Cassian slid into his usual seat halfway down the staff table. Bathsheda landed beside him. He picked up a napkin and started folding it into something vaguely pyramid-shaped. Bathsheda glanced sideways. “Bored already?”

“Moderately.” He flicked the napkin to topple it.

Dumbledore appeared without anyone noticing him, which was a trick he must’ve practised for centuries. One blink, and he was seated, hands steepled, awkwardness not applying to him in the least.

“Evening, all,” he said lightly, smile brushing the corners of his beard. “I trust your summers were productive.”

A few polite coughs, nods. Cassian raised a brow. “Nearly got soul-split in China. Ten out of ten. Would do it again.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Yes. I’ve heard. Wonderful work. Professor Babbling as well. Master Ji couldn’t stop praising you.”

Lucian would choke if he heard that.

Cassian leaned a little toward Dumbledore, “Tell me, Headmaster,” he said in an almost-conspiratorial murmur, “do you happen to keep the letters still?”

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked sideways, twinkle intact. “Some correspondence deserves safekeeping.”

Cassian tilted his head with a wide smile. “So you do?”

Bathsheda caught his sleeve, tugging him back against the chair. “Not now, Cass,” she said under her breath.

He spread his hands, mock-innocent. “Only asking. History ought to be kept tidy.”

“Then sweep later,” she muttered.

Dumbledore chuckled softly, beard trembling. “Can copy if you want.”

Cassian smirked, with his free hand he made a small set of gestures under the table, later.

Bathsheda’s heel nudged his boot under the table.

The doors opened. The first-years arrived.

McGonagall led them in. A neat column of children followed, some upright and stiff, others already wobbling under the weight of their own nerves. A few whispered. One was trying not to cry.

Cassian scanned the faces, not sure what he was looking for.

He couldn’t see a scar. Wasn’t about to squint for one, either. If the kid was here, breathing, and not setting anyone on fire, that was good enough.

The first‑years bunched in front of the staff table, waiting to be sorted or sacrificed, depending on perspective. None of them looked particularly cursed. Yet.

McGonagall stepped forward, roll of parchment in hand. She didn’t wait for silence. She was silence.

“Abbott, Hannah.”

A blonde girl stumbled up, nearly tripping over her robes. Hat dropped. “Hufflepuff!”

Cassian glanced at Bathsheda. “Ten sickles says she gets lost between towers before October.”

“Not betting against you,” she murmured. “You rig the odds.”

He gasped, scandalised, as McGonagall called, “Bones, Susan.”

Another Hufflepuff. Sprout clapped politely.

Cassian turned to her with a grin. “Starting strong. Clearly bribed the Hat.”

Sprout didn’t bother replying, just gave him a look that said ‘behave’ and returned to watching her pile of future badgers.

The names kept coming.

“Davis, Tracey.”

Slytherin.

“Finch-Fletchley, Justin.”

The Hat paused, mumbled something. Then, “Hufflepuff!”

“Greengrass, Daphne.”

Slytherin.

“Goldstein, Anthony.”

Ravenclaw.

Cassian twitched a brow. “Ravens are building an army.”

Bathsheda raised one finger. “Six so far.”

“Granger, Hermione.”

The girl all but sprinted to the stool, hair frizzing with nerves. The Hat took a moment with her, then yelled, “Gryffindor!”

A few cheers. Some enthusiastic clapping from the table. Cassian watched her go with mild interest.

Name sounded familiar.

Cassian leaned sideways, chin almost on Bathsheda’s shoulder. “Is she famous?”

“No,” she said, eyes on her chart. “Never heard the last name either. Probably a Muggle-born.”

He sat back, tapping the side of his goblet. Which meant the name was from before. His before. Probably adjacent to someone important. Close enough to catch splash damage in plot, if not at the centre of it.

“Longbottom, Neville.”

That one earned a pause. The boy practically oozed nerves… sweaty palms, wide eyes, like he’d been dared into this by a ghost. Cassian watched him shuffle up to the hat and nearly fall backwards when it called, “Gryffindor!”

“Poor sod,” he muttered. “Looks like he’s just realised what house comes with ‘heroic sacrifices’ in the brochure.”

Bathsheda didn’t look up. “He is from an old family. Longbottoms were respected once.”

“Still are,” Sprout said behind her teacup.

Cassian blinked. “Didn’t mean to offend. He just looks like he is one strong wind away from fainting.”

“He’s Frank and Alice’s son.” Bathsheda added.

“Ah,” Cassian said, remembering the Gryffindor seventh-year pair..

“Malfoy, Draco.”

That one made an entrance. Blond, preened, walking like the room had been built around him. Hat barely touched his head before screaming “Slytherin!”

Cassian snorted. “Well that was predictable.”

Snape’s lips twitched.

“Parkinson, Pansy.”

Slytherin. And a very pleased one at that. Walked like she already had opinions about everyone at the table.

“Patil, Padma.”

Ravenclaw.

“Patil, Parvati.”

Gryffindor.

Cassian raised a brow. “Split the twins. That will go well.”

Bathsheda agreed with a nod. “Curious separation. Usually Hat keeps them together.”

“Maybe it liked one more.”

“Potter, Harry.”

And just like that, the room shifted.

The name pulled every head around. Whispers broke out, necks craning to see better. That boy walked forward with his shoulders hunched and face half-hidden behind messy hair and oversized glasses. He looked smaller than Cassian expected. Quieter. Not the conquering sort, more “forgotten at the table.”

Cassian leaned forward. “That is him?”

Bathsheda nodded, “Scar is under the fringe.”

Hat took its time with him. Not long, but longer than it should’ve. Then, finally, it shouted, “Gryffindor!”

Gryffindor table erupted. Twins slapped the table. The bushy-haired girl clapped too hard.

Cassian just watched.

That wasn’t what he expected. No hero’s glow. No crackling aura of Chosen One energy. Just a quiet kid, walking fast like he didn’t want anyone to look too closely.

“Weasley, Ronald.”

Predictably, the hat didn’t hesitate. “Gryffindor!”

Cassian rubbed his face. “Weasley stock is not exactly diverse, is it?”

He looked down at the table, then back at Harry Potter as Weasley sat next to him. Harry was fiddling with a napkin. Laughing quietly at something the redhead said.

He didn’t remember much from his past life’s Potter lore, but he knew enough to sense when something didn’t fit. That wasn’t the face of a boy raised on praise and stories. That was someone who’d never been told he mattered.

Dumbledore stood.

“Welcome,” he began, voice echoed through the hall, some first-years grimaced. “To another year at Hogwarts…”

“Before we begin our banquet,” Dumbledore went on, voice far too cheerful, “I would like to say a few words. And here they are, Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

Cassian turned to Bathsheda, deadpan. “Aren’t those elves?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. He rotates them. Pretends he is senile. Just calls elves to fill the plates.”

And true to form, the tables were full before the sound of his last syllable faded. Roast chicken, platters of pies, cauldrons of mash, treacle tart, blood pudding, roast potatoes, suspiciously enthusiastic gravy. Hogwarts hospitality… abundant as ever.

Before anyone had even looked up properly, the youngest Weasley had already chomped halfway through two drumsticks like he’d been starved in transit. Sauce down his chin, mouth full, grin plastered on like hunger was the funniest thing he’d survived this week.

“Is he eating for all of Gryffindor, or just making up for a tragic childhood?”

Bathsheda stabbed a sausage. “Could be both.”

The noise in the Hall was growing… chatter rising in waves as plates clinked and goblets sloshed. Students already swapping stories about holidays, new robes, who fell off the train. Cassian chewed a roast carrot.

Harry Potter sat quietly. Ron chattered beside him, mouth full, not seeming to notice Harry wasn’t saying much. The bushy-haired girl, Granger, was already in full lecture mode, gesturing and trying to explain something with her elbows.

Cassian tilted his goblet and muttered, “That is not a boy used to being the centre of anything.”

Bathsheda followed his gaze, then nodde. “He didn’t even know how to hold the cutlery right.”

“Maybe he was raised by wolves.”

“Wolves would’ve done better. At least they feed their pups.”

That seemed to be true.

He was thin. Not in the way most eleven-year-olds were… lanky, growing too fast, legs like broomsticks. No, this was different. Starved, nearly. Wrists a bit too bony. Face sunken in the soft parts. His glasses were bent and scuffed. And the slouch… shoulders curled in, he was trying to fold himself small enough not to be seen.

This wasn’t what you expected when you heard the phrase “defeated the Dark Lord.” Not that Cassian had been picturing some golden-haired paladin riding a broom into the sun, but still. There should’ve been… presence. Something in the spine. A kid with a headline like his ought to stand like the world owed him sweets.

Harry sat as if he was apologising for breathing.

No one else seemed to notice. Or maybe they just thought he was shy. First-year nerves and all that. Easy to miss, in a room full of hungry teenagers and floating puddings.

Cassian reached for a steak. “That boy was neglected.”

She followed his gaze. “Yeah.”

“Doesn’t move like a boy who got hugged much,” Cassian said finally.

Bathsheda sighed. “That is none of our business.”

“Course not,” he said. “Just inconveniently obvious… And odd.”

It wasn’t the first time Hogwarts had taken in a half-raised child and called it charity. They were good at that… scooping up stray legacies and tossing them into the Great Hall with a hat and a prayer. But Potter wasn’t just another orphan. He was a symbol. A myth on legs. And no one thought to feed him properly?

Dumbledore was doing his usual circuit of eye contact and vague benevolence, eyes twinkling. Snape wasn’t even pretending to eat… just sat with his arms folded, glaring somewhere between the gravy boat and existential despair. Probably working out how many detentions he could assign before Christmas.

Cassian leaned over slightly. “Snape is gonna have a hell of a time with that one.”

“Potter?”

“Mm. He hates James, right?”

She frowned, then blinked like something clicked. “Right,” she said, a touch distant. “Saw it a few times, back then. Potter and his lot, Potter and Black mostly, going after Snape.”

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ (Now Optional)

Spoiler

History remembers victories

You’ll be remembered for… sitting quietly in the back.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep