"In a few minutes, the Sorting Ceremony will take place in front of the entire school, faculty, and students."
Professor McGonagall's sharp gaze swept over the group of first-years, many of whom had wrinkled or askew robes.
"So I suggest you tidy yourselves up nicely while you wait. Try to look a bit more presentable."
Harry nervously pressed down his messy, untamable hair.
Devon, on the other hand, remained calm and composed.
He was feeling a bit listless due to the inability to load entries, but a brief session of Zen meditation had quickly revitalized him.
Sure enough, the wisdom of the ancient sages still worked wonders.
"I'll come and get you when they're ready over there," Professor McGonagall said.
"Please remain quiet while you wait."
With that, she exited the room.
As soon as the professor left, the room erupted in hushed chatter.
The little wizards became restless, whispering about the upcoming ceremony.
Devon, however, was unfazed. Unlike the others, who were stepping into the unknown, he was a seasoned Harry Potter fan—well-versed in the seven original books and the eleven movies.
The Sorting Ceremony was no mystery to him.
Ravenclaw, his preferred house, would be fantastic.
Gryffindor, where he could interact with the main characters, would also be acceptable.
Even Hufflepuff, where snacks from the house-elves were abundant, wouldn't be too bad.
But Slytherin—he didn't want anything to do with it.
Slytherin was the house of his mentor, Professor Snape, and just thinking about it gave him psychological discomfort.
Plus, he had already managed to offend Malfoy and his cronies on the train, and he was certain they'd be sorted into Slytherin.
He didn't want to spend the next seven years surrounded by those guys.
If the Sorting Hat even hinted at Slytherin, Devon was prepared to mimic Harry's iconic plea:
"Not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin..."
Surely, the Sorting Hat would respect his personal wishes.
After all, if someone like Peter Pettigrew could end up in Gryffindor, then personal choice must play a part.
Devon considered his plan foolproof.
As they arrived at the castle, Devon noticed Malfoy and his cronies—whom he'd forcibly ejected into another carriage—were now sporting bruises and swollen faces.
Apparently, that last throw had really done a number on them.
Their miserable appearances had drawn ridicule from the other children, forcing the ever-arrogant Malfoy to bow his head in shame.
Devon felt a surge of satisfaction.
Oddly enough, his fear of being expelled had faded.
Taking advantage of the wait, Devon began practicing Zen meditation again.
The other kids had no interest in chatting or fooling around—they were visibly nervous.
Hermione was off to the side, muttering to herself, frantically rehearsing spells.
Devon adjusted his breathing and posture.
Zen meditation could be done standing, though it wasn't as effective as sitting.
Still, it allowed him to center himself.
As his breathing slowed and deepened, his entire body relaxed.
Soon, the world around him began to feel distant.
Hermione's voice faded until he could no longer hear it at all.
Even the sudden appearance of a ghost, which sent many students fleeing in terror, failed to disturb his concentration.
Devon had entered a deep state of meditation.
Everything around him became a hazy gray fog.
Strangely, he could see the room from a third-person perspective.
He even saw himself—something that felt more surreal than looking into a mirror and seeing an unfamiliar reflection.
He tried to channel his magic further, to clear the fog and explore the space more deeply, but found his efforts ineffective.
His magical level likely wasn't high enough yet.
So he returned to his basic circulation technique.
After two complete cycles of internal energy flow, he opened his eyes.
He felt refreshed and alert. His mind was calm, unaffected by anything that might happen next.
By then, the ghosts had finished introducing themselves to the first-years and faded through the walls.
Neville, who had clearly just had his first ghost encounter despite being from a wizarding family, was trembling with fear.
"Oh my god, Devon! You can't imagine what you just missed!" Neville exclaimed.
Devon smiled calmly.
They'd be seeing those ghosts regularly from now on.
Professor McGonagall returned.
"Now, form a single line," she instructed.
"Follow me."
In an orderly fashion, the new students followed her into the Great Hall.
The Great Hall was brilliantly lit.
Four long tables represented the houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.
Exquisite tableware gleamed in the candlelight, which danced gently on the polished surfaces.
Older students were already seated, their eyes turning curiously toward the new arrivals.
Unsurprisingly, most attention was drawn to Harry.
He awkwardly avoided their stares.
But what caught everyone's attention—even Devon's—was the ceiling.
He had read about it, but seeing it in person was something else.
It had been enchanted to mirror the sky outside: a starry night filled with twinkling stars and a gentle moon casting a silver glow.
It was as if the entire universe had been placed inside the room.
Professor McGonagall led the students along a red carpet to the front of the hall.
There, placed on a tall stool, sat the Sorting Hat.
It was exactly as described in the books—patched, worn-out, and dirty.
Devon grimaced slightly. The idea of putting that on his head wasn't appealing.
The hat suddenly began to sing its traditional Sorting Song.
It introduced the four houses in a strange rhythm and tone.
When it finished, the hall erupted in applause.
Devon clapped along, not wanting to stand out. After all, a good impression might help his case.
The Sorting began.
Hannah Abbott was first—unsurprisingly sorted into Hufflepuff.
Devon stood in the middle of the line, behind Malfoy but ahead of Harry.
One by one, the students were called up and sorted into their houses.
Malfoy sat with the Slytherin prefect, whispering and occasionally pointing at Devon—likely complaining about their earlier encounter.
Devon pretended not to notice.
Finally, it was his turn.
"Devon Alexander!"
His surname caught some attention; it wasn't common in England.
He walked confidently to the stool, picked up the Sorting Hat, and was just about to put it on when—
"SLYTHERIN!!!"
The hat screamed before even touching his head.