After the feast ended, the food vanished from the tables just as magically as it had appeared.
At that very moment, Flins caught a faint ripple of magic—one slightly different from the magical ripples of wizards.
“Oh, now that everyone has eaten and drunk their fill, I must say a few more words to you all.
As the term begins, I have a few notices to give you:”
“First years should note that the forest on the grounds is strictly forbidden to all students.
A few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.”
Dumbledore’s gaze flicked briefly toward the red-haired twins Flins had met earlier.
“Furthermore, the caretaker, Mr.
Filch, has asked me to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors…”
“And finally, I must tell you that anyone who does not wish to suffer a painful death should avoid the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side.”
The Great Hall fell quiet for a second.
Flins noticed quite a few people at the Slytherin table frowning slightly.
Several older students exchanged glances, their faces far more serious than before.
Sitting across from him, Blaise leaned over, whispered a couple of questions to an older student nearby, and then pulled back to whisper in Flins’s ear:
“There was never a rule like that in past years.”
He raised an eyebrow, his voice carrying hidden caution.
“The third-floor corridor?
I bet something is locked up in there.”
Flins tilted his head slightly to look at him.
The easy, careless air in Blaise’s almond eyes had pulled back quite a bit, replaced by a cool, thoughtful guard.
Flins glanced at the rest of the table and found that most Slytherin students wore a similar look of alert caution.
Blaise shook his head and added under his breath:
“I have a feeling our school days will be just like the weather—ready to change at any second.”
Flins curved his lips: “Perhaps a rocky school life suits the Headmaster’s tastes better.”
Blaise glanced at him, a flicker of agreement showing on his face, though it crumpled right away:
“You’re right, Kyryll.
But right now we have to sing first, which also seems to suit his tastes.”
He turned toward Gryffindor with a pained look.
The red-haired twins had already stood up, belting out the Hogwarts school song at the top of their lungs to a slow, dramatic tune that sounded clearly like a funeral march.
Some Gryffindors covered their faces laughing, while others banged the tables to keep time.
Looking in that direction, Blaise sighed:
“I truly dislike Gryffindor.
Even if the Sorting Hat just told me I’d do well in Ravenclaw.”
Flins picked up on the twins’ tune and followed along for a few beats, his pitch steady and clear.
Blaise swung his head around to stare at him, putting on an exaggerated look of horror.
Hearing the harmony from across the room, the twins turned toward Flins at the same time, flashed him a thumbs-up, and sang even louder.
Bedtime arrived.
The two Slytherin prefects stood at the end of the long table and waved the new students over.
Flins rose, gathered his robes, and fell into line as they walked out of the Great Hall.
The path to the Slytherin common room was far longer than Flins had expected.
They kept heading downward, passing through stone corridors and turning corner after corner.
The steps grew narrower, and the torches on the walls grew fewer, replaced by greenish bronze sconces that cast a faint light over the damp stone.
The air grew cool and heavy, carrying the damp, chilly smell unique to deep underground.
No one in the group spoke; only the rustle of robes and the sound of footsteps echoed through the narrow passage.
At last, they came to a halt before a bare, damp stretch of stone wall.
The male prefect turned around, his eyes sweeping across the faces of the first years.
He said:
“I hope you remembered the way as we came down.
Dormitory assignments are posted on your doors; go check them yourselves in a moment.”
He paused, lifting his chin slightly:
“Whatever happens, Slytherin stands as the most united house to the outside world.
I do not want to see any of you picked on by the other three houses—”
Beside him, the female prefect smoothed a lock of dark hair falling over her shoulder, a half-smile playing at her lips as she picked up the thread:
“Of course, if those foolish Gryffindor lions come looking for trouble first, we will back you up.”
She looked over the new students, her tone softening a touch:
“New little wizards, I hope you bring no shame to Slytherin.”
The male prefect added: “‘Glory’—that is the common room password.
Keep it in mind.”
With that, he turned back to the blank wall.
The stone gave a slight shudder and slid smoothly open to both sides, revealing a stone doorway.
Warm yellow light spilled through the opening, carrying the crackle of a hearth fire and the low hum of conversation.
The prefects led the new students inside.
The Slytherin common room was a long, low basement room.
The walls and ceiling were built of rough, dark stone, and round lamps glowing with faint green light hung from chains overhead, casting a soft, dim glow.
Directly ahead, a fire blazed in the hearth, its light falling over several carved armchairs where older students sat chatting and reading, relaxed and composed.
They merely glanced up when the first years entered, paying them no great attention.
The female prefect exchanged quick greetings with the older students, then turned back to the first years, speaking in a calm, orderly tone:
“You may do whatever you like in the common room normally.
Read, do homework, chat, or keep to yourselves.
Of course, you must not bring students from other houses inside.
Slytherin respects everyone’s personal space—unlike Gryffindor, where those lions are always far too nosy about other people’s private business.”
She pointed to either side:
“Dormitories are that way—boys on the left, girls on the right.
Follow the corridor to the very end.
Your names are on the doors, so find your own rooms.”
Having said that, the two prefects took empty seats by the fire and blended naturally with the older students, talking in low voices, as if leaving the first years to settle into the room on their own.
“Wow, that older girl…
she’s truly pretty.”
Blaise lowered his voice, speaking with a slow, deliberate air of appreciation.
“Let me think, which family is she from?
Perhaps I could…
ask her for some help?”
He dragged out the word “help” with a playful edge, his eyes lingering on the female prefect, unwilling to look away.
Flins lifted an eyelid, let it drop back down, and said in a flat tone: “I wish you success, Blaise.”
He paused, his gaze dropping to Blaise, who was a head shorter, then shifting over to the female prefect’s tall figure.
Looking away, Flins kept his tone even, though a very faint, unreadable smile touched the corner of his lips:
“I am sure the lady would be quite glad to speak with you about…
other things.”
“You truly are a killjoy, Kyryll…”