"Slytherin!"
The Sorting Hat shouted.
A smattering of applause echoed from the long table draped in green and silver. The reaction was lackluster, clearly indifferent toward a young wizard who didn't hail from a pure-blood family.
Devereux stood frozen in disbelief.
No way!
He hadn't even worn the hat yet. Wasn't it supposed to hesitate at least a little? Wasn't it supposed to consider his qualities? He was a peerless genius in the magical world! Surely he had traits of bravery or loyalty?
Well… perhaps not so much loyalty.
But even so, shouldn't the Sorting Hat at least pretend to weigh the options?
I don't want to sleep in a dungeon for the next seven years! he thought miserably.
Professor McGonagall gently removed the Sorting Hat from his head and gave him a small push, snapping him out of his mental spiral.
With stiff, leaden legs, Devereux rose from the stool and trudged toward the Slytherin table. Each step was filled with dread as he made his way to join his new housemates.
The Slytherin students stared at him with unreadable expressions. Most of them were indifferent, some mildly curious, but none seemed especially welcoming. They appeared to accept his presence, but didn't show any particular interest.
Devereux didn't mind the cold reception. What weighed on him more was the grim forecast for his future at school.
"Hey, hello! Welcome to Slytherin! I'm Marcus Flint, the prefect."
A warm voice caught him off guard.
Devereux turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered boy with short, dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. There was a hint of arrogance in his confident smile, but his tone was genuinely friendly.
"Uh, hello. My name is Devereux Alexander," he replied hesitantly.
Marcus lowered his voice slightly and smirked.
"To already use the Disarming Charm so skillfully before even starting school—that's impressive, Devereux. Even here in Slytherin, that kind of talent stands out. I'd wager most third-years would struggle to keep up with you in a duel."
Devereux blinked in surprise. Marcus wasn't judging him for what had happened at the train station. In fact, he seemed impressed, even supportive. That alone set him apart from the rest of the house.
"Well, thank you," Devereux said modestly. "But I don't think I'm that exceptional. I doubt I could beat any third-years."
Still, as he responded, he loaded Marcus's blue entry in the back of his mind.
"Don't be so modest," Marcus said with a sly grin. "In Slytherin, humility isn't always a virtue—especially not in certain matters... you know what I mean."
Devereux immediately caught the implication. He was referring to bloodline status. The Slytherins' earlier coldness made sense now. They had all likely heard about how Devereux defeated Malfoy with a single spell. Some might be indifferent, but others, especially Malfoy's supporters, were probably harboring resentment.
It was clear that if Devereux wanted to avoid constant harassment, he would need to assert himself and display his strengths. Only then would he be left alone—or even respected.
His eyes swept across the table. Indifference dominated most of the faces. Only Marcus appeared genuinely friendly. Malfoy, on the other hand, was glaring at him with open hostility.
"The politics of noble society, huh?"
Before worrying about mastering Transfiguration, he'd first need to handle social survival.
A cold glint flickered in Devereux's eyes.
"Tell me, Marcus," he asked suddenly, "can we hold duels within Slytherin?"
The question caught Marcus off guard.
"Duels? What kind of duels?"
Devereux blinked.
Wait—wasn't that a common thing? Hadn't he read dozens of fanfics where Slytherin had internal duels to establish a hierarchy?
"The value of a person here isn't judged by dueling anymore," Marcus said with a puzzled expression. "What do you think this is—the Dark Ages? The war's been over a long time."
Devereux groaned inwardly and resisted the urge to cover his face.
Fanfics have misled me again.
Marcus chuckled. "What I meant by not being humble is that you should strive to get top grades. Your spellcasting is solid. Focus on your studies—get first place in the year. If you manage that, Slytherin actually gives out rewards."
Devereux's interest perked up.
"Rewards? What kind of rewards?"
Marcus leaned in with a mysterious smile.
"There are places in Hogwarts that freshmen normally can't access. Some of those become available—under certain circumstances."
Devereux's eyes lit up.
Hidden areas? Exploration bonuses?!
That sealed it.
"Then I'll definitely take first place this year!" he declared with excitement, thumping his chest.
Malfoy, seated across from him, snorted and burst out laughing.
Several Slytherins joined in, not because they found it funny, but out of habit—pleasing the Malfoy heir was always a safe bet.
Devereux glanced at the smirking crowd and mentally blacklisted each of them.
A bunch of bootlickers.
Their fake laughter didn't faze him in the slightest. He wasn't actually French, so their mocking jokes about his surname didn't sting.
Unbothered, he continued eating calmly. Malfoy's forced laughter soon faded, replaced by an increasingly sour expression.
"To be honest," Marcus cut in, trying to change the subject, "your surname sounds French. Why didn't you choose to attend Beauxbatons?"
"Well, actually, my mother entrusted me to—"
"Woooo~!"
"We have Potter!!"
Cheers exploded from the Gryffindor table, along with thunderous banging and stomping.
Devereux's sentence was drowned out before he could mention that he was Snape's potions apprentice. He glanced over in time to see Harry Potter being sorted into Gryffindor.
Marcus didn't seem too interested in the development, so the topic quickly shifted to more mundane matters.
They started talking about the layout of Hogwarts—something Devereux was especially eager to understand. Secret passages, hidden chambers, and the castle's inner workings fascinated him endlessly.
As their conversation continued, the final student—Blaise Zabini—was sorted into Slytherin.
Professor McGonagall rolled up the parchment and exited with the Sorting Hat.
Suddenly, a powerful presence stood at the front of the hall.
It was him.
The greatest wizard in the original story.
The enigmatic and revered Albus Dumbledore.
With his signature smile, he raised his arms and addressed the students.
"Welcome, everyone, to a new year at Hogwarts! Before the banquet begins, I have a few words to say. And they are:
'Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!'
Thank you!"
He sat down with a satisfied smile as laughter and applause filled the hall—even from the usually restrained Slytherins. Regardless of house, power still earned admiration.
Then came the feast—an event Devereux had been eagerly anticipating. The moment the golden plates filled with food, he dove in.
It could have been the best meal of his life…
…if Snape hadn't pulled him away midway.