A white snake?
Just because of that?
The reason sounded almost trivial.
Yet he showed none of his inner reaction.
Standing up calmly, he removed the battered hat that had finally delivered its verdict, set it gently back onto the four-legged stool, and gave Professor McGonagall a courteous nod.
Then he turned and walked toward the silver-and-green-adorned house table on the other side of the Great Hall under the gaze of hundreds of eyes.
His steps remained steady, his face unreadable, save for a single strand of silver in his dark hair catching a soft glint in the candlelight.
Along the way, he felt the regretful looks from the Ravenclaw table, the friendly curiosity of the Hufflepuffs, and the complex stares from Gryffindor—surprised, baffled, and even a hint of disappointed disbelief from Ron that he was going *there*.
He found an open seat at the Slytherin table and sat down next to a pale boy with a pointed chin.
The atmosphere here was noticeably different from the other houses—quieter, more…
reserved.
The welcoming applause had already died down, and the students resumed low-voiced conversations over their meal prep, though plenty of glances still drifted toward him, intentionally or otherwise.
Just then, a voice spoke up from diagonally across the table.
It carried a slight drawl, marked by a deliberate composure and an inherent sense of superiority.
“Selwyn.”
A pale boy with platinum-blonde hair looked at him, grey eyes glinting as if assessing valuable merchandise.
“One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Though I haven’t seen the Selwyn family active in high society for quite some time.
Am I to assume you’ve only recently returned from abroad?”
The boy raised his chin slightly and extended a hand with an elegant, almost imperious gesture.
“It’s a pleasure to see Slytherin welcome a line of pure blood.
I am Draco Malfoy.”
Alvin looked at him.
Malfoy—he faintly recalled his mother mentioning the name once or twice, and Ron describing it with dramatic hyperbole.
It seemed to be a family of considerable clout in the British wizarding world.
However, his mother, Elizabeth Selwyn, had grown distant from her family years ago over her marriage and had long resided in the East.
She had never detailed the tangled Web of British pure-blood relationships and social protocols to him.
His maternal grandfather had merely instructed him to “watch your words, act with prudence, and focus on your studies,” making no mention of any particular families he ought to cultivate favor with.
Thus, Alvin did not display the look of “long-admired reputation” or “profound honor” that Draco had anticipated, nor did he break into flattery regarding the Malfoy family’s standing.
He simply nodded to Draco in basic courtesy, offering a calm, clear response:
“Hello, Malfoy.
Nice to meet you.”
His tone was polite, but strictly limited to politeness.
There was no warmth, no sycophancy, and no extra interest in the surname—a completely standard reply to an ordinary introduction.
Draco Malfoy’s extended hand froze midair, his expression instantly locking up.
A crack appeared in his carefully maintained composure; a flash of astonishment flitted through his grey eyes before being quickly replaced by deep frustration and displeasure.
Slowly withdrawing his hand, Draco pressed his lips tight and raised his chin a fraction higher.
Giving an almost imperceptible scoff through his nose, he turned away, ignoring Alvin to strike up a quiet, stiffly phrased conversation with a large, dark-haired boy beside him.
Alvin naturally noticed the sudden shift in demeanor.
He was somewhat puzzled.
Had his response not been polite enough?
It seemed fine.
Where had the issue arisen?
Remembering Ron’s description of Slytherin as “arrogant” and “obsessed with bloodline and status,” he faintly realized that his plain, matter-of-fact reaction might have been interpreted as slighting or failing to appreciate Draco’s standing.
Yet his mind remained untroubled.
He viewed it merely as another observation of this new environment’s social rules.
Slytherin indeed differed from Gryffindor’s straightforward atmosphere; here, implicit rules, subtle status cues, and verbal maneuverings held sway.
Shifting his gaze from Draco, he looked toward the staff table, up at the enchanted, star-filled ceiling, and began observing the deportment of the other Slytherins at the table.
Cold and dark?
On the surface, at least, this was simply a group of impeccably dressed, reserved young boys and girls whose eyes held more calculated appraisal than warmth.
As for what lay beneath, Ron’s exaggerated warnings were hardly reliable evidence.
As his father often said: “What is heard may be false, and what is seen may not be true; one must observe with the heart and test with time.”
When the last first-year, named Blaise Zabini, was sorted into Slytherin—the hat reaching its decision almost before touching his hair—and took his place at the far end of the long table amid somewhat more restrained applause, Professor Dumbledore stood up.
He spread his arms wide, a brilliant smile on his face, as if embracing the entire hall’s joy.
“Welcome!”
His voice, enhanced by Sonorus, was warm and benevolent, imbued with a wondrous resonance.
“Welcome to Hogwarts for a new school year!
Before the feast begins, I have just two words to say: Tuck in!”
He sat back down.
The moment the words left his mouth, the empty golden platters on the house tables heaped full with food as if by magic.
Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, mutton chops, sausages, bacon, steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and even peppermint humbugs…
An astonishing, steaming array filled the air with rich scents of meat, fat, and spices, mingling with the warm ambiance of the Great Hall to create an irresistibly tempting feast. Follow the newest chapters on novelping.com.
The other three house tables instantly erupted into cheers and the merry clatter of cutlery, Gryffindor being particularly rowdy.
The Slytherin table, however, proved far more orderly.
The students elegantly picked up their knives and forks, serving themselves from dishes nearby or across the table, keeping their chatter at a volume that wouldn’t disturb those beside them.
Alvin watched this near-instant creation of food out of thin air, a glimmer of understanding passing through his eyes.
This was certainly fitting for a magical academy—efficient, direct, and extraordinarily convenient.
He recalled mealtimes at the Daoist temple, where the senior brothers in the kitchen had to busy themselves far in advance, and almost everyone pitched in with labor.
There was certainly no such luxury as “wishing food into existence.”
Taking up his silver knife and fork, he scanned the lavish yet unfamiliar spread before him.
Perfectly roasted meats glistening with fat, potatoes prepared every imaginable way, soft boiled peas and carrots…
a quintessentially British feast—heavy on portions, straightforward in flavor.
He tried slicing off a small piece of roast beef and placed it in his mouth.
The meat was tender and juicy, cooked to perfection, seasoned classically with black pepper and salt.
Yet after a few chews, Alvin’s brow twitched imperceptibly.
The flavor…
wasn’t bad, per se.
It was simply that for a Chinese palate raised at the foot of Mount Qingcheng—accustomed to the delicate aroma of steamed rice, the wok hei of stir-fries, the rich depth of slow-simmered soups, and his father’s occasional “health-nourishing meals” that blended herbal bitterness with natural flavors—this table dominated by meats and root vegetables, cooked with simple methods (mostly roasting and boiling) and heavy yet one-dimensional sauces, felt a bit…
overwhelmingly heavy.
He caught himself missing the greens tossed in the temple kitchen’s massive iron wok, the Xiaolongbao steamed in bamboo baskets bought from the morning market down the mountain, and even his mother’s occasional cooking experiments—bizarre yet loving amalgams of British baking and Eastern spices.
Inconspicuously setting down the beef on his fork, Alvin instead helped himself to a modest portion of the plainest-looking boiled peas and carrots, along with a small piece of roast potato, chewing slowly.
His table manners were impeccable—quiet and focused—though his pace was leisurely, and he was clearly uninterested in the heavy meats.
This caught another glance from Draco Malfoy across the table, who was cutting a lamb chop with flawless technique.
A fleeting look of confusion crossed his grey eyes.
Children of pure-blood families—especially from an ancient lineage like Selwyn—were supposed to be well-accustomed to a traditional British feast.
Alvin paid no mind to the looks.
As he placated his rumbling stomach with small bites, he pondered:
It seemed that living at Hogwarts, besides adapting to magic, coursework, and new social dynamics, keeping his stomach happy might also prove to be a bit of a challenge.
He wondered if the school kitchens accepted student suggestions—or perhaps requests to cook for oneself.
He recalled that tucked away in his luggage was a small pouch his mother had packed, filled with dried bamboo shoots and shiitake mushrooms from home.
Perhaps he could look into it tomorrow.