Soon, Ron would meet this fellow traveler on the path of wealth.
Not long after, the feast was about to begin.
Thorne sat at the staff table, watching the Great Hall grow lively with genuine interest.
The upper-year students were already filing in through the large side doors.
Of course, in Thorne’s eyes they were a colorful parade of bugs in every shape and size.
Mantises, beetles, mosquitoes, flies, even a few mushroom-like oddities — a full night march of insects.
Scattered among this strange swarm, Thorne occasionally spotted a few mammalian figures.
These “outsiders” were mostly gathered at one long table.
Thorne immediately pegged it as the Slytherin table.
After all, several students there had already turned to greet Snape.
The big bat, however, didn’t seem the least bit interested.
His gloomy gaze stayed locked on the main doors where the new students would soon appear.
Thorne had no idea why Snape looked like that, but he was quietly grateful he was sitting right between Snape and Professor Flitwick.
Being surrounded by mammals felt pretty damn good.
The new students entered a few minutes later.
Thorne spotted the skinny little stag beetle right away — Harry.
Their eyes met almost instantly.
Both lit up with obvious delight and exchanged quick nods.
But Thorne quickly noticed something off about the small group of new students around Harry.
Their gazes kept flicking between him and the headmaster.
Every so often they leaned in and whispered to each other.
What the hell was that about?
Thorne’s curiosity stirred.
Were they talking about how he had the “bearing of a headmaster”?
Well.
At least someone had good taste.
While Thorne was busy entertaining that thought, Professor McGonagall had already set a stool in the center of the hall.
She held the familiar parchment in one hand and the slightly battered Sorting Hat in the other.
The annual Hogwarts Sorting Ceremony had officially begun.
“I will call each name,” Professor McGonagall announced, clear and serious.
“When I do, that student will come forward, put on the hat, sit on the stool, and be sorted.” She glanced down at the parchment.
“Hannah Abbott!” A rosy-cheeked little beetle with two golden braids stumbled out of the line.
Thorne had her pegged the second he saw her.
This girl was probably the type who wrote romance novels in her spare time.
She sat on the stool under everyone’s gaze and tugged the hat down over her head.
The brim nearly swallowed her eyes.
After a short pause the hat shouted, “Hufflepuff!” The long table on the right side of the hall erupted in warm applause and cheers.
Bugs of every description waved and called out, welcoming Hannah into the fold.
Thorne clapped along with them, polite and welcoming.
Names continued to be called one after another.
From Thorne’s perspective, the distribution across the four houses was surprisingly logical.
Slytherin, proud of bloodline and legacy, had gathered quite a few “mammals.” The little white weasel Thorne had met in Madam Malkin’s shop — young Malfoy — was sorted straight into that house.
Ravenclaw’s table had noticeably more… snails.
That matched Thorne’s original impression of the house almost perfectly.
From a certain angle, this house would probably excel at soul magic.
After all, quite a few of the soul techniques Thorne had mastered had come from snails.
Gryffindor’s bugs looked noticeably rowdier than the rest, and they were by far the loudest.
Harry ending up there felt exactly right.
Hufflepuff, true to form, took in every kind of bug imaginable.
The table was a perfect mix, the atmosphere warm and easy.
Before long the entire Sorting Ceremony was over.
Thorne’s palms were starting to go numb from all the clapping.
Headmaster Dumbledore rose to his feet, wearing that unreadable smile, and began listing the usual start-of-term notices.
“Finally, I must remind you once more — anyone who does not wish to meet with an accident or a painful death should stay out of the right-hand corridor on the fourth floor.” A ripple of unease moved through the hall.
Dumbledore gave a light cough and continued.
“And finally — I promise this really is the last ‘finally.'” He smiled and swept his gaze across the room.
“This year we welcome two new professors.
Professor Quirinus Quirrell will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.” Applause rose.
“And the other — Professor Eric Thorne.” Dumbledore’s eyes found Thorne.
“He will primarily teach courses related to soul magic.
Of course,” Dumbledore added with a wink, “if any of you are interested, he may also offer a class in… entomology.” Thorne’s mouth twitched.
Entomology?
It was human anatomy, for Merlin’s sake.
Still.
At least they could finally eat.
Thorne had just relaxed and was watching the plates in front of him fill with food when a strange sensation prickled across his skin.
It felt like someone was watching him.
The gaze seemed to be coming from Snape’s direction.
Thorne lifted his head sharply, but no one was looking at him.
At the staff table, Snape was speaking quietly with a man whose head was wrapped in a purple scarf, back turned to Thorne.
Everything looked perfectly ordinary.
Yet the feeling of being watched refused to fade.
Thorne frowned and started scanning the room again.
As if sensing the attention, the man in the purple scarf slowly turned around.
His gaze landed directly on Thorne.
Only then did Thorne get a proper look at him.
A snail.
The already oversized head looked even more bloated and exaggerated wrapped in that purple scarf.
Thorne immediately classified him as Ravenclaw.
The snail extended a slightly slimy hand, a timid little smile on his face.
“Professor Thorne, isn’t it?” His voice trembled faintly.
“I-I’m Quirrell… W-we’re colleagues now, I suppose.” Thorne stood and shook the offered hand without thinking.
The moment their fingers touched, the sensation of being watched vanished.
“Hello, hello,” Thorne said with a nod.
“Looking forward to it.” Quirrell jerked his hand back like he’d been burned, then leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a near whisper.
“P-Professor Thorne… I-I’ve seen your lesson plans already.” Excitement leaked through the stammer.
“About soul magic… those techniques — were they really all created by you?
I even looked through some of your discarded drafts.
Very interesting.
Extremely interesting.” Quirrell licked his lips, voice dropping even lower.
“E-Especially… extracting souls.
It’s obvious there’s a lot of potential there.” Thorne’s eyes lit up at once.
“Oh?
You’re interested?” he said, genuinely pleased.
“To some extent, yes.
And this magic can be mastered by anyone — though it’s a shame Professor McGonagall—” “What about me?” The voice came from directly behind him.
Thorne went rigid.
He turned slowly and found the mosquito lady standing there, Sorting Hat in hand, giving him and Quirrell a distinctly dangerous look.
“A shame that I stopped you from promoting dark magic?” “No no no, it’s a shame that—” Thorne corrected himself at lightning speed.
“It’s a shame Professor McGonagall isn’t sitting next to me right now!
Seriously, Professor, I’m already dying to do worksheets!” Professor McGonagall reached into her robes and produced another sheet of parchment.
“Is that so?” she said evenly.
“Then let’s begin.” “…Professor, do you actually carry worksheets around with you?” “Of course not.
But I’ve memorized every exam question.
Just give me a moment to write them down.” “Wait—” Before Thorne could finish, Snape had already risen, black robes swirling.
“Very well, Minerva,” he said flatly.
“You can supervise here.
I have matters to attend to.
I’ll be going.” Thorne looked around, bewildered.
Professor Quirrell, who had been standing right beside him seconds earlier, had already vanished without a trace.
— The next morning.
In the washroom, Thorne stared at the exhausted face in the mirror and shook his head.
What kind of professor ends up doing three full Transfiguration worksheets at the welcome feast?
Merlin’s knife and fork.
When Hagrid had come looking for him last night, the big man had stared at him with genuine concern, clearly convinced Thorne had blown up Professor McGonagall’s office.
Thorne sighed.
Quirrell really had bolted way too fast.
Thorne had been counting on at least getting that guy to do one of the worksheets for him.
Still muttering, he packed up his toothbrush and towel and headed back to his quarters.
Only then did he notice the sheet of paper that had appeared on his desk.
Thorne raised an eyebrow and picked it up.
A class schedule.
“Hmm…” He scanned the times.
“First class after ten, then.” He set the paper down and let out a long breath.
“Damn it.
I really can’t have the students stab each other?” “Oh well.
Looks like third-years.
I can start with the basics.” Thorne drew the bone nail from its resting place and gave it a casual twirl.
“I wonder if I can actually train a few proper bone-nail masters out of them.”