Finally, Professor McGonagall rolled up the parchment in her hand and left with the Sorting Hat and the four-legged stool. However, the plates in front of the young witches and wizards remained empty.
At that moment, Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet, opened his arms, and beamed at the students.
"Welcome!" he declared.
"Welcome to Hogwarts. Welcome to a brand-new school year. Now, before we begin our feast, I have a few words to say. And they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
With that, he sat back down. A moment of silence passed before the students burst into applause and laughter. At last, it was time to eat.
Phineas noticed that the once-empty plates were now piled high with food—roast beef, roast chicken, pork, lamb, sausages, bacon, steak, and more. There were also vegetarian options: boiled tomatoes, roasted sweet potatoes, potato wedges, Yorkshire pudding, carrots, mint humbugs, and even some ketchup.
Even Phineas, who had grown up with the finest meals, had to admit that the food at Hogwarts was exceptional. The house-elves' skill in the kitchen was evident.
After sampling a few bites, Phineas looked coldly at the students seated near him at the Slytherin table.
"I suppose none of you are eager to share a dormitory with me, are you?"
A mix of embarrassment, fear, and distaste flickered across their faces.
Phineas understood. He put down his knife and fork, looked at the group, and said slowly,
"If I recall correctly, Slytherin has an old tradition—one the other three Houses have long abandoned."
One of the younger boys widened his eyes in disbelief.
"You mean the prefect duel system? You want to be a prefect? That's impossible!"
His voice cracked as he shouted, drawing attention. The faces of the surrounding students turned sour.
An older Slytherin glared at Phineas and said sharply,
"You Blacks don't deserve to be our prefects!"
Phineas sneered.
"Oh? You think any of you are a match for me? From the moment I realized how your precious pure-blood families view mine—with rejection and greed—I never stopped honing my magic."
The younger boy looked flustered.
"That doesn't mean you're worthy to be a prefect!"
Phineas shrugged.
"Perhaps. But what can you do about it? No one outside our year group can participate in the ceremony. You'll have no choice but to lose to me. Accept it. For the next seven years, I'll be your classmate and your prefect."
He leaned forward slightly, voice colder.
"And I'm rather curious to see how you'll all manage under the authority of a Black you hate and scorn."
Faces around him twisted with anger, frustration, and resentment, but no one spoke up. Some still believed they could defeat Phineas, but none wanted to face the shame of failure.
Slytherins were known for ambition, yes—but also for shrewd calculation. No one wanted to make a costly mistake.
One boy, Adrian Pucey, studied Phineas carefully. Unlike the loud one earlier, his voice was calm.
"Let's be clear. None of us are going to let you become a first-year prefect, no matter what. So, what are you after?"
Phineas gave him a faint smile.
"You're smarter than the others. That's good."
He gestured dismissively toward the shouting boy from earlier.
"I don't need the title—just the perks. Specifically, the private room. That's all I want."
Adrian raised a brow.
"You're certain that's transferable?"
"Of course not. Prefect appointments aren't transferable. But the dormitory assignments can be flexible, right? I'll throw the duel and let your chosen candidate win. In exchange, I get the private room."
Adrian thought for a moment, then nodded.
"Deal."
Phineas grinned.
Hogwarts prefects had some authority—limited point deductions, access to a private bath, and in Slytherin's case, a private dormitory and bathroom.
But with authority came responsibility: monitoring younger students, maintaining order, even managing passwords. Phineas had no interest in those obligations.
He knew his situation in Slytherin would be difficult. The disdain was written all over his housemates' faces. Sharing a dorm with them for seven years would be unbearable.
Some might say children warm up to each other quickly—that friendships form in days. That might be true in Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw.
But not in Slytherin.
Slytherin was a miniature pure-blood society. Alliances and rivalries were often inherited from family feuds. Some were friends from birth; others were enemies before they even met.
This was Slytherin—a House built on ambition, cunning, and self-interest.
Soon, the meal wound down. The leftover food vanished from the plates, and the dishes sparkled clean. Then desserts appeared—cakes, puddings, tarts, and more.
When dessert concluded, Dumbledore stood once more, and the hall fell silent.
"Now that we've filled our bellies, a few announcements. First, let us welcome Professor Jonathan Reed, who will be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts to all years this term."
A polite round of applause followed.
"Next, a few reminders. First-years should remember that the Forbidden Forest is strictly off-limits."
"Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that magic is not to be used in the corridors between classes."
"And lastly, Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone wishing to play for their House should see Madam Hooch to sign up."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he lifted his wand.
"And now, before we all head off to bed, let us sing the school song!"
He gave his wand a flourish. A long golden ribbon unfurled from its tip, rising above the head table and curling into words.
"Everyone choose their own tune. Ready? Sing!"