Alan sliced into a lamb chop and ate with practiced composure. He wasn't particularly hungry, having filled up on snacks during the train ride, but he found that the culinary standards at Hogwarts far exceeded his expectations. While the food was as heavy as any typical British fare, the seasoning was at least competent.
Not long after the feast began, ghosts started to appear. Some drifted down from the vaulted ceiling while others rose directly through the tables, drawing startled gasps from the first-years.
Alan watched them with clinical interest. This was his first time seeing the deceased manifest in such a tangible way. He reached out as a ghost drifted past, his hand passing through the translucent form without resistance or sensation.
*It would be fascinating to study one of them,* Alan thought, a spark of academic ruthlessness surfacing. *They aren't exactly common specimens.* In that moment, his cold curiosity proved that the Sorting Hat might have been onto something when it placed him in Slytherin.
Around him, the other new students were getting acquainted over their meals. However, he quickly realized that Slytherin social dynamics were different; the children immediately began inquiring about lineages and family histories. Several students discovered they were distant cousins and began bonding over shared relatives. Many, like Vivian, already knew one another from summer galas and family visits.
The wizarding world was small, and the pure-blood circles were smaller still. As the other Slytherins huddled together, Alan remained an outsider—an invisible presence quietly working through the lamb chop on his plate.
"Hey, friend. I'm Randall Rozier." A boy with short, pale-gold hair slid into the seat next to him, offering a practiced smile. "I haven't seen you around before. Your name is Alan Wilson, right? I don't recognize the surname. Are you a descendant of a foreign wizarding line?"
*I'm a descendant of the dragon; the shock would probably kill you,* Alan thought dryly. He turned to look at the boy, recognizing him as the one who had been sitting next to Travers earlier. It was an obvious scouting mission.
"No, I'm not from a foreign line. It's natural you haven't heard of the name," Alan replied, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. He fixed Randall with a steady, unblinking gaze. "I'm a wizard from a Muggle family. Is that a problem?"
Under the weight of Alan's cold scrutiny, Randall's smile faltered, becoming stiff and forced.
The surrounding students, having overheard the exchange, paused their conversations. Whispers began to ripple through the first-years as they shared the news: a Muggle-born had been sorted into the pit of snakes. Some looked at Alan with genuine curiosity, while others cast glances that were openly hostile.
Alan found the posturing of Travers and Rozier incredibly petty. He felt no urge to integrate into their insular social club. He was here for research and study, and he simply hoped no one would be foolish enough to disturb him.
Still, he recalled Vivian's earlier warnings. Slytherin was a mix of half-bloods from prominent families and proud pure-bloods. A Muggle-born landing here was bound to cause friction. He resolved once more that strength was the only currency that mattered. With the wizarding world in turmoil and radical ideologies taking root even within the school, he needed to master self-defense as quickly as possible.
Randall Rozier, clearly unsettled by Alan's lack of reaction, mumbled a quick excuse and scurried back to Travers. The two whispered together, and Travers shot Alan a chilling, triumphant smile.
Alan didn't look away. He met Travers's eyes with a deep, predatory stillness that made the other boy's smile falter. Travers snorted and turned away, though he looked visibly less confident.
The room gradually settled. Discussing bloodlines in the middle of the Great Hall was considered poor form, and Prefect Vanessa used a sharp look to silence the loudest gossips. Alan offered her a small nod of thanks before returning to his meal in silence. For now, he was content to lie low and observe.
As dinner drew to a close, Dumbledore stood once more to deliver his final warnings. The Forbidden Forest was off-limits, and students were cautioned not to wander near the school boundaries. The atmosphere turned somber as he mentioned the increased Auror patrols guarding the castle.
"And now, before we head off to bed, let us sing the school song!" Dumbledore cried. He flicked his wand, sending golden ribbons of lyrics spiraling into the air.
The hall erupted into a cacophony as everyone sang to their own self-selected tunes. Alan joined in, completely off-key and just reciting the words to blend in. It was a mess; the teachers looked as though they were suffering through a collective migraine while Dumbledore looked absolutely transfixed by the noise. It gave Alan a whole new perspective on the eccentric Headmaster.
Once the song concluded, the Prefects gathered their respective houses. The Slytherins were led down into the depths of the castle, toward the dungeons located beneath the Black Lake. They wound through cold stone corridors until they reached a blank stretch of wall.
"Ouroboros," a fifth-year Prefect barked.
A concealed stone door ground open, revealing the entrance to the common room.
The space was a long, low-ceilinged dungeon. Green lamps hung from chains, casting an eerie, emerald glow over the room. Seven steps led down into a central lounge furnished with elaborately carved chairs and decorated with silver-trimmed skulls. Large windows looked directly out into the depths of the lake, allowing the murky green water and the shadows of lake creatures to serve as a living ceiling. A fire crackled in a grand, ornate fireplace, but despite the flames, the room felt perpetually dim and cold.