The Great Hall was unusually quiet.
Hermes was helping the other professors make the final preparations for the new school year.
The welcoming feast and Sorting Ceremony would take place here that evening, and everything had to be ready before the students arrived.
Aside from the four Heads of House and Dumbledore, Hermes finally met the rest of the faculty.
Among them was Professor Quirrell, the man with whom he would be sharing responsibility for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
The pale-faced wizard wore a large purple turban and stammered whenever he spoke.
His eyes shifted nervously from side to side, and a faint tremor seemed to run through his body at all times.
He possessed the neurotic air of someone who had not enjoyed a peaceful night’s sleep in months.
Not long afterward, McGonagall approached Hermes.
“The students will be arriving soon,” she reminded him.
“I know.”
Hermes nodded and headed toward the staff table with Calcifer perched upon his shoulder.
Unfortunately, the seat assigned to him was directly beside Snape.
The Potions Master sat with his black robes gathered around him, his expression as gloomy as ever.
Clearly, his desire to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts had not diminished merely because the position now had two occupants.
The moment Hermes approached, Snape gave a cold snort and stared at him with undisguised hostility.
Unaffected by the glare, Hermes calmly sat down and placed Calcifer upon the nearest candlestick.
He then turned slightly toward the man beside him.
“Good evening, Professor Snape.”
“Hmph.”
Snape responded with another cold snort.
“I hear our newest professor intends to introduce several novel ideas into his lessons.”
His voice was soft and silky, yet every word carried a trace of venom.
“I feel obliged to remind you of something, Mr.
Moriarty.”
He leaned slightly closer.
“The older students are not gullible children.
Cheap tricks and theatrical displays will not be enough to deceive them.”
“Thank you for your concern, Professor Snape.”
Hermes answered with the same mild smile he had worn from the beginning.
There was not the slightest trace of anger in his voice.
It was the verbal equivalent of striking a fist against cotton.
Snape’s expression stiffened.
A flicker of irritation passed through his dark eyes before he turned away and ignored Hermes entirely.
From the other side of the staff table, Flitwick gave Hermes an amused wink.
“Good evening, Professor Moriarty.”
“Good evening, Professor Flitwick.”
The fireplaces had been burning for hours, filling the vast hall with a comfortable warmth.
Beyond its doors, the last of the preparations throughout the castle were gradually coming to an end.
In less than an hour, the students would begin pouring into Hogwarts.
At the staff table, McGonagall sat perfectly upright, her dark green robes immaculate and free of even the slightest wrinkle.
Her gaze repeatedly swept across the empty hall.
One hand rested upon the table, while the fingers of the other unconsciously turned the tip of her wand.
“At this time last year, several students were delivered directly by their parents using Portkeys,” she remarked.
“This year, at least, they should all arrive together on the train.”
At the center of the table, Albus Dumbledore gave a distracted murmur of acknowledgment.
His attention was entirely occupied by a bag of honeyed sweets in his hands.
“You know, I personally delivered several acceptance letters this year,” Flitwick said to Hermes.
“A few were addressed to children from nonmagical families.
Their reactions were quite memorable.”
He immediately launched into an animated account of his visits to the Muggle world.
Another had spent nearly ten minutes attempting to chase him from the house with a broom.
A third had refused to believe in magic even after Flitwick made their dining table dance across the room.
Calcifer proved to be an excellent listener.
The little fire demon gasped at all the appropriate moments, laughed loudly at every amusing detail, and occasionally interrupted with indignant questions.
His exaggerated reactions gave Flitwick more than enough encouragement to continue.
The professor had just reached the most exciting part of his third story when Dumbledore suddenly rose from his chair.
The conversations around the staff table gradually faded.
After brushing several sugar-coated crumbs from his robes, Dumbledore raised one hand.
Magic swept through the empty hall.
Four long tables appeared in neat rows with a series of soft thuds.
Hundreds of candles materialized above them, floating freely in midair.
Their flames ignited one after another, bathing the Great Hall in warm golden light.
Overhead, the enchanted ceiling transformed.
The stone vanished, replaced by an endless night sky filled with brilliant stars.
Wisps of cloud drifted slowly across the darkness, creating the illusion that they were sitting beneath the open heavens.
Not far from Dumbledore, McGonagall rose immediately.
She crossed the hall, opened its towering double doors, and disappeared into the corridor beyond.
“The students have arrived,” Flitwick whispered to Hermes.
“Professor McGonagall has gone to collect the first-years.”
It was not long before the doors opened again.
This time, the older students entered in a steady stream.
The formerly silent Great Hall came alive almost instantly.
Young witches and wizards took their places at the tables belonging to their respective Houses.
Voices rose from every direction as friends reunited after the summer, eagerly sharing stories about their holidays.
Before long, however, much of the conversation shifted toward the incoming first-years.
More precisely, toward one particular first-year.
“I heard the Boy Who Lived is starting at Hogwarts this year.”
Even at the Slytherin table, the subject immediately attracted attention.
Several students exchanged confident glances before looking disdainfully toward the neighboring Gryffindor table.
“As a pure-blood wizard, Harry Potter will obviously join Slytherin,” one student declared.
“Unless he is foolish enough to have been abandoned by Merlin himself.”
“Exactly.
There is no need to debate it.”
“Rubbish!” someone shouted from the Gryffindor table.
“The Potter family has produced Gryffindors for generations!”
The argument rapidly spread through the hall.
Meanwhile, the first-years had finally crossed the Black Lake.
“Here we are—Hogwarts!”
Hagrid’s booming voice carried through the night.
The small boats drifted against the shore, rocking gently as the children helped one another climb onto land.
Standing among them, Harry raised his head.
High above the lake, Hogwarts Castle towered against the night sky.
Countless illuminated windows shone across its walls, while spires and battlements rose toward the stars.
Its sheer size left him speechless.
“This is even bigger than Uncle Hermes’s castle…” he murmured.
Even so, he still preferred the Moving Castle.
It had been his first true glimpse into the wizarding world.
There had been fragrant roasted meat, rich mushroom soup, the lively Mr.
Calcifer, and the proud little Opal running around like an overexcited dog.
More importantly, Uncle Hermes had been there.
They had known each other for only a short time, yet Hermes was the first adult Harry could remember treating him with genuine kindness.
Years of living with the Dursleys had taught Harry how to read another person’s attitude.
He could recognize disgust, impatience, false smiles, and hidden malice almost instantly.
“What castle?”
Beside him, Ron finally tore his gaze away from Hogwarts and looked at Harry in confusion.
“Nothing.” Harry shook his head.
“Come on.
Hagrid is calling us.”
The first-years followed the enormous man up the stone steps and entered the castle.
Waiting for them inside the entrance hall was Professor McGonagall.
She explained the four Houses, the purpose of the Sorting Ceremony, and several of the school’s basic rules.
Once she had finished, she arranged the children into a line and led them toward the Great Hall.
The chill of the stone entrance hall brushed against Harry’s face.
By then, he had almost forgotten the unpleasant encounter with the pale, sharp-faced boy at the castle entrance.
The doors ahead swung open.
The first-years stepped into the Great Hall—and nearly every one of them stopped breathing.
It was grander than anything Harry had imagined.
Thousands of candles floated overhead, their warm flames illuminating four long tables extending through the hall.
Above them stretched a magnificent night sky filled with countless glittering stars.
The tables had been decorated in the colors of the four Houses.
Those must be Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, Harry thought.
Hundreds of older students watched the newcomers enter.
Some whispered among themselves, while others openly pointed toward Harry and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
Trying to ignore them, Harry followed the line deeper into the hall.
His gaze travelled along the four House tables before reaching the raised platform at the far end.
An elderly wizard with a long silver-white beard sat in the center of the staff table, dressed in magnificent robes.
Other witches and wizards occupied the seats on either side of him.
Then Harry suddenly froze.
His pupils contracted.
A moment later, unrestrained joy spread across his face.
Uncle Hermes was sitting at the staff table.
The familiar young man sat calmly among the Hogwarts professors, dressed as neatly as ever.
On the candlestick beside him burned an equally familiar flame.
Mr.
Calcifer!
At the staff table, Hermes noticed Harry staring at him.
He picked up the goblet beside his hand and raised it slightly in greeting.
That small gesture immediately dispelled the last of Harry’s unease.
Uncle Hermes had never mentioned that he would be teaching at Hogwarts.
So this was why he had needed to leave the Moving Castle.
After acknowledging Harry, Hermes turned back toward Flitwick, who had resumed recounting the dueling tournaments in which he had competed during his youth.
Snape, seated beside them, noticed the brief exchange.
His dark eyes moved toward Harry.
For an instant, his gaze fixed upon the boy’s face with eerie intensity.
Something seemed to flicker in those black depths—shock, recognition, and an emotion too complicated to name.
Then his expression returned to normal, and he looked away as though nothing had happened.
At the front of the hall, the Sorting Hat finished singing its welcoming song.
The patched and weathered hat became still atop its high wooden stool.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward and unrolled the parchment in her hands.
“When I call your name, please come forward and place the hat upon your head.”
Her eyes moved to the first name on the list.
She cleared her throat.
“Hannah Abbott.”
Happy Reading!!!