After the blonde girl, Cassandra Vole, took her place beside Ivy Doom at the Slytherin table, only two students remained in the first-year line.
One of them, naturally, was the red-haired Ron Weasley.
“Oh, look at the ginger,” Draco Malfoy sneered.
“He looks terrified out of his mind.”
For once, Crabbe and Goyle weren’t the only ones laughing along.
Thankfully, the Sorting Hat wasted no time shouting:
“GRYFFINDOR!”
The Gryffindor House table erupted into applause as Ron hurried over to join them.
Blaise Zabini looked far calmer than Ron had.
He was the final first-year remaining.
Once every student had settled into place and begun staring hungrily at the still-empty golden plates before them, Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet with a broad smile.
“Welcome!
Welcome!” he boomed, his voice far too energetic for a man over a hundred years old.
“Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!
Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words.”
“Nitwit!
Blubber!
Oddment!
Tweak!”
“Thank you!”
And with that, the Headmaster sat back down.
Instantly, food appeared across the tables.
Although Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was technically a British school—and Britain’s culinary reputation was questionable at best—the feast before them looked genuinely delicious.
As long as the British avoided experimenting creatively with food, traditional dishes usually turned out fine.
At the very least, everything looked excellent, and there was certainly enough protein and calories.
More importantly, the chefs weren’t British.
They were British house-elves.
Which made all the difference.
Ivy picked up his knife and fork and finally began his first real meal of the day.
While cutting into a perfectly roasted lamb chop, he heard Draco ask from across the table:
“Ivy!
Why’d you lie to us about the Sorting?
You clearly knew all we had to do was wear that ragged old hat!
Honestly, the whole ‘entrance exam’ thing sounded ridiculous.”
Beside Draco sat the Slytherin House ghost, Bloody Baron.
At Draco’s question, the Baron’s lifeless, hollow expression shifted slightly as he slowly turned to stare at him.
“If you’d paid attention,” Ivy replied after swallowing a bite of tender lamb, “you would’ve noticed that every wizard who already knows about the Sorting tradition shares the exact same unspoken agreement.”
“Now you know too.”
“You can come up with an even more convincing story to scare future first-years.”
Draco tilted his head thoughtfully.
Then he grinned.
“Maybe next year I’ll tell the new students the Sorting is based entirely on bloodlines.”
The ones pretending to be clever end up in Ravenclaw.
The idiots too blind to face reality get thrown into Gryffindor.”
“And Hufflepuff?” Draco smirked while stuffing a chicken leg into his mouth.
“Nothing but crybabies and losers.”
“By the way,” he continued vaguely through the food, “after we met at Ollivanders, my father spent the entire night searching through family records.
He couldn’t find anything about the surname ‘Doom.'”
“But we both know you must be pure-blood.”
“So what?
Are you from another country or something?”
“Oh, I never met my parents in this world,” Ivy replied casually while lifting a spoonful of gravy to smell it first.
Onions.
Parsley.
Thyme.
Probably simmered with beef bones for hours.
A rich brown color.
Perfect.
He dipped a piece of bread into it with visible satisfaction.
“So maybe I’m Muggle-born.”
Draco burst into laughter.
“Hah!
You really are good at jokes.”
“There’s absolutely no way you’re Muggle-born.
Slytherin doesn’t accept students born from two Muggle parents.”
“And besides—”
“Any family wealthy enough to commission a silver lime wand over a hundred years ago and provide phoenix feathers would never be unknown.”
His laughter was loud enough to attract attention from nearby students.
Ivy barely noticed.
His eyes were currently focused on the true battlefield before him:
Roast potatoes.
Boiled potatoes.
Fried potato slices.
Potato cheese cakes.
Classic British cuisine.
Finally, his attention locked onto a plate of roasted beef ribs.
Draco noticed immediately.
“Help him out, Crabbe,” he ordered lazily.
“Ivy wants the ribs.”
But before Crabbe’s greasy hand could even move—
The platter floated neatly through the air by itself and landed directly before Ivy.
“Appreciated,” Ivy said with a small nod toward Draco and Crabbe.
“But I can manage.”
The voice came from Ivy’s left.
Confident.
Proud.
It was Cassandra.
“Looks like not every first-year here is complete trash.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” Ivy replied pleasantly.
His gaze lingered briefly on her face.
More specifically, on the teardrop-shaped beauty mark beneath her upturned eye.
He’d given himself one too while customizing his appearance.
Ivy firmly believed imperfect perfection was the highest form of beauty.
A single flaw didn’t ruin harmony.
It made beauty feel more real.
More approachable.
Which was why he liked beauty marks—both his own and hers.
Unfortunately, Cassandra clearly didn’t share his appreciation.
She narrowed her eyes irritably.
“That wasn’t a compliment.
If you can misunderstand something that obvious, then maybe you’re not far from being an idiot yourself.”
Ivy nearly laughed out loud.
His tolerance for attractive witches had always been unusually high.
So instead of arguing, he simply leaned closer and asked:
“Then tell me—which idiot is sitting closest to me right now?”
Cassandra glared at him fiercely and decided not to waste any more words.
However, the force with which she cut into her sausages noticeably increased.
“Hahaha—”
Ivy laughed in complete satisfaction before happily returning to his newly acquired beef ribs.
The main portion of the Opening Feast ended quickly.
The golden plates were magically cleaned spotless in an instant before immediately refilling themselves with desserts and fruit.
Ivy served himself some jam pudding.
Then he noticed Cassandra staring quietly at the strawberries sitting near his right hand.
So he casually flicked his spoon.
The strawberries hopped cheerfully across the table before arranging themselves into a little tower inside Cassandra’s plate.
“Don’t expect me to thank you,” Cassandra declared while stubbornly looking away from the fruit tower and up toward the floating candles instead.
“Oh,” Ivy replied with amusement, “that sentence alone was thanks enough.”
Cassandra’s eyes widened instantly.
Even the tips of her ears turned red.
Deep in his heart, Ivy couldn’t help but sigh happily.
What could possibly be more entertaining than teasing classmates?
The answer was obvious.
Teasing a pretty classmate.
(End of Chapter)