Facing Draco’s unhidden, angry interrogation, Alvin swiftly reined in his expression.
He had no desire to sour rooming relations on his very first day, especially when they had to share a small space for the next seven years.
With a quick turn of mind, a decent excuse and a touch of subtle flattery took shape.
“No, not at all, Malfoy,” Alvin replied, his tone returning to its usual cool composure, sprinkled with a well-measured, thoughtful politeness.
“I was merely surprised.
I assumed the house would assign rooms in a…
well, more random fashion.
Sharing a room with the Chief is naturally my honor.”
He paused, looking calmly at Draco, and added, “After all, not everyone gets the chance to be so close to the Year Chief and the noble heir of the Malfoy family.”
This response explained his momentary slip while appealing to Draco’s pride as Chief and heir to the Malfoy legacy.
Sure enough, the fury on Draco’s face evaporated at a visible rate.
His tense jaw relaxed slightly, and a glint of smug satisfaction flashed in his grey-blue eyes at having been petted the right way.
He scoffed, his voice still a bit stiff, though his tone had noticeably softened.
“Hmph.
At least you have some sense.
Get in here, don’t just stand there like a fool.”
A somewhat arrogant smile spread across his face, as if saying, *at least you know what’s good for you.*
They stepped into the dormitory one after the other.
The room was broader than Alvin had anticipated—fitting for a double occupancy room.
The overall aesthetic remained true to the Slytherin dungeon style: stone walls and glowing green wall lamps.
However, it featured two narrow windows similar to those in the common room, looking out into the dark waters of the Black Lake, where faint glimmers of light occasionally drifted by.
On either side of the room stood a four-poster bed draped in silver-and-green hangings, flanked by matching desks and wardrobes, leaving a small open space in the center carpeted in dark fabric.
Perhaps Alvin’s words earlier had produced an effect, as Draco appeared quite “magnanimous” now.
He gestured around the room:
“Since we’re roommates, you choose first.
Near the window or further inside?”
Though he tried hard to sound as if he were granting a casual favor, his slightly raised chin gave away his satisfaction with his own “generosity.”
“Thank you.
I’ll take the bed by the window then.”
Alvin didn’t decline and walked over to the bed near the window that offered a view of the lake bed.
At least the subtle, shifting water light felt more connected to nature than solid stone walls.
He opened his deceptively modest woven rattan trunk and began organizing his belongings in an orderly fashion.
He didn’t have many clothes: a few changes of Hogwarts robes and several sets of traditional Chinese casual wear—mostly comfortable martial practice robes and dark-collared shirts—which he neatly hung in the wardrobe or folded into drawers.
The other items he pulled from the trunk caused Draco, who was casually unpacking while secretly observing him, to cast side-glances:
A few thread-bound ancient Chinese books (the titles of which Draco couldn’t read at all), a set of writing brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone, a small sealed pouch containing various herbs and dried plants, and several antique-looking wooden boxes and silk pouches of unknown purpose.
Alvin categorized them methodically, placing them on his desk in a precise, almost ritualistic order.
They blended curiously with the cold, hard lines of the desk, forming a quiet, tranquil haven of his own.
In contrast, on Draco’s side, the Malfoy family had clearly packed an exceptionally lavish array of goods: a magnificent wizard’s chess set, several sets of exquisitely tailored pajamas and casual robes, a massive hoard of sweets and candies, and various stationery items and trinkets gleaming with expensive luster.
He piled them somewhat casually on his bed and desk, creating a messy clutter that stood in stark contrast to his pristine, well-tailored robes.
By the time Alvin hung his final item—the old Taoist temple bell—on an inconspicuous spot on his bedpost, his “domain” exuded a clean, concise, comfortable, and deeply personal atmosphere.
He even placed a small Mind-Tranquilizing Talisman under his pillow to aid in serene sleep.
Looking at his own half-sorted pile of clutter, and then glancing at Alvin’s tidy, tranquil setup that looked ready for peaceful study or rest at any moment, a rare, almost imperceptible flash of… Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
embarrassment and chagrin crossed Draco’s pale face.
He ducked his head and picked up his pace, hurriedly stuffing things into cabinets or piling them on the corner of his desk, trying his best to make his side look “respectable,” though the result clearly fell short of his roommate’s.
After a quick wash, Alvin, weighed down by a day’s physical fatigue, went to sleep almost immediately.
His Taoist breathing technique allowed him to quickly enter a state of deep tranquility; within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, his breathing turned smooth and rhythmic.
…
The next morning, when the first faint, hazy rays of dawn—filtered through layers of Black Lake water—seeped through the window into the dormitory, Alvin’s biological clock awakened him right on schedule.
This was a habit cultivated over years on Mount Qingcheng.
No matter where he was, around sunrise, when the spiritual energy of heaven and earth was at its freshest and most generative, was the time for his morning practice.
He rose silently without disturbing Draco, who was still fast asleep behind his bed curtains.
Changing into a loose cotton-linen practice suit, he walked over to the small carpet by the window, sat cross-legged facing the pane (even though there was only lake water outside), adopted the five-centers-facing-heaven posture, and closed his eyes.
The dormitory was dead silent, save for Draco’s soft snoring and the distant, subtle rippling of the lake.
Alvin’s breathing gradually became extremely slow and deep, harmonizing with a broader, ancient rhythm in every inhale and exhale.
He was not drawing in the local magical energy; rather, following his family’s inner mental method, he guided the wisps of spiritual energy he had cultivated over the years to circulate slowly through his meridians, nourishing his body and mind, cleansing the turbid breath accumulated overnight.
At the same time, he tried to sense the “energy” in this strange environment—something akin to Eastern spiritual qi, yet perhaps different in nature.
This was his daily practice, unshakable and unyielding.
About half an hour later, Alvin slowly withdrew his energy and opened his eyes.
His gaze was crystal clear, yesterday’s fatigue completely washed away.
However, as soon as he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into a pair of curious grey-blue eyes merely inches away.
Draco had woken up at some point and was sitting on his own bed in silk pajamas, his hair slightly rumpled, though it didn’t diminish his intense curiosity in the slightest.
He had likely been watching like that for quite a while.
“Merlin,” Draco blurted out the moment he saw Alvin finish, his voice raspy with sleep and thick with curiosity.
“Alvin, what were you doing just now?
Sitting motionless for so long…
it looked weird, like…
like that yoga those Indian wizards practice?”
He had clearly never seen such a stance before; pure-blood wizarding families certainly had no tradition of morning meditation.
Alvin didn’t mind being seen; this wasn’t some dark secret requiring concealment.
He stood up, stretching his slightly numb legs, and explained simply:
“It’s a form of meditation.
We call it ‘*tuna*’ or ‘*dazuo*.’ It helps calm the mind and focus the spirit.”
He used two roughly equivalent English terms.
“*Tuna*?
*Dazuo*?”
Draco repeated the unfamiliar syllables.
Remembering the various items he had seen in Alvin’s luggage yesterday that were completely out of place for a traditional wizard, his eyes lit up involuntarily.
“Sounds very…
Eastern.
Wait, you’re not from the East, are you?”
Alvin nodded and began changing back into his Hogwarts robes.
“Yes, my father is Chinese.
I grew up in China and only returned to Britain when I turned eleven.”
“No wonder!” Draco looked as if he had solved a grand mystery, jumping out of bed so fast his pajama hems fluttered.
“I knew you were…
I don’t mean that lock of white hair, I mean your…
manner!
And all those strange things of yours!”
He pointed to the writing brushes, inkstone, paper, and thread-bound books on Alvin’s desk.
“My father told me China is a vast market.
We Malfoys have businesses there too, dealing with some local…
well…
magical ingredient merchants.
Things really are very different over there.”
Ignited by this new discovery, he temporarily forgot to maintain his dignified reserve, hurling questions like a rapid-fire cannon:
“What are Chinese wizards like?
Do you use wands too?
What are your magic schools like?
Are they all built high on mountains?
Can that meditation stuff really make a person stronger?
Can you do that magic…
where you shoot beams of light straight out of your palm?”
Alvin initially answered with patience: “Our…
cultivation methods are different; we don’t necessarily rely on wands.
School structures vary greatly, not always like Hogwarts.
Meditation is the foundation to cultivate oneself.
Beams from palms…
that isn’t a common spell.”
However, Draco’s curiosity was seemingly boundless, veering from magic to food, sacred beasts to local customs, jabbering endlessly.
Seeing that breakfast time was drawing near, Alvin had no choice but to interrupt his roommate, who had suddenly transformed into a walking encyclopedia of questions.
“Draco,” Alvin reminded him in a steady voice, “as the First-Year Chief, shouldn’t you be reminding everyone to head to the Great Hall for breakfast?”
The sentence hit Draco like a bucket of cold water, instantly snapping him out of his fascination with China.
His face straightened, and he immediately recalled his official duties, donning his calculatedly composed posture once more.
“Ahem, you’re right, Alvin.
A Chief needs to attend to these matters.”
He swiftly changed into his robes and groomed his hair, striving to look meticulous.
“I’ll go…
well…
gather everyone.”
Unlike the new students from other houses who ambled into the Great Hall in drowsy groups of two or three, the Slytherin first-years entered the Great Hall in two fairly neat, organized lines under “Chief Draco’s” direction, following him in relative unison.
This drew glances from students of other houses and caused the corners of a few professors’ mouths at the staff table—especially Slytherin’s Head of House, Severus Snape—to twitch almost imperceptibly.
The long tables were already laden with breakfast.
While eating his porridge and toast—which was still not entirely to his taste but barely palatable—Alvin picked up the distributed timetable.
The first-year schedule was packed: Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Potions, History of Magic, Astronomy, and the eagerly anticipated Flying Class.
And their very first class of the semester was Charms, taught by the Head of Ravenclaw House, Professor Filius Flitwick.
After breakfast, under Draco’s organization once again, the Slytherin first-years set off toward the Charms classroom.