally selected the reward.
With a soft ching, a smaller window went back to the books with the floating tabs. He then glanced toward the Gear tab and opened it.
What appeared was… bizarre.
A fully rendered 3D image of himself stood within a decorative circular frame, slowly rotating like a character select screen from a game. The uncanny version of him blinked and shifted its weight subtly.
That's weird. That's so weird.
In the gear window, there were options like handwear, facewear, headwear, neckwear, cloaks and robes, outfits, and, oddly enough, two more options for brooms and flying mounts.
The new robes were already visible in the cloaks and robes pane, hovering with a green "New" tag. He hovered over the Equip option… and then hesitated.
If he suddenly changed into the robes right here at the Slytherin table, people were going to notice.
He backed out of the equipment screen and mentally dismissed the menu. The world returned to normal—color and sound rushing back in like a rising tide. The candles brightened, the food steamed again, and the clatter of silverware returned.
Albus was still sipping his drink, chewing a little more now. Scorpius exhaled. He stared at the freshmen at various tables. All of the first years had black wizarding robes, while the older students had house robes appropriate for their respective group.
Scorpius reached for a Treacle Tart and bit into it, savoring the taste. Soon, the feast was over, and all the little wizards had their fill to their heart's content. The leftovers on the table disappeared.
Scorpius, still thinking about the System, was brought back to the present by the clinking of a glass. Horace Parkinson and another girl were standing up. The girl had a goblet and a knife in her hands, "First years, follow us."
"Who are they?" asked Albus.
"Slytherin Prefects," said Scorpius," You can tell based on the shiny badge with a 'P' attached to their collars. I met Horace Parkinson this morning, but I don't know who she is."
"She looks, um, strict."
"What makes you think that?" asked Scorpius.
"Just a hunch," mumbled Albus, looking at the female prefect's stern gaze.
The line of first-years shuffled after the two prefects. Their footsteps echoed across the marble floor of the Great Hall as they slipped out through the tall doors and into the shadowed corridors of the castle. The warmth and golden glow of the feast vanished almost instantly, replaced by flickering torchlight and the cool, drafty hush of stone hallways.
Horace Parkinson led the way with confidence. His posture was perfect, his back unyielding. His palms were open, facing outward. The girl—tall, sharp-eyed, her expression stern and unreadable—brought up the rear, making sure none of the new Slytherins strayed from the line.
They descended a broad staircase that spiraled downward, deeper into the castle. The chatter of other students grew distant until all that remained was the shuffle of shoes and the drip of water somewhere below. The air grew cooler and damper, carrying with it the faint smell of moss and river stones.
Albus leaned closer to Scorpius.
"Where are we going?" he whispered.
"Dungeons," Scorpius murmured back.
"Dungeons!" Albus panicked and spoke louder than he intended.
"Shh!" said someone behind them.
"Sorry," squeaked Albus, his ears tinged red with embarrassment.
"Shut up! You're embarrassing us." said one of the other boys behind them in the line.
"First, stop chewing gum that loud. Where did you get gum anyway?" Scorpius retorted back.
"You~"
"Quiet back there," snapped the female prefect, her voice sharp as a knife.
The group hushed immediately.
The passageways narrowed, their ceilings lowering, until they reached a corridor where the stone walls glistened faintly with moisture. Lanterns lined the walls, their green flames hissing softly. Finally, Horace stopped before a blank stretch of damp stone. The wall was featureless—no door, no handle, nothing but moss and shadow.
"Welcome to Slytherin," he said smugly, turning back to the group. "Our common room is hidden. You'll need the password to get in. No password, no entrance. If you forget, you sleep in the hallway. Simple as that."
The girl prefect stepped forward, lifting her chin. "Tonight's password is Legacy."
As soon as the word left her lips, the stone rippled like disturbed water. Slowly, an archway curved upwards from the ground and embedded itself into the wall, greenish light spilling out from beyond. The entrance yawned open like the mouth of some great serpent, and cool air smelling faintly of saltwater rushed to meet them.
Albus shivered at the spooky entrance.
"Inside," the girl ordered. "And don't dawdle."
The Slytherin first-years stumbled in uncertainly, bunching into a tight semicircle around the prefects. None of them dared to stray too far, as if the shadows at the edges of the room might swallow them up.
Albus hugged his robes tighter, fighting a prickle at the back of his neck. He glanced around, his stomach twisting. The place was colder than he had expected. Darker, too. Even the lanterns on the walls burned with a sickly green fire that hissed faintly in their brackets.
And they weren't alone.
Clusters of older students lounged on the carved couches and high-backed chairs that filled the room. Some leaned against the stone pillars, others sprawled lazily on the rugs that looked worn but expensive. They weren't talking much. Instead, they were watching.
Dozens of cool, assessing eyes lingered on the new arrivals. A few upper-years exchanged smirks, a curl of amusement tugging at their mouths. One boy, lounging with his boots propped on a table, let out a low chuckle that he didn't bother to hide.
The prefects didn't seem to notice—or didn't care. Horace Parkinson stood tall, surveying the common room with an air of ownership, while the girl crossed her arms, waiting for silence.
Albus swallowed hard. He had no idea why the older students were so amused, but the way they were looking at him—and every other first-year—sent a cold ripple down his spine.
Whatever it was, he didn't think he was going to like it.