Nicholas leaned in closer to Hermione, the din of the Sorting Ceremony filling the Great Hall. His voice was barely a murmur in her ear, a conspiratorial tone beneath the roar of cheers and applause. "I suppose this makes us friends now," he whispered, his eyes glinting with amusement. Despite the chaos, their little exchange felt like a secret amidst the clamor, a rare moment of ease in the excitement that thrummed through the air. Every so often, their conversation was cut short by students coming forward, eager to shake Nicholas's hand or offer compliments about his heritage.
"It's a great honor, Mr. Gryff," one older student declared, giving a firm handshake before disappearing back into his seat. Nicholas responded with a polite nod, but he kept his focus on Hermione, sensing she had more to say.
She turned to him with a knowing smile, her tone playful yet reserved. "Perhaps... that's what I said earlier," she teased, raising an eyebrow. "But then again, if you do show me Ms. Bathilda's signed book, I may just consider being a bit more friendly." She let out a small, amused chuckle, the sound barely audible over the noise around them. Nicholas joined in, sharing in the moment, their laughter mingling softly amidst the boisterous atmosphere.
But then, the noise shifted as Professor McGonagall called out, "Draco Malfoy."
All eyes turned to the front as Draco, his blond hair slicked back, approached the Sorting Hat with a confident stride. He exchanged a glance with Nicholas—one of mutual understanding, a silent reassurance between friends. Nicholas offered an encouraging smile, confident that the Sorting Hat's decision was already clear. Slytherin would be the choice, and he doubted that the house assignment would change much between them.
Hermione leaned closer, her voice colored with a hint of skepticism as she observed the scene. "He's rather... rude, your friend," she remarked, her tone suggesting she still hadn't entirely made up her mind about Draco.
Nicholas glanced back at her, the sincerity in his expression unshaken. "He can be a bit rough around the edges, yes," he admitted, keeping his voice low. "But Draco's a friend I trust, and he has his moments—though they might not always be apparent." There was a softness in his tone, a genuine fondness that Hermione couldn't quite dismiss.
She paused, her gaze drifting back to Draco, then to Nicholas's other friends scattered around the Great Hall. They were an unusual mix—Hannah Abbott's bright, kind demeanor and Nicholas seemed out of place among the shadowy presence of Draco and the rest of their circle. It was a puzzle that Hermione found herself contemplating, a mystery that lingered at the edges of her thoughts. Perhaps, she mused, it was one she would unravel another day.
"SLYTHERIN!" The Sorting Hat's proclamation echoed throughout the hall.
A cheer rose from the Slytherin table as Draco stood from the stool, a satisfied smirk on his lips. But as his gaze found Nicholas once more, a flicker of something softer crossed his features—perhaps a twinge of regret, or a hint of uncertainty.
Nicholas clapped firmly from his seat at the Gryffindor table, the only one from his house to do so. His applause was met with curious glances from his fellow Gryffindors, but he held his head high, unbothered by the whispers. As Draco caught sight of this small act of support, his smirk softened into a genuine smile, a glimmer of gratitude hidden in the depths of his steely eyes. And then, in a gesture that spoke more than words, Nicholas raised his fist in a subtle salute, and Draco mirrored the gesture. It was a signal, a promise between friends—one that did not go unnoticed by the sharper eyes in the room, including the watchful professors seated at the head table.
The Sorting Ceremony concluded with the final name on Professor McGonagall's list—Blaise Zabini. As the slender, dark-skinned boy with sharp eyes took his place upon the stool, the Great Hall fell into a hushed anticipation. Nicholas watched intently, knowing how much Blaise's placement would mean to their little circle. After a brief moment, the Sorting Hat shouted, "SLYTHERIN!" A round of applause followed, mostly from the Slytherin table, though it lacked the fervor that had accompanied some of the other sortings. Blaise offered a slight, reserved nod before making his way to join Draco and Pansy at their table.
Nicholas couldn't help but notice the expressions on his friends' faces as they settled into their places. Draco maintained his typical air of aloof pride, but there was a subtle tension in his jaw as he glanced over to the Gryffindor table. Pansy, meanwhile, looked outright displeased, a pout settling on her lips as she cast a fleeting glance in Nicholas's direction. Every time their eyes met, he offered her a helpless smile, attempting to reassure her without words. Even from across the hall, he could sense her frustration—perhaps over the division between them, now set in the stone of Hogwarts tradition.
As for Blaise, he looked composed, perhaps even indifferent, yet Nicholas knew him well enough to detect a trace of disappointment lurking beneath that calm exterior. He sighed softly, knowing that even though their houses were now different, their friendships didn't have to be.
Meanwhile, at the Gryffindor table, a much different atmosphere prevailed. The Weasley family's signature red hair was a sea of bright spots among the sea of students, and they were quick to extend a warm welcome to their newest housemate. Ron, who had been sorted just before Harry, practically bounded over to Nicholas's side, his excitement palpable. He reached out to shake Nicholas's hand once more, this time with more vigor.
"Blimey, I can't believe we're actually in the same house! This is brilliant, just brilliant!" Ron's voice rang with enthusiasm, his ears flushed with delight. There was an unmistakable eagerness in his expression, as if he'd just won the best prize at a fair.
Nicholas chuckled softly, returning Ron's firm handshake. "Glad to see a familiar face, Ron. Let's hope our time here is just as brilliant as you expect."
As Ron settled beside Nicholas, he gestured to his older brother, who approached them with an air of formality. Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect, carried himself with a certain dignity, his posture stiff and his Gryffindor badge gleaming proudly on his chest. He had neatly combed red hair, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and a slightly pompous expression that seemed to suggest he took his role as a prefect very seriously.
"Welcome to Gryffindor, Mr. Gryff," Percy said, extending a hand towards Nicholas. His tone was polite, but there was an unmistakable note of pride in it, as if he took particular satisfaction in maintaining the high standards of the house. "I trust you'll find yourself quite at home here. And should you have any questions or require guidance, do not hesitate to seek me out. I am always available to help maintain the reputation of our house."
Nicholas accepted the handshake, offering a courteous smile in return. "Thank you, Percy. I'm certain your guidance will be most valuable during my time here."
Percy nodded, satisfied with Nicholas's respectful response, and moved on, clearly eager to resume his duties. As he turned away, however, two identical figures suddenly popped up in front of Nicholas, grinning broadly. The Weasley twins, Fred and George, had a more casual, mischievous air about them, in stark contrast to their elder brother. With their matching red hair, bright smiles, and twinkling eyes, they looked ready to stir up trouble at any moment. The duo radiated energy, and they seemed to thrive on the chaos and excitement around them.
"Fred Weasley, at your service," said the first twin with an exaggerated bow, winking as he straightened up.
"And George Weasley, also at your service," chimed in the second, mirroring his brother's antics. "Welcome to Gryffindor, Nicholas—though we reckon you already feel right at home, being a Gryff and all."
The two exchanged a glance before turning their attention back to Nicholas, their expressions mischievous. "You know, we've heard all sorts of stories about the Gryffs—legendary, they say," Fred remarked, his voice full of exaggerated wonder.
"But none of them ever mentioned you being this dashing," George added, grinning broadly. "We're thinking of writing a new chapter—'The Return of Gryffindor's Heir!' Sounds rather dramatic, don't you think?"
Nicholas couldn't help but laugh, charmed by their infectious enthusiasm. "I appreciate the welcome, Fred, George. But I think I'll leave the dramatic stories to you two. Somehow, I feel you'll make it much more entertaining than I ever could."
Fred and George beamed, clearly pleased by his response. "Oh, you'll fit right in," Fred declared, clapping Nicholas on the back.
"Absolutely, we'll have to show you around—introduce you to all the best hiding spots, trick staircases, secret passages," George added, his tone hushed and conspiratorial, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.
"You'll see, Gryffindor's got much more than just tradition," Fred finished, exchanging a sly wink with his twin.
And with that, the twins flitted off, their laughter echoing as they moved down the table, clearly on the lookout for their next bit of mischief. Nicholas watched them return to their seats, the corners of his mouth still curved in amusement. The warmth of the Gryffindor table, filled with easy smiles and friendly chatter, stood in stark contrast to the reserved coldness that lingered among some of the other houses. It felt like a gathering of kindred spirits, a place where camaraderie flowed as freely as the warmth from the crackling fires along the walls.
"Your attention, please," came Professor McGonagall's firm and clear voice, cutting through the buzz of conversation. All heads turned towards her, and the Great Hall settled into an expectant hush. A sense of anticipation crackled in the air as Professor Dumbledore, rising from his seat at the center of the high table, raised his hands with a gentle, twinkling smile in his eyes.
"Let the feast... begin!" His voice rang out, echoing against the ancient stone walls, and with a simple gesture, he resumed his seat.
Almost instantly, a soft hum filled the hall, and then, as if responding to an unseen spell, the tables transformed before their very eyes. Platters, bowls, and dishes appeared, brimming with a magnificent spread that took Nicholas's breath away. The aromas hit him first—rich, savory scents intermingled with the sweet, the warm, and the spicy.
Golden platters piled high with roast meats emerged, each piece glistening under the warm glow of floating candles. Whole roasted chickens, their skin crispy and crackling, sat alongside generous cuts of beef that were seared to perfection, their edges dark and caramelized. There were racks of lamb rubbed with garlic and rosemary, their scent mingling with the honeyed, smoky aroma of glazed hams, each slice revealing a tender pink interior. Fat sausages, some bursting with herb-infused flavors, others charmed with a hint of magical spices from far-off wizarding regions, sizzled invitingly.
Beside them, towering baskets of freshly baked bread appeared, still warm from the oven. Crusty sourdough loaves sat alongside braided brioche, and flaky croissants that shimmered with a light dusting of powdered sugar. There were buttery rolls, golden and soft, with pats of enchanted butter that seemed to melt the moment it touched the warm surface. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the savory aromas, creating a harmony that set the senses alight.
Bowls of roasted vegetables, charmed to retain their vibrant colors, appeared beside dishes of creamy mashed potatoes, whipped to a smoothness that bordered on luxurious. Glazed carrots shone like little orange jewels, while green beans tossed with slivers of almonds offered a touch of crunch. Steaming pies—steak and kidney, chicken and leek, and even a bubbling cheese and onion—gave off fragrant tendrils of steam.
Nicholas's gaze wandered over the array, his awe apparent. The desserts were equally enchanting: towering trifles with layers of custard and sponge, bowls of berries that sparkled like gems, and treacle tarts with golden crusts that glistened as if sprinkled with stardust. There were puddings of every variety—spotted dick, sticky toffee, and a creamy rice pudding that seemed to ripple like waves under moonlight.
His mouth watered, and he couldn't help but recall the Christmas feasts prepared by the house elves at his family's ancestral home. Even then, amidst all the extravagance, he had never seen anything quite like this. There was a charm in the presentation here, a touch of magic that made each dish glow as if the food itself welcomed them to Hogwarts.
Reaching out, Nicholas helped himself to a slice of roast beef, the knife slicing through like butter, followed by a spoonful of rich, velvety gravy. Beside him, Ron piled his plate with roast chicken and mashed potatoes, his face practically glowing with delight. Hermione, marveled at the selection before delicately placing a few pieces of lamb and some glazed carrots onto her plate, eyeing a dish of roasted parsnips with cautious curiosity. While in front of him, Harry chose a variety of food, from a slice of roast beef to a leg piece of a roasted chicken, eyeing his food with desire.
As Nicholas took his first bite, warmth spread through him, a perfect counter to the crisp autumn air that lingered in the hall. The food was rich and hearty, yet the flavors danced on his tongue, each mouthful a reminder of the magic that now surrounded him.
Around him, older Gryffindors leaned in, sharing stories of their own first feasts, weaving tales of enchantment and hidden passages. The first-years listened in awe, eyes wide with excitement. Nicholas, however, found himself smiling at the more exaggerated parts—claims of secret tunnels beneath the castle or enchanted dishes that rearranged themselves. He suspected that more than a little creative flair had been added over the years.
"I wonder when we'll see the ghosts," mused Hermione. She had finished her meal and was delicately wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, her manners meticulous and proper. Her gaze wandered around the Great Hall, searching for any sign of the spectral inhabitants she had read so much about. "They're quite fascinating according to—"
Ron, seated next to Nicholas, interrupted her with a scoff. "That's rubbish. There aren't any ghosts in Hogwarts; they just say that to frighten first-years like us. Fred and George told me so." His tone carried the certainty of someone who had just received insider knowledge, though it was clear his skepticism didn't stop him from reaching for yet another chicken leg, tearing into it with enthusiasm.
But Ron's confidence crumbled almost immediately as a pale, translucent head emerged right through the platter of chicken. "Boo," intoned the ghost, with an almost mischievous glint in his spectral eyes.
Ron yelped, dropping his fork with a clatter, his face paling as much as the ghost's ethereal form. A murmur of surprise rippled along the table, and soon enough, more ghosts drifted into view, gliding through the air with a fluidity that defied the rules of the physical world. They welcomed the new students, some offering kind smiles, others nodding with a stately air, their attire reflecting different eras of history—from the grand robes of the medieval period to the more austere fashion of later centuries. The sight of these spirits evoked a mix of awe and trepidation among the first-years, who now stared with wide eyes at the realization that the stories of Hogwarts' ghosts were all too true.
The first ghost, who had startled Ron, floated upward, revealing his full form. He wore a ruff around his neck, a marvelously ancient piece of clothing that looked as though it belonged in a portrait from a different age. His breeches and tights only added to the antique appearance, and Nicholas couldn't help but smile at how strangely unappealing the style seemed—so different from modern attire.
"Ah, Sir Nicholas. Enjoyed your summer, I hope?" called out Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect, who seemed entirely unfazed by the ghost's appearance.
Nicholas blinked, startled for a moment. Sir Nicholas… Am I truly sharing the same name with a ghost? he thought, a shiver running down his spine at the eerie coincidence. He tried to dismiss the unease, reminding himself that it was simply a name. Still, he noticed Hermione stifling a giggle beside him, her gaze darting between the ghost and Nicholas with a knowing look. Meanwhile, Ron and Harry appeared intrigued, their eyes flitting back and forth as if trying to discern some hidden connection between the ghostly knight and their new friend.
Sir Nicholas let out a theatrical sigh, his ghostly form gliding mournfully along the length of the Gryffindor table. "Dismal, as always, I'm afraid. My petition to join the Headless Hunt has been denied once again," he lamented, his tone carrying a note of deep despair. The very air around him seemed to chill with his disappointment, and the shimmer of his translucent figure drooped as though weighed down by the burden of unfulfilled hopes. Nicholas could almost imagine the ghost shedding tears if he had still been among the living.
Before Nicholas could offer a word of sympathy, Ron's voice rang out, breaking the solemn atmosphere with an enthusiastic exclamation. "I know you! You're Nearly Headless Nick!" he shouted, his earlier fright forgotten. The proud gleam in Ron's eyes suggested that he believed himself quite clever for knowing the ghost's infamous moniker.
Yet, the ghost's reaction was far from appreciative. Sir Nicholas's spectral eyebrows shot up, and he fixed Ron with an affronted glare. "I prefer Sir Nicholas, if you don't mind," he corrected, his voice carrying the clipped, indignant tone of someone accustomed to a higher station. The disapproval in his ghostly eyes was unmistakable, though Ron merely shrugged, casting a glance at Nicholas with a look that seemed to ask, I look cool knowing the ghost, right?
Nicholas managed to keep a straight face, though he was tempted to shake his head in amusement at Ron's bravado. Instead, he allowed himself a slight smile, knowing that Ron's bluster, however misguided, was harmless enough.
It wasn't long before Hermione's curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned forward with a gleam in her eye, her natural inquisitiveness now fully unleashed. It was a wonder, Nicholas mused, that she had managed to stay silent for this long, considering the appearance of the ghosts. "Nearly headless? How can you be nearly headless?" she asked, her tone purely academic, as though she were questioning a professor about a puzzling bit of magical theory.
Her inquiry seemed to stir a sense of obligation in Sir Nicholas, who straightened up with an air of resigned pride. "Like this," he declared, and with a flourish, he grasped the edge of his spectral head. He pulled, and with a sickeningly fluid motion, his head lolled to the side, hanging on by a slender, ghostly thread of what might once have been sinew and skin.
The reaction was immediate. "Ah!" Ron yelped, his earlier bravado crumbling into raw, unfiltered terror as he recoiled from the sight. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, a moan of revulsion escaping her as she squeezed her eyes shut. Harry's expression hovered somewhere between shock and morbid fascination, his wide-eyed stare fixed on the swinging head with a mix of awe and bewilderment.
Nicholas, for his part, stifled a grimace, forcing himself to maintain composure in the presence of their spectral companion. He could understand why the Headless Hunt might reject Sir Nicholas's application; there was a fine line between nearly headless and truly headless, and the difference was rather unpleasant to behold.
Sir Nicholas, appearing to take some satisfaction in their reactions, neatly replaced his head upon his shoulders with a dignified sniff, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the translucent wobble of his severed neck. "As you see, I am not quite... headless enough for their liking," he said, with a touch of bitterness, though he quickly masked it with a more refined air, floating upright once more.
Sir Nicholas gave them a final, melancholic look before drifting away through a nearby wall, his form vanishing like mist. As he disappeared from view, Nicholas couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder and awe. Meeting a ghost had been nothing short of extraordinary, a stark reminder of what the magical world could offer. Memories of Halloween nights back home flickered in his mind—times when he and his Muggle friends would go trick-or-treating, sharing ghost stories and pretending to be scared. Back then, the idea of ghosts was nothing more than a childish fantasy. Now, he had proof that such spirits truly existed, and he couldn't help but imagine the looks on his friends' faces if they could see what he had just experienced. A small, triumphant smile tugged at the corners of his lips. I was right all along—ghosts do exist.
As the feast drew to a close, the plates and goblets on the tables cleared themselves with a gentle clink, leaving the polished wood bare once more. With everyone now content and full, the hall settled into a comfortable hush. Dumbledore rose from his seat, his movement catching the attention of every student present. Silence fell immediately, as if the air itself held its breath. The older students reacted in various ways—some watched with eager eyes, expecting the familiar end-of-feast rituals, while others barely hid their yawns, their expressions a mixture of fondness and boredom. Nicholas, intrigued, focused his gaze on the venerable headmaster, curious to see what would come next.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles, a gentle smile playing across his face. He raised his wand with a graceful flick, conjuring an animated ribbon that unfurled from its tip, swirling in the air like a colorful stream of smoke. The ribbon twisted and spun, forming words in shimmering, golden letters that danced above the heads of the students. "Now, dear children, before we retire to our beds, let us join together in song—our school song. Sing it in whatever tune and tempo your hearts desire, for the joy is in the singing itself," Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to wrap the hall in a cozy embrace. His words, though simple, held a certain gravitas, as if he were inviting them all to share in something both ancient and whimsical.
The enchanted ribbon swirled above them, displaying the lyrics for all to see, the words twinkling brightly even in the dim candlelight of the hall. And then, in a chaotic symphony, the students began to sing. Each house chose their own tempo—some hurried, some slow—creating a jumbled melody that somehow retained a peculiar charm. Nicholas found himself singing along, caught up in the energy of the moment, though he had to suppress a laugh at the simplicity of the lyrics. They were childishly straightforward, reminding him of songs he used to sing in nursery school, yet something was endearing about the whole scene.
As the song went on, students began to taper off, their voices dwindling until, at last, only Fred and George Weasley remained, crooning the final verse with a slow, dramatic flair as if it were a mournful dirge. Their antics drew chuckles and eye-rolls from the surrounding tables, but even Dumbledore seemed to enjoy the theatrics, clapping along with a lighthearted smile.
With the conclusion of the song, the atmosphere shifted again, signaling the end of the evening's festivities. A resounding thud echoed through the Great Hall as the enormous wooden doors swung open, and the students rose from their seats. The prefects moved swiftly into action, guiding the younger students into orderly groups. Percy rounded up Nicholas and the other first-years, instructing them to gather closely. As he did, the rest of the students began to spill out of the hall like streams from a river, the older students moving with the practiced ease of those who had been through this before.
Before Nicholas was swept up in the flow, he caught sight of Draco, Pansy, and Blaise across the hall. Their eyes met, and he mouthed silently, "Let's meet tomorrow during break time." The three Slytherins nodded in unison, though Draco appeared ready to add something more. But whatever he intended to say was cut off as the prefects urged them onward, their voices rising above the shuffle of feet and the buzz of excited whispers.
Percy led the group of first-years through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, the air buzzed with quiet excitement and curiosity. The torches lining the walls flickered with a warm, golden glow, casting elongated shadows that danced along the ancient stone. The whispers of centuries-old secrets seemed to echo through the castle's passages, weaving an air of mystery that only deepened as they ventured further.
At last, they came to a halt at the end of one particularly long hallway, and the sight before them stole the breath from Nicholas's lungs. Towering above them was a grand, labyrinthine network of staircases that stretched as far as the eye could see. It wasn't just the sheer height of the chamber that struck him, but the mesmerizing spectacle of the stairs themselves—moving and shifting like enchanted serpents. Some staircases pivoted sharply, swinging out to connect with different landings, while others glided gently to new positions, aligning with corridors in a seemingly random fashion. The sound of creaking wood and grinding stone filled the air, mingling with the occasional gasp of awe from the new students.
Nicholas gazed upwards, marveling at the chaotic choreography of the staircases. Tens... no, perhaps even hundreds, he thought, his head tilting back to take it all in. The stairs seemed to be alive, with a will of their own, as if choosing their paths whimsically. They reminded him of the intricate models of railways he'd seen in Muggle museums—only here, there was no visible switch to guide their movement. Each shift and turn seemed both random and deliberate, a riddle that only the castle itself could understand.
Surrounding the stairwell, the walls were adorned with countless portraits, each frame holding a wizard or witch from a bygone era. The subjects moved freely within their canvases, glancing curiously at the students below or engaging in lively conversations with one another. A witch with a towering ruff glanced disdainfully at a wizard in a powdered wig, while a knight in armor leaned against his painted lance, giving the first-years a stern nod of approval. The portraits added an air of bustling life to the already animated scene, making it difficult to discern where the magic ended and reality began.
"One hundred and forty-two staircases," Percy murmured softly, his voice barely carrying above the creaking of wood and the murmur of portraits. Only Nicholas and Hermione, walking closest to him, caught his words.
Nicholas turned to look at Percy, a thoughtful expression on his face. That's a lot, he mused inwardly, and before he could speak, Hermione, ever eager to ask questions, voiced a similar sentiment. "One hundred and forty-two... What a wonder," she marveled, her eyes wide as they traced the movements of the staircases. "Do they provide access to every room in Hogwarts?"
Percy glanced at her, a faint smile of appreciation at her inquisitiveness. "You're quite right, Ms.—"
"Granger," she supplied promptly.
Percy inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Technically, you could reach every floor and room in the castle using these staircases. However, it would be ill-advised to attempt such a feat. The stairs are capricious; they change without warning, leading you down paths that may not return where you came from. One could easily lose their way—or worse." His gaze followed the shifting stairs, as though they concealed hidden dangers within their whimsical movements.
Nicholas shivered slightly, his awe tempered with a newfound caution. It was easy to see the potential peril—one misstep, and a person could find themselves plunged into the darkness below, where the staircases crisscrossed like a giant, intricate puzzle. He glanced at Neville Longbottom, who stood nearby, clutching his toad Trevor tightly to his chest. The poor boy's face was pale, and he swallowed nervously as he peered over the edge. Nicholas couldn't help but imagine Neville's fear—perhaps seeing himself and his toad tumbling into the void beneath.
Hermione, who had been studying the moving staircases with furrowed brows, turned her attention back to the group. Her gaze swept over Harry, Ron, and finally rested on Nicholas, a look of stern concern crossing her features. "I do hope you've all heard what Percy said," she admonished, her tone carrying a touch of authority despite her young age.
Harry and Ron exchanged incredulous looks, clearly taken aback by her sudden shift in tone. Nicholas, however, found it rather amusing. A small chuckle escaped his lips. Did she really think we'd take the moving stairs as a challenge? he thought, imagining the folly of trying to explore every one of the one hundred and forty-two staircases. He shared a sympathetic glance with Hermione, nodding subtly to indicate that he agreed with her assessment. There was no wisdom in exploring the labyrinthine depths of the stairwells without a proper reason—or a guide.
The journey through the winding labyrinth of stairs was not a swift one. Despite Percy's confident lead, the path twisted and turned, requiring them to wait as staircases slowly aligned or shifted beneath their feet. Occasionally, a staircase would creak and pivot, making the first-years glance around nervously, but with Percy's guidance, they navigated the maze safely. The air grew cooler as they ascended, and the echoes of their footsteps mingled with the distant murmur of portraits and the quiet groan of moving stone.
Eventually, they reached the seventh floor, where the stone walls seemed to lean in closer, as if they held secrets too ancient to share with newcomers. Percy led them into a long corridor, lined with more portraits—some of wizards in grand robes, others of serene landscapes that rippled like water when passed. The corridor stretched ahead into shadows, its length lit by the occasional flickering torch.
"At the end of this passage lies the entrance to Gryffindor Tower," Percy announced, his voice taking on a warmer tone that was a departure from his earlier strict demeanor. "This is where you will spend most of your nights during your seven years at Hogwarts. The common room is a place of respite, but also of camaraderie. Respect it, and it will become a second home."
As he spoke, Percy shared a few essential house rules—curfews, the importance of keeping the common room tidy, and reminders of the significance of the honor Gryffindor held within the walls of Hogwarts. He mentioned expectations for their studies, the importance of keeping up with assignments, and the camaraderie they'd find among their fellow housemates. His words carried the weight of tradition, echoing in the corridor as they made their way towards their destination.
When they reached the end of the corridor, a large painting came into view. It depicted a rather plump lady in a flowing pink dress, her cheeks rosy and her hair styled in ringlets. Her smile was indulgent, yet there was a regal air to her posture, as if she considered herself quite the gatekeeper. Her eyes darted from one first-year to another, her expression hovering between curiosity and mild disinterest, until they settled on Percy with recognition.
"And who have we here, Percy?" she asked in a lilting tone, her eyes twinkling as they glanced over the new arrivals.
"These are our newest members of Gryffindor, my lady," Percy replied with a small bow of his head. "And for tonight, the password is 'Caput Draconis.'"
The Fat Lady's expression brightened at the familiar words, and she nodded approvingly, her curls bouncing slightly. "Caput Draconis," she repeated with satisfaction. With that, the canvas swung open smoothly, revealing a circular entrance behind it.
"Quickly now, everyone. Follow me," Percy instructed, gesturing them through the hidden doorway. "Don't dawdle."
Stepping through the portrait hole, Nicholas found himself at the entrance of the Gryffindor common room, and the sight that greeted him nearly stole his breath away. The space was warmly lit by a crackling fire in a large stone hearth, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows across the room. Deep, plush armchairs in rich scarlet and gold were scattered around, arranged in cozy clusters near the fireplace. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the brave deeds of past Gryffindors, while the ceiling arched overhead, supported by wooden beams that bore the marks of time.
The air was filled with the scent of aged wood and something sweet, like caramel and cinnamon. Shelves lined with books, some dusty and ancient, others filled with colorful bindings, hinted at the stories and knowledge shared by Gryffindors throughout the ages. A staircase on either side of the room spiraled upwards to the dormitories, one leading to the boys' rooms, the other to the girls'.
Nicholas couldn't help but feel a sense of awe as he took in the scene. He imagined his ancestors—distant figures in Gryffindor robes—sitting in these very armchairs, perhaps reading by the fire or sharing tales of their own adventures. He thought of his grandfather, Godfrey Gryff, who had often spoken of his time at Hogwarts with a wistful glimmer in his eye. What must it have been like for him, entering this room for the first time, seeing the same warmth, the same crimson glow reflected in the firelight?
It was a surreal connection to a past that felt both distant and intimately close. The thought that he was walking the same paths, experiencing the same wonders that his forebears had, filled him with a sense of belonging. It was as though the weight of family history settled upon his shoulders—but not uncomfortably. Rather, it was a gentle, steadying presence, reminding him that he was part of something much greater than himself.
While Percy continued to usher the first-years into the room, Nicholas lingered for a moment, letting the warmth seep into his bones and the realization of his new life settle in. He caught Hermione's eye, her expression one of restrained delight as she took in the rich details of the room. Harry and Ron, too, seemed captivated, their earlier nervousness replaced by a sense of wonderment.
"This… this is really it, isn't it?" Harry murmured, more to himself than anyone else, his eyes reflecting the firelight.
Ron grinned, still wide-eyed. "It's even better than Fred and George said it would be."
Nicholas gave a small nod, his own thoughts still wandering through the history that seemed to whisper from every corner of the room. "Yes, it truly is," he replied quietly, feeling that, in this moment, he had stepped into a place where the past met the present.