The doors swung open to reveal a black-haired witch standing before them, draped in emerald-green robes.
The young witches and wizards, who had been chattering away mere seconds ago, fell instantly silent.
It was the universal reaction of students during a study hall who suddenly notice their head teacher standing silently at the back door of the classroom.
In the presence of Professor McGonagall, even Hagrid seemed to grow considerably more restrained.
“The firs’-years are here, Professor McGonagall.” “Thank you, Hagrid.
I shall take them from here.” As McGonagall spoke, her eyes swept over the sea of faces, briefly lingering on Silan.
Silently shifting her gaze away, she pulled the heavy doors wide open and led the group into the castle.
They were greeted by a magnificent marble staircase leading upward.
Massive stone walls flanked the hall, lit brilliantly by blazing torches that cast a warm, radiant glow.
The damp mist from the Black Lake that clung to the students’ robes gradually dissolved under the heat of the fire.
McGonagall guided the first-years into a small, vacant chamber just off the Great Hall.
“Welcome to Hogwarts,” McGonagall began, delivering her well-practiced, annual introductory speech with flawless precision.
“The start-of-term feast will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your respective houses.
The Sorting is a very important ceremony…” Her sharp gaze drifted over the thoroughly bewildered assembly of children as she introduced the four houses.
“They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin…” Concluding her briefing, she offered one final word of advice.
“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in front of the entire school.
I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as possible while you wait.
I shall return for you when we are ready.” The moment McGonagall stepped out, the students hit their collective un-mute button.
The room instantly erupted back into a flurry of whispers, with everyone focusing on the anticipation of the Sorting Ceremony.
“How exactly do they sort us?
Do we get to choose?
Or do the Heads of Houses pick us?” “I heard there’s some kind of exam.
Like having to recite a thousand types of magical herbs or brewing a potion on the spot.” “You’re thinking of a written test!
I heard the Sorting Ceremony involves everyone taking an Unforgivable Curse.
You only get to enroll if you don’t die.” “Rubbish!
What kind of school are you trying to enroll in?
Azkaban?!” As the wild rumors flew back and forth, the increasingly absurd theories made Hermione knit her brows in annoyance.
“Silan, do you know how they sort us?
I’ve read Hogwarts: A History, but it doesn’t mention a single thing about the actual ceremony.” It was truly a marvel how generation after generation of witches and wizards managed to keep the secret so perfectly.
The first-year sorting ritual had remained unexposed for centuries.
Every year, older wizards took immense delight in using this exact topic to terrify the incoming students, as though the magical world lacked any other form of entertainment.
Faced with such a harmlessly mischievous tradition, Silan decided: *I might as well add some fuel to the fire.* He shook his head, adopting a thoroughly clueless expression.
“I haven’t a clue either.
But perhaps we can ask them.” Silan subtly gestured with his chin toward a group of ghosts gliding straight through the solid walls.
The rest of the first-years were so startled by the sudden apparition of the ghosts that they barely dared to breathe, instinctively huddling back against the walls in a unified movement.
Finding a flock of fresh, wide-eyed, and beautifully gullible first-years, the drifting ghosts felt as though they had just discovered a collection of shiny new toys.
They enthusiastically floated over to showcase their supernatural talents.
One ghost grabbed his own head with both hands, popped it off, tossed it into the air for a multi-rotation spin, and caught it perfectly back on his neck.
Of course, on occasion, the head landed completely backward.
When that happened, they would casually twist it 180 degrees with their hands to snap it back into alignment.
Initially horrified by the spectral talent show, the young students quickly realized the ghosts were actually incredibly friendly.
Realizing that such performances were a rare sight, they gradually calmed down.
A few of the bolder children even began offering critiques on the ghosts’ form.
It had to be said that people destined to be wizards possessed an extraordinary capacity for accepting the bizarre.
Silan stepped toward a ghost wearing a starched ruff collar and inquired politely, “Excuse me, sir, how exactly does the sorting work?
I heard we have to summon the mascot animals representing each house from a magical hat and fight them.
Whichever beast we defeat is the house we join.” The ghost stared back at Silan, an immediate, unspoken understanding flashing between them.
“Oh, absolutely, yes,” the ghost replied with a deadpan nod, even using one hand to steady his head as it tilted precariously.
“Just last year, I watched a boy get eaten alive by the Gryffindor lion.
And the Slytherin serpent?
Poisoned several of them right on the spot.” Hearing this, several nearby first-years turned pale with terror.
Silan could even hear faint sniffles and muffled pleas to be sent back home.
Silan promptly mirrored their horrified expressions, acting as though he had bought into the tale completely.
[Silver-Tongued: Proficiency +7] Silan was highly satisfied.
*Apologies, classmates, but your experience points are just too sweet to pass up.* “Si–Silan…” Neville’s entire face crumpled, looking ready to burst into tears.
“I don’t think I can make it into Gryffindor anymore.
There’s no way I can fight a lion.” *Ah,* Silan realized.
*Laid it on a bit too thick.
I’ve terrified the future Sword Saint.* Beside them, Hermione’s eyes were wide with shock.
“Do I have to fight a lion too?” Silan quickly tried to walk it back.
“Well, it might not necessarily be true…” However, because his words sounded so obviously like a forced attempt at comfort, the anxious first-years only grew more terrified.
[Silver-Tongued: Proficiency +9] Silan: *…Well then.* “Ron, you don’t seem scared at all,” Harry whispered softly from the side.
“Blimey, dueling a lion or a serpent sounds brilliant compared to what my brothers told me.
At home, they swore I’d have to wrestle a live dragon.” “Blimey, I suppose we should count ourselves lucky then…” When Professor McGonagall marched back into the chamber, she found the first-years looking completely drained of energy, resembling a batch of Flobberworms that had been squeezed dry of all their mucus.
The sight left her thoroughly perplexed.
*Why does this year’s batch look so deflated and lifeless?
Where is their youthful vigor?* “Remember, the Sorting is a highly solemn event.
Please maintain silence.
Now, form a single file line and follow me,” McGonagall commanded.
The students slumped into motion, lining up tightly behind Professor McGonagall.
They marched out of the chamber, crossed the grand entrance hall, passed through a set of double doors, and stepped into the breathtaking expanse of the Great Hall.
The sheer scale of the hall was astonishing.
Even with four incredibly long tables packed with students, it didn’t feel the least bit cramped.
The tables gleamed with golden plates and goblets, illuminated brilliantly by thousands of candles floating suspended in mid-air.
Looking past the floating wax, the ceiling wasn’t a drab layer of heavy stone, but a shifting tapestry of rolling clouds and glittering stars, mirroring the night sky outside.
Every first-year who noticed the ceiling let out a collective gasp of awe.
Hermione whispered in a hushed tone, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside.
I read about it in Hogwarts: A History.” The procession moved all the way to the very front of the Great Hall before halting.
Up on the raised dais sat the staff table.
Dumbledore sat right in the center, swathed in magnificent purple robes, his kindly, wise eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.
The seat right next to him remained vacant, presumably reserved for Professor McGonagall.
Further down the table sat the Head of Slytherin, Severus Snape, his hair looking distinctly greasy and unwashed.
On Dumbledore’s other side sat the remaining two Heads of Houses, Filius Flitwick and Pomona Sprout.
Naturally, Hagrid and the latest annual Defense Against the Dark Arts professor were also in attendance.
McGonagall placed a four-legged stool directly in front of the new students, resting a patched, frayed, and thoroughly filthy pointed wizard’s hat upon it.
A few students stared at it with lingering dread, genuinely fearing a lion or a serpent might burst through the fabric at any moment.
The Great Hall fell into a profound hush.
Then, the ragged hat twitched, a wide rip near the brim opening like a mouth, and it began to sing.
Though the performance left a lot to be desired vocally, the first-years caught the core message: the entire sorting ritual merely required them to put on this hat.
A massive wave of relief washed over the crowd.
While the hat was ugly and grime-stained, it was a massive upgrade from mortal combat with apex predators.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment and began calling out names.
“Abbott, Hannah!” “HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat bellowed.
The sorting order at Hogwarts followed the alphabetical order of the students’ surnames.
Silan’s surname, “Prewett,” started with a ‘P,’ putting him in the same bracket as Harry Potter.
Therefore, both Neville and Hermione were scheduled ahead of him.
As the names rolled down the list, they quickly reached the ‘G’s.
“Granger, Hermione!” Hermione darted a swift glance at Silan before practically sprinting up to the stool, eagerly jamming the hat onto her head.
The Sorting Hat twisted its brim for a brief second before shouting, “GRYFFINDOR!” Taking the hat off, Hermione didn’t immediately rush down to her house table.
Instead, she shot Silan a look of profound amazement, as if to say, “You actually got it right!” Neville wiped the sweat from his brow using his sleeve, fiercely pumping himself up inside.
*Silan’s divination is flawlessly accurate!
I am absolutely going to be a Gryffindor!* He could feel a surge of genuine confidence blossoming deep within his chest.
Neville spun around to scan the crowd for Chris Nott, finding the boy glaring at him with pure malice.
He instinctively started to shrink back, but catching sight of Silan, a strange reservoir of courage welled up within him.
He widened his eyes and glared right back at Chris Nott.
The silent defiance sent Chris Nott into an absolute fury.
The fact that this usually submissive, pathetic boy dared to look him in the eye rubbed him entirely the wrong way, transferring his mounting rage squarely onto Silan.
*It’s all this bloke’s fault!* “Longbottom, Neville!” Hearing his name, Neville took a deep, stabilizing breath and gave Silan a firm nod.
“Take your time walking up there, Mr.
Longbottom,” Silan said softly.
“Right.” Heedful of Silan’s advice, Neville walked up to the stool with measured, steady steps.
Though he looked visibly tense, he thankfully managed not to trip over his own robes and make a scene.
Placing the Sorting Hat over his head, Neville squeezed his eyes shut.
A tiny, muttering voice drifted directly into his ear: “Difficult…
very difficult indeed…” The observation sent a cold spike of anxiety through him.
His hands balled into tight fists, clutching desperately at the fabric of his robes.
He felt terrified, but more than anything, he felt consumed by pressure.
What if the hat exposed him as a coward and relegated him to cleaning the castle lavatories?
His grandmother would be utterly heartbroken.
And he would end up making a fool out of Silan too.
“Gryffindor…
Gryffindor…” Neville chanted frantically under his breath, trying to summon every ounce of willpower he possessed.
Yet, he could clearly feel his spirits plummeting.
The warmth seemed to drain completely from his body, leaving his hands and feet thoroughly ice-cold.
A long silence stretched over the hall, lasting until the surrounding students began to murmur with impatience.
Finally, the hat bellowed out: “GRYFFINDOR!” Neville could barely believe his ears.
His body reacted far quicker than his brain; the icy sensation vanished instantly, replaced by a wave of exhilarating warmth.
He leapt off the stool and sprinted straight back toward Silan, cheering at the top of his lungs: “Gryffindor!
Gryffindor!” In his sheer ecstasy, he had completely forgotten to leave the hat behind with Professor McGonagall.
The Great Hall erupted into a collective roar of laughter, leaving Neville standing frozen in sheer embarrassment.
Silan grinned, pointing a finger toward his own head.
Only then did Neville realize the massive hat was still resting over his eyes.
Blushing furiously, he scurried back to return the hat to a mildly amused Professor McGonagall.
The group of first-years who had witnessed the earlier confrontation out by the lake immediately began chanting Nott’s name, unleashing wave after wave of mocking boos.
Chris Nott’s face shifted through a brilliant spectrum of green and white, glaring at Neville and Silan with unadulterated hatred.
He hadn’t expected Silan’s prediction to land flawlessly.
Yet, alongside his mounting anger, a wave of profound relief washed over him–thank goodness he hadn’t accepted that wager.
Otherwise, his humiliation would have been absolute.
The realization allowed a sense of smug self-satisfaction to creep back into his chest; *clearly, when it came to sheer intellect, he was still the superior wizard.* The sorting marched on.
Harry Potter was called up, and shortly after his placement, it was finally Silan’s turn.
“Prewett, Silan!” — [Total Bonus Chapters Achieved: 0]