When the last crumbs of treacle tart vanished from the rims of the golden plates, and nearly every young witch and wizard was slumping contentedly in their chair, rubbing a round belly, a wondrous thing occurred on the tables.
The remaining food scraps, greasy plates, gleaming silverware, and all the goblets and platters—just as abruptly and elegantly as they had appeared—silently melted into thin air.
The tabletops gleamed clean and new once more, as if the sumptuous banquet had been nothing more than a collective dream.
Watching this neat, “dust to dust” vanishing charm, Alvin Vance couldn’t help but marvel at the domestic magic of Hogwarts.
It was not only remarkably efficient, but also possessed an aesthetic of absolute tidiness.
Headmaster Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet again and gave a gentle cough.
The buzzing murmur across the Great Hall receded like an ebbing tide.
“Now that we have all eaten and drunk our fill,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling merrily behind his half-moon spectacles, “I must ask for your attention while I give a few start-of-term notices.”
He ran through a list of routine rules: magic was forbidden in the corridors between classes; Quidditch trials would be held in the second week; and Mr.
Filch, the caretaker, had asked him to remind everyone that the list of forbidden objects was pinned to his office door—a very long list indeed.
Then, his tone took on a seriousness quite distinct from his earlier playfulness.
“I must also give a special reminder that, this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is strictly off-limits to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”
*The right-hand corridor on the fourth floor?*
Alvin’s mind stirred.
That sounded much like the “forbidden grounds,” “back-mountain realms,” or “ancestral seclusion chambers” demarcated in cultivation sects.
Such places inevitably signified danger, secrets, or vital inheritances.
His father had warned him time and again: show reverence toward a sect’s forbidden grounds, and never enter without a summons.
Naturally, he had no inclination to test such an explicit rule.
Curiosity always had to yield to safety and discipline.
Finally, a brilliant smile blossomed across Dumbledore’s face, as though the warning of a “painful death” had merely been an innocuous little joke.
“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” he announced loudly.
With a flick of his wand, ribbons of golden lyrics drifted into the air.
“Everyone pick your favorite tune,” Dumbledore said.
“Ready, sing!”
The Great Hall erupted into a cacophony of bizarre sounds.
Some hummed listlessly, some drifted completely off-key, and others attempted operatic flourishes.
The Weasley twins had chosen a slow funeral march, solemnly singing each syllable and making those around them burst into laughter.
Looking at the floating golden words, Alvin pondered for a moment.
Naturally surfacing in his mind was a *Pacing the Void* hymn, an airy and peaceful tune that disciples occasionally sang during morning and evening classes at the Daoist temple on Mount Qingcheng.
Taking a soft breath, he began to sing quietly in that distinctly Eastern cadence—limpid, resonant, and far-reaching.
Carrying a unique rhythm and a sense of profound serenity, it pierced through the din in a wondrous manner.
Over at the Ravenclaw table, several sharp-eared students turned around in surprise, looking for the source.
At the staff table, Professor Flitwick, the Charms master, twitched his little mustache, appearing thoroughly intrigued by the unusual melody.
Even at the Slytherin table, a few girls stole glances at this newcomer named Selwyn, whose singing was so strikingly different.
Dumbledore smiled with immense delight, conducting the final few notes with his wand—if those chaotic sounds could still be called notes.
As the singing sputtered to a ragged finish, he dabbed at tears of laughter.
“Ah, music…
A magic beyond all we do here!
And now, prefects of each house, please lead the first-years to your common rooms.
Good night, everyone!”
Beside the Slytherin table, a handsome, poised seventh-year girl stood up, a gleaming prefect badge pinned to her chest.
“First-years, follow me, please.
I am the girl prefect, Jemma Farley.”
Her voice was calm and steady, carrying an innate air of authority.
Alvin stood with the other first-years and followed Jemma Farley out of the Great Hall.
Navigating through the bustling crowd, they descended the marble staircase and began heading deep into the castle’s foundations.
Unlike the paths to the other houses that ascended upward, their route led all the way down.
The air grew progressively cooler, and the torches along the stone walls seemed dimmer than those upstairs, casting flickering shadows against the rough masonry.
Old tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of Dark creatures and obscure rituals, lending the atmosphere a solemn, faintly oppressive weight.
As Alvin walked, he calmly observed his surroundings.
The castle’s subterranean architecture was intricate, full of branching corridors, radiating a secretive aura entirely distinct from the upper floors.
He also kept part of his attention on Draco Malfoy, who was walking not far ahead.
The platinum-blond young heir was walking side by side with a girl with short black hair and a rather sour expression—Pansy Parkinson.
Malfoy’s voice was not loud, but it carried clearly to those behind him.
“My father says the Farley family isn’t truly an ancient family at all,” Draco said in a tone that aimed to sound nonchalant but dripped with superiority.
“Jemma Farley only got to be prefect because her marks are decent enough, and…
she knows when to put on a show.”
Pansy let out a snicker of agreement.
From brief observations and scattered remarks, he had gathered that Jemma Farley did not hail from the Sacred Twenty-Eight or any similarly illustrious pure-blood lineage.
Yet by virtue of her outstanding academic performance and undeniable capability, she had secured a firm foothold in Slytherin—a house that prized bloodline but revered power just as much—and had even earned considerable respect.
This led him to slightly adjust his appraisal of Slytherin: bloodline purism did not dictate everything here; strength and shrewdness held equal weight.
Eventually, they halted before a bare, damp stone wall deep beneath the castle.
The air here was damp and chilly, and from the distance came the muffled sound of lake water gently lapping against stone.
Jemma Farley turned around to face the first-years, her calm gaze sweeping over every face.
“Remember this spot,” she said.
“The entrance to the Slytherin common room.
The password changes every fortnight and will be announced in advance.
The current password is—’Glory.'”
She pronounced the word clearly.
Instantly, a hidden stone door slid open without a sound, revealing a deep passage glowing with faint green light.
“Go on in.”
Alvin followed the group through the stone door.
What first met the eye was a long, low subterranean chamber.
The rough stone walls were illuminated by magical lanterns casting a green glow, bathing the entire room in a dim, mysterious, and slightly chilly aquatic light.
In the center of the room stood an intricately carved fireplace, its magical flames burning without consuming oxygen and providing a modest warmth.
Green and silver silk draperies hung from the walls, alongside serpent carvings and fine silverware.
Massive windows looked directly out into the depths of the Black Lake.
One could see swaying aquatic weeds, strange fish swimming past on occasion, and distorted, hazy light filtering down from the surface.
Truth be told, at first glance, Alvin was not particularly fond of the living environment.
He was accustomed to the lush, mist-shrouded peaks of Mount Qingcheng, the warmth of sunlight spilling across the stone flagstones of Daoist courtyards, and opening a window to breathe in the crisp fragrance of grass and trees.
This subterranean setting, submerged beneath a lake, dimly lit, damp, and surrounded by icy water and stone, fell far short of his idea of a comfortable home.
It resembled a secret stronghold or a vault far more than a relaxing haven.
Just as he was quietly musing on how cultural differences even extended to living arrangements, Jemma Farley spoke again, drawing everyone’s attention back to her.
“Welcome to the Slytherin common room,” she said, standing before the hearth, her voice echoing in the spacious stone room.
“This will be the main place for your extracurricular activities over the next seven years.
Slytherin has its own traditions and rules, one of which is the Chief system.”
She paused, her gaze slowly traveling across the faces of the first-years.