Lunch at Hogwarts was just as sumptuous as the Welcoming Feast.
The massive golden platters were piled high with British specialties that Alvin Vance hadn’t had the chance to try yesterday.
There were golden, fluffy Yorkshire puddings with slightly charred, crispy edges; shepherd’s pie with its mashed potato crust baked to an inviting golden-brown, the savory aroma of the meat filling wafting through the dense, creamy layers; and a whole poached salmon drizzled with a creamy dill sauce, flanked by perfectly tender-crisp asparagus and baby carrots.
Alvin tried them one by one.
The Yorkshire pudding was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, which did indeed have a unique flavor when paired with the thick gravy.
The shepherd’s pie was hearty and warming, perfectly suited for the Scottish Highlands in this season.
The freshness of the salmon was impeccable, and the sauce was light and refreshing.
*Delicious,* he thought calmly, putting down his fork.
*But not quite right.*
That “not quite right” was not a matter of taste, but rather a deeper sense of dislocation rooted in eleven years of daily life.
What he missed was not a specific dish, but a familiar order of flavors—the steam of hot white rice, the smoky *wok hei*, and the clear, delicate aroma rising from a bowl of slow-simmered soup.
He needed more than just sustenance; he needed a habitual comfort that could ground his mind and body.
Finding the kitchen could no longer be delayed.
He recalled Ron mentioning in passing that his twin brothers, Fred and George, had mapped out almost every secret passage and hidden corner of Hogwarts.
If anyone in the castle knew how to find the kitchens, it would undoubtedly be the Weasley twins.
Only…
Alvin’s gaze swept across the Slytherin table, past Draco’s arm as he elegantly sliced into a roast lamb chop, and settled on the bustling red and gold crowd at the other end of the Great Hall.
Harry was looking down, working on a steak and kidney pie on his plate, while Ron poked at his mashed potatoes with a fork beside him.
The two chatted occasionally, but neither spared a single glance toward the Slytherin table.
Alvin had not missed the brief, fleeting contact and immediate averting of their eyes when their gazes met during Charms class this morning.
He wasn’t surprised, nor did he blame them.
A friend they had just met had been sorted right under their noses by the Sorting Hat into their so-called “sworn enemy house.” Had he been in their shoes, he would also need time to process it.
But understanding was one thing; he did not intend to let this newly budding friendship wither away in silence.
Alvin laid down his napkin, his decision made.
As lunch drew to a close, dessert made its scheduled appearance.
Alvin didn’t touch the delicate frosted cakes or creamy puddings, choosing instead to wait quietly.
When he saw Harry and Ron at the Gryffindor table set down their utensils and quietly rise, planning to leave the Great Hall before the crowd fully surged, Alvin rose from the Slytherin table.
Now was the time.
His movement wasn’t abrupt, but it was enough to make Draco pause in slicing his treacle tart, his grey-blue eyes sweeping over suspiciously.
That look was filled with unvarnished questioning: *What are you doing?*
Alvin gave him a slight nod of acknowledgment, offered no explanation, and turned to walk in the direction of Gryffindor.
Draco’s fork hovered in mid-air as he stared at the retreating back of Alvin, who had “left early” without adhering to the “stick together” rule Draco had established.
The expression on his face looked as though he had just swallowed a Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Bean of a particularly complex, unpleasant flavor.
The corridor was already dotted with students who had finished their lunch.
Walking with steady paces, Alvin threaded through the crowd and caught up with the two familiar figures just before they turned the corner toward the marble staircase.
“Harry, Ron.”
The two boys stopped simultaneously and turned around.
Ron’s expression turned complicated in an instant—a mix of surprise, awkwardness, and a trace of carefully concealed defensiveness.
A flash of clear surprise crossed Harry’s green eyes, along with a blend of hesitation and faint anticipation.
“Uh, Alvin…”
Harry started, then paused, seemingly unsure of what to say.
“Do you have a moment?
I’d like to chat for a bit,” Alvin said, his tone as calm as ever.
Ron and Harry exchanged a look.
Ron shrugged and said nothing, though the tense line of his shoulders relaxed slightly.
Harry nodded.
The three of them walked over to a relatively quiet corner of the corridor, next to a landscape painting of a highland lake.
Inside the frame, a man in a kilt was playing the bagpipes, blowing even harder upon seeing people approach.
Alvin had to raise his voice slightly to be heard.
“About the Sorting,” he got straight to the point.
“I know you were surprised.”
Ron’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he finally couldn’t help but burst out, “Surprised?
That was…
Merlin’s beard, we thought you’d definitely end up in Gryffindor!
Harry argued with the Hat for so long, and you argued with it for so long too, we thought…”
He paused, a trace of grievance leaking into his tone.
“And then you went to Slytherin.”
“The Hat didn’t argue with me,” Alvin said.
“What?”
“It just…” Alvin searched for the right words.
“…took a bit longer to analyze.
My situation is somewhat unusual.
It felt like I possessed traits from all four houses, so it was hard to choose.”
Harry looked up, his green eyes flashing with curiosity.
“Then why Slytherin in the end?
Did the Hat say anything to you?”
Alvin fell silent for a moment.
He could hardly say that the Hat had made a snap decision just because it saw a white snake in his memories and thought “Slytherin is good with snake imagery.” Even he found that reason absurd.
“In the end, it decided that place suited me better,” he chose a simplified version.
“Not because it’s better than the other houses, but because…”
He paused. Get faster updates on novelping.com.
“…there are lessons there that I need to learn.”
“Lessons?” Ron frowned.
“Learning to get along with different people,” Alvin said calmly.
“Especially those who are different from me.”
This answer took both boys aback.
Alvin looked at them, his voice as steady as ever but carrying a rare note of sincerity.
“Houses are just residential divisions for the school’s administrative and teaching convenience.
They don’t define who I am, nor do they dictate who I will become.
Gryffindor has its cowards, and Slytherin has its heroes.
Where the Hat placed me only indicates which environment might suit my growth better, rather than slapping a permanent, unremovable label on me.”
He paused, his eyes meeting Harry’s and Ron’s with open sincerity.
“You were the first friends I made in the wizarding world.
I don’t want to lose this friendship over the decision of a hat.”
A few seconds of silence stretched out.
The bagpiper continued playing tirelessly, his cheerful melody feeling somewhat out of place.
The awkwardness on Ron’s face slowly thawed like ice.
He scratched his messy red hair, and his voice dropped.
“Actually…
neither did I…
I didn’t mean that there was anything wrong with you going to Slytherin.
It’s just…”
He uncharacteristically stammered for a moment.
“It’s just that my mum said Slytherin turned out a lot of dark wizards.
And Fred and George are always talking trash about Slytherin.
I guess…”
He swallowed.
“…I was overthinking things.”
“But you said it yourself, Slytherin doesn’t necessarily mean bad people,” Harry quietly reminded him from the side.
“Last time you said that if the Sorting Hat put you in Slytherin, your dad would be furious, but that’s your dad’s problem, not Slytherin’s.”
Ron’s face flushed a brilliant red.
“I was talking about a hypothetical scenario!”
“But you still said it,” Harry said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The corner of Alvin’s mouth also turned up in a barely perceptible arc.
*This is probably how Gryffindors interact,* he thought.
*Straightforward, noisy, and once they’ve had their say, it’s water under the bridge.*
“Speaking of which,” Ron suddenly seemed to remember something, his expression turning subtle.
“Your roommate right now…
it wouldn’t happen to be Malfoy, would it?”
Alvin remained silent for a second.
Watching Alvin’s face, Ron’s eyes gradually widened.
His mouth opened and closed, and finally, he squeezed out, “Merlin’s pants…
the two of you share a room?”
“…Yes.”
Ron let out an odd sound that was a cross between sympathy and schadenfreude.
Harry couldn’t help but look amused yet concerned.
“How is he…?” Harry asked cautiously, recalling his encounter with Draco in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.
Alvin thought for a moment, delivering as objective an assessment as possible.
“Proud, direct, and very concerned with bloodlines and status.
He doesn’t seem truly malicious so far, but indeed…
he requires some patience.”
“That’s an understatement,” Ron muttered.
“That’s like serving a white-feathered peacock with a human face.”
Alvin didn’t argue.
After a brief silence, the atmosphere grew considerably lighter.
The defensiveness on Ron’s face had completely melted away, replaced by his familiar, carefree curiosity.
He leaned in closer and lowered his voice, as if sharing some grand secret.
“Seriously, what is the Slytherin common room like?
Is it really under the Black Lake?
Is it super gloomy inside?
Do they really use snakes as decorations?”
Alvin answered his questions one by one.
Ron listened with rapt interest, and Harry was equally attentive, occasionally chiming in to ask about a detail.
The rapport among the three gradually returned to the easy familiarity they had shared on the train.
When Alvin briefly described the lake-view windows in the common room, Ron let out an exclamation of awe.
“Doesn’t sound so bad after all.
At least it’s way better than the rumors.”
“Every place has a side to it that rumors don’t cover,” Alvin said, his calm gaze resting on Ron’s face.
Ron stared for a second, then caught the implication and scratched his nose in embarrassment.
“Alright, alright,” he muttered.
“You’re talking about Slytherin, but you’re also talking about yourself, right?”
Alvin didn’t deny it. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Harry laughed beside them, a smile like sunlight after rain, dispelling the last trace of gloom.
With the atmosphere now warm and relaxed, Alvin remembered his other purpose for this talk.
“By the way,” he said, keeping his tone as casual as possible.
“Ron, I heard you say earlier that your twin brothers, Fred and George, seem to know Hogwarts inside out?”
Ron’s eyebrows shot up instantly.
“Know it?
They practically treat the castle like their own backyard.
Secret passages, hidden doors, blind spots where the caretaker can’t catch them—there isn’t a thing they don’t know.”
He paused, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
“Why are you asking?”
Alvin didn’t hide it.
“I want to find out where the kitchens are.”
Ron blinked, and Harry also looked surprised.
“The kitchens?” Ron repeated.
“What do you want to go to the kitchens for?
Isn’t the food at Hogwarts enough for you?”
“It’s enough,” Alvin replied honestly.
“And it tastes great.
It’s just…”
He turned over how to explain a culinary instinct etched into his very bones, before opting for the most direct explanation.
“I grew up eating rice.
The food here is wonderful, but if I don’t eat it regularly, I…
find it hard to adjust.”
Though he phrased it subtly, both Ron and Harry understood.
A look of realization dawned on Ron’s face, which then softened into a mix of sympathy and understanding.
Although Ron himself wasn’t a picky eater, he had seen his mother mailing care packages of British food to Charlie in Romania.
He could vaguely understand that deep-seated longing for a taste of home.
“Oh…” Ron scratched his head.
“In that case, I’ll ask Fred and George for you.
They definitely know.
They might even be able to tell you the password.”
“Thank you,” Alvin said.
“There’s no rush.
Just ask around whenever you get the chance.”
“Sure, leave it to me!” Ron thumped his chest, having fully regained the enthusiastic vigor he possessed on the Hogwarts Express.
The three of them chatted a bit longer about their class schedules and the professors.
When Ron mentioned Professor Snape, his tone carried an unvarnished dislike, but after Harry gave his sleeve a stealthy tug, Ron grudgingly shut his mouth.
Alvin didn’t press the matter, quietly keeping this information in mind.
The crowd in the corridor was starting to thin out.
Alvin knew it was time to head back; he could already picture Draco’s sour face, practically screaming: *How dare you act on your own without following the Chief’s instructions.*
“I’ll be off then,” he said to Harry and Ron.
“We still have class this afternoon.”
“Yeah, see you later.” Harry nodded, the last shred of hesitation and distance completely gone from his green eyes, replaced by familiar warmth.
“Next time we get a chance…
uh…” Ron fidgeted uncharacteristically, saying quickly, “We should have a meal together when there’s a chance.
Obviously not with those guys from your house—just the three of us, oh, and Hermione too, if she wants.”
Seeing Ron trying so hard to sound casual, Alvin’s lips quirked up again in that barely perceptible smile.
“Alright.”
He turned and retraced his steps down the corridor.
The bagpiper was still playing his merry tune, and the painted lake rippled with golden light, simulated by a magical sunset.
When Alvin walked back to the Slytherin table, Draco was still sitting in his original spot.
Though the dessert plate before him was empty, he hadn’t left, idly tracing the decorative patterns on the rim of his plate with a fork out of sheer boredom.
At the sound of footsteps, Draco snapped his head up.
A flash of relief that screamed *finally back* crossed his grey-blue eyes, only to be instantly masked by a layer of affected, aloof coldness.
“Back, are you?” Draco asked in a calculatedly casual tone, as if it were a mere afterthought.
“And here I thought the young master of the Selwyn family intended to openly defy the heir of the Malfoy family.”
Alvin glanced at him.
Offering no explanation, he simply said, “Since the Chief is waiting, I naturally had to return.”
Draco’s eyelashes fluttered rapidly, clearly caught off guard by the answer.
He gave a soft huff and stood up, smoothing the lapels of his robes, before speaking in a tone that suggested *I was planning to leave anyway*:
“At least you know your place.”
He started walking toward the doors.
After a few paces, he tilted his head back slightly—an extremely subtle movement—and lowered his voice so much that it was nearly drowned out by the din of the Great Hall:
“…If there are special circumstances in the future, you have to report to me in advance, understand?”
Then he quickened his pace, his platinum blond hair tracing a neat, reserved arc through the air as he called out to the Slytherin first-years, leading them toward the main doors of the Great Hall.
Alvin watched the retreating figure for a moment.
Then, picking up his wicker case that served as a bookbag, he followed along at an unhurried pace.
In the corridor, the afternoon sun spilled through the high windows, stretching the shadows of the two boys walking at the head of the Slytherin procession into long, intersecting lines.
Outside the windows, the waters of the Black Lake rippled gently in the autumn breeze, dissolving the silver-and-green darkness of the subterranean castle world and the gold-and-red sunlight of the grounds above into a single, glittering shimmer.