Chapter 18- The Sorting and The First Day
Hadrian Potter stood in the massive entrance hall of Hogwarts, surrounded by other first-year students. The sheer size and grandeur of the castle took his breath away, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. Around him, the other students were whispering excitedly, some wide-eyed with awe, others nervously fidgeting as they waited for what was to come.
His emerald eyes scanned the hall, taking in the towering columns, the flickering torches, and the ancient tapestries that adorned the walls. Everything in this place felt steeped in history, like the stones themselves whispered of ancient magic. Hadrian could feel it, a low hum of power that resonated deep within him.
Professor McGonagall, stern and composed, led the first-years into the Great Hall. Hadrian followed, his footsteps silent on the stone floor. The Hall was filled with the entire student body, all seated at four long tables. At the far end of the room sat the professors, watching the new arrivals with keen interest. The ceiling above mirrored the night sky, a sea of stars twinkling down, but Hadrian's focus was on the Sorting Hat perched atop a three-legged stool.
As Professor McGonagall called out names, each student would step forward, place the hat on their head, and wait as it decided their fate. The Sorting Hat seemed almost alive, its tattered brim moving as it spoke softly to each child.
"Potter, Hadrian!" McGonagall called out, her voice ringing through the hall.A murmur ran through the students. Hadrian was used to it by now—the name Potter carried weight, though not for reasons that pleased him. He moved forward with an air of quiet confidence, ignoring the whispers and the eyes that followed his every step. As he approached the stool, he could feel the tension in the room heighten.
He sat down, placing the Sorting Hat on his head. It slipped down over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.
"Ah, Potter," a voice murmured in his ear, a voice that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the castle. "But not the Potter they expected, are you? No, no... You are far more complex. Darker, perhaps. Let's see... Oh, what is this?"
Hadrian felt the Hat probing his thoughts, his memories, the very core of his being. Images flashed through his mind—his childhood with the gang, the years of hardship and survival, the darkness that had become a part of him.
"Interesting... so much darkness, yet not devoid of light. A strong connection to ancient magic... Yes, I can see it now. Death walks with you, doesn't it? You've seen the thestrals, you know their truth. And there's something more... A prophecy, whispers of power and fate intertwined. But you, Hadrian, you seek control over your destiny, don't you? To master the darkness rather than be consumed by it... Ah, but where to place you? Your cunning, your ambition... there's only one place for you..."
The Sorting Hat paused, as if savoring the moment.
"Slytherin!"
The last word rang out clearly, echoing through the Great Hall. There was a brief silence, then the Slytherin table erupted in cheers. Hadrian removed the Hat, handing it back to McGonagall, who gave him a rare, almost imperceptible nod of approval.
As he walked toward the Slytherin table, he felt the eyes of the other students on him. There was curiosity, suspicion, and something else—respect, perhaps. He took his seat among the Slytherins, nodding to a few who greeted him. Daphne Greengrass, seated not far from him, gave him a small, approving smile, her icy blue eyes sparkling with intrigue.
The Great Feast began, and the tables filled with an array of delicious foods—roast meats, steaming vegetables, rich gravies, and desserts of every kind. Hadrian ate sparingly, his mind still on the Sorting Hat's words. The mention of prophecy, ancient magic, and his connection with death had unsettled him. He had always known there was something different about him, but this was the first time it had been articulated so clearly.
As the feast continued, Hadrian observed his fellow students. The Slytherins were a varied lot—some were openly ambitious, their eyes gleaming with calculated intent; others were more reserved, watching and waiting. He noticed the subtle shifts in their expressions, the way they carried themselves. Daphne, for instance, had a poised elegance, her every movement controlled and deliberate. Theodore Nott, seated across from her, had a more brooding presence, his dark eyes sharp and calculating as they darted around the room.
The next morning, Hadrian woke before dawn, his internal clock still set to the early hours he had kept with the gang. The dormitory was dark and silent as he dressed in his exercise clothes—a simple black t-shirt and shorts. He slipped out of the common room and made his way through the quiet halls of the castle, out to the grounds where the cool morning air greeted him.
No, Hadrian couldn't afford to be weak, not after the attack. He needed to be stronger, faster, BETTER!
He began with a run, his breath steady as he circled the lake. The sky was still dark, the first hints of light just beginning to creep over the horizon. After his run, he moved on to calisthenics—push-ups, sit-ups, and shadow boxing. The physical exertion was both a release and a reminder of the discipline he had cultivated over the years. He couldn't afford to be weak, not with the shadows that lurked in his past and the uncertainties of his future.
By the time he finished, the sun was rising, casting a golden glow over the castle. Hadrian returned to the Slytherin common room, showered, and dressed in his Hogwarts uniform—black robes trimmed with green. The fabric was finer than anything he had worn before, and as he adjusted the tie around his neck, he allowed himself a moment of appreciation. It was a new beginning, a chance to forge his own path.
The day's classes began with Charms, taught by Professor Flitwick. The tiny professor stood atop a stack of books, his high-pitched voice explaining the basics of spellwork. Hadrian listened intently, absorbing the information with a focus that caught the professor's attention."Mr. Potter," Flitwick called out, "would you care to demonstrate the Levitation Charm?"Hadrian stood, his expression calm as he pointed his wand at the feather on his desk. "Wingardium Leviosa," he intoned, his voice steady. The feather floated gracefully into the air, hovering above the desk.
"Excellent work, Mr. Potter! Ten points to Slytherin!" Flitwick beamed, clearly impressed.The rest of the class watched in awe, whispers spreading quickly through the room. Hadrian paid them no mind, returning to his seat with a quiet smile.
Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall was next, and Hadrian's performance was equally impressive. He transfigured his matchstick into a perfect silver needle on his first attempt, earning another ten points for Slytherin. McGonagall's eyes lingered on him, her expression thoughtful, as if she saw something in him that the others did not.
But it was in Potions with Professor Snape that Hadrian faced his first real challenge. The dungeon was cold and dark, the walls lined with shelves of strange ingredients. Snape, with his greasy hair and cold eyes, swept into the room, his black robes billowing behind him. He sneered at the students, his gaze lingering on Hadrian.
"Potter," Snape drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. "Let's see if you inherited any of your mother's talent for potions, or if you're as useless as your father."
The insult hung in the air, but Hadrian remained unruffled. He met Snape's gaze with a calm, almost amused smile. "Of course, Professor," he replied smoothly. "I'll do my best."
Snape's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more, moving on to the day's lesson. The potion they were tasked with brewing was a complex one, but Hadrian worked with steady hands and a clear mind. When Snape passed by his cauldron, he paused, clearly expecting to find something amiss.
Instead, he found a perfectly brewed potion, its color and consistency exactly as it should be. Snape's expression tightened, his anger barely concealed. "Thirty points to Slytherin," he bit out, though the words seemed to pain him.
The class ended, and as Hadrian gathered his things, he could feel the eyes of his classmates on him. They were shocked—no one had ever seen Snape award so many points to a student, let alone one he so clearly despised. But Hadrian ignored their stares, walking out of the dungeon with the same calm confidence he had entered with.
In the corridor outside, however, he was confronted by a group of Gryffindor bullies. They were the same age, but their numbers gave them a false sense of superiority. One of them, a red-haired boy with a freckled face, stepped forward, sneering.
"So, you think you're something special, Potter?" he jeered. "Just because you're the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived doesn't mean we're going to let you walk around like you own the place."Hadrian's eyes flickered to the others—a blond boy with a nervous twitch, and another with shifting eyes that darted around, clearly unsure. They were trying to be brave, but their fear was palpable. The red-haired boy's sneer faltered when Hadrian took a step closer, his expression darkening.
"I don't need to think I'm special," Hadrian said softly, his voice cold as ice. "But I'll give you one chance to walk away."
The boy stuttered, his bravado fading as he took an involuntary step back. But his pride wouldn't let him back down completely. "Or what?"
"Or," Hadrian continued, his tone dangerously calm, "you'll be explaining to Madam Pomfrey how you all fell down the stairs. Understand?"
He moved so quickly that the boy didn't have time to react. A swift kick to the knee sent him sprawling to the floor, and before the others could intervene, Hadrian had knocked the blond one out cold with a well-placed punch to the jaw. The third boy turned to run, but a sharp tug on his collar brought him crashing to the ground.
Hadrian stood over them, his breathing even, his expression devoid of emotion. The corridor was eerily silent as the boys lay groaning at his feet. He leaned down, his voice a low whisper. "You'll tell them you fell down the stairs. Got it?"
The boys nodded frantically, too terrified to speak. Hadrian straightened up, brushing off his robes as if nothing had happened. He glanced at his timetable, noting his next class. A sigh escaped his lips, his face darkening with a mixture of dread and determination."Flying lessons," he muttered, his jaw tightening. His next lesson was with James Potter.