Blood and magic wand

The Great Hall was bathed in a majestic gloom, only broken by the lively, dancing light of numerous torches, casting bizarre, moving shadows on the tall, ancient walls adorned with antique tapestries. At the top of a massive stone staircase, leading somewhere higher, a tall, stern woman awaited them. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a neat bun, and her emerald-green robes flowed to the floor, emphasizing her posture. Her face was severe, revealing an authoritative character, but in the depths of her eyes, a faint anticipation was visible, the kind a teacher always has before meeting new students. This was Professor McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.

"First-years, over here!" she announced, her voice clear and authoritative, resounding through the vestibule without rising, yet making everyone involuntarily quiet down and pay attention to her. "Welcome to Hogwarts! You are about to undergo the Sorting Ceremony. This is a very important ceremony, for while you are here, your house will be your family at Hogwarts. You will live in the same tower, study with your housemates, and earn points for the House Cup. The four houses are called: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history, and each has given the world outstanding witches and wizards. While you are here at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn points for your house, and any rule-breaking will lose points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points will be awarded the House Cup – a very great honor. The Sorting Ceremony will begin in a few minutes in the presence of all the school students. I advise you to smarten yourselves up while you wait."

With these words, Professor McGonagall, turning on her heel, silently disappeared behind one of the massive wooden doors. The first-years were left alone, their uncertain murmur filling the vestibule. Everyone immediately began to whisper, excitedly looking around. Neville Longbottom, clutching his lost and then re-found toad, Trevor, was trembling, apparently from nervous tension. Hermione Granger, standing next to Viktor, began to rapidly repeat some spells to herself, her lips moving silently, mumbling about the importance of being sorted into the right house.

"Hermione, calm down. You'll scare everyone with your mumbling," Viktor remarked, his voice calm, with a slight chuckle, trying to distract her from her anxious thoughts.

"But it's so important, Viktor! What if I'm not in the right place? What if I can't prove myself?" Hermione nervously tugged at the hem of her robes, her eyes gleaming feverishly.

"You'll end up where you're supposed to. And you'll prove yourself no matter what, you're Hermione Granger," Viktor smiled warmly at her. Then he turned to Neville. "How are you, Neville? Very nervous?"

Neville just nodded, his face pale as a sheet. "I... I'm afraid I won't get into Gryffindor. My grandmother will be very upset."

"Come on, don't worry. The main thing is to be yourself, and everything will be fine," Viktor encouraged him, lightly patting him on the shoulder.

At that moment, like shadows slipping from the gloom, Draco Malfoy approached Harry. He was pale, with a sharp, arrogant face and cold, assessing grey eyes that held undisguised superiority. Beside him, like two silent guards, stood two hulking, gloomy figures with blank expressions – Crabbe and Goyle.

"So it's true, then?" Malfoy drawled, his voice laced with contempt. "That Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts?"

Curious first-years immediately gathered around them to listen, anticipating what would happen.

"These are Crabbe and Goyle," Malfoy explained nonchalantly, briefly pointing at his companions. "And I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

Ron quietly snorted, barely audible, but Malfoy immediately caught the sound. His grey eyes narrowed.

"Think my name's funny, do you?" Malfoy asked Ron coldly. "No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and too many children to make ends meet."

Ron's face turned crimson up to his ears, his fists clenching, and Harry looked at Malfoy with distaste.

"You'll soon find out that some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter," Malfoy continued, his voice lowering but retaining the same arrogance. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." He held out his hand to Harry, expecting him to shake it.

Harry merely glanced at the outstretched hand but didn't move. "I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks," he said firmly, his voice low and resolute.

But before Malfoy could respond to this direct refusal, a loud, clear voice broke the tense silence:

"Hey! What are you doing? Put my head back!"

Everyone, including Malfoy and his cronies, and Harry and Ron, turned around. Near one of the stone niches where antique knight's armor stood, Viktor was located. He was holding something behind his back, and next to him, the iron armor oddly waved its arms, as if trying to grab something, but it clearly had no helmet. Hermione, noticing the scene, frowned, her eyebrows knitting together.

"Viktor, give back the helmet," she said strictly, her voice full of indignation.

He put on an innocent face, eyes wide, as if not understanding what she was talking about:

"What helmet?"

From behind him, an irritated, clanking mumble could be heard, as if metal parts were rubbing against each other:

"Put me back, you rogue!"

Hermione stood with her hands on her hips, her patience clearly at its limit:

"Viktor..."

He pouted like an offended child, and then with feigned reluctance, but still, tossed the helmet into the armor's hands. The armor immediately placed it on its shoulders, as if sighing with relief, and froze in its usual pose, as if nothing had happened.

Malfoy, stunned by such an outburst, looked at Viktor with disbelief and disgust, his gaze sweeping over Viktor and then Harry.

"And who are you?" Malfoy said, his voice full of disdain. "Another Muggle offspring who saw magic for the first time and decided to steal it?"

Viktor replied with a wide, disarming smile:

"And who are you, blonde? Judging by your slicked-back hair and two sturdy guys behind you – a representative of... well, you understand, alternative tastes."

Malfoy instantly turned red to the roots of his hair, his fists clenched, and his eyes dangerously narrowed.

"What did you say?!" he roared, taking a step forward.

"Nothing of the sort," Viktor replied unperturbed, shrugging slightly. "I, by the way, am a tolerant person. I don't judge. Honestly, it's everyone's business what gender they prefer."

Before the heated exchange could escalate into something more, Professor McGonagall returned. Her gaze seemed to encompass everyone present, but she, as if noticing nothing, said in her usual, authoritative tone: "We are ready. Please follow me."

The Great Hall was truly a fairytale sight. The high ceiling gleamed with a starry sky, as if a real cosmos, strewn with billions of twinkling stars, truly stretched above them. Four long tables, at which hundreds of students sat, stretched across the hall. At the end of the hall was another, shorter table, where the teachers sat. Hundreds of candles stood on it, casting a soft, warm light on their faces. Hermione, looking up admiringly, quickly began to explain that the ceiling was enchanted and reflected the sky outside. Viktor leaned towards her, his eyes burning with curiosity:

"Too bad I didn't bring a camera. You don't see things like this every day."

Hermione laughed, and then began to anxiously look at the hat lying on a short, three-legged stool in front of the teachers' table.

The Sorting Ceremony began. Professor McGonagall stepped forward, holding a long roll of parchment. She called out names, and each first-year approached the stool, put on the hat, which, after short or long deliberation, shouted out a house name. Cries of "Gryffindor!" and "Hufflepuff!", "Ravenclaw!" and "Slytherin!" filled the hall, alternating with applause.

Then Harry Potter's name was called. The entire hall erupted in whispers and curiosity. Harry approached, put on the hat, and it covered his eyes. After a long, agonizing pause, the Hat finally shouted: "GRYFFINDOR!" The hall exploded, the applause deafening. Harry, embarrassed, hurried to the Gryffindor table, where Ron was already happily greeting him.

"Moss, Viktor!" finally sounded, as the shouts about Harry Potter subsided.

Viktor sprang up cheerfully and, swaying slightly as if playfully awaiting his verdict, sat on the stool. Hermione looked at Viktor hopefully, quietly praying he would be sorted into Gryffindor. McGonagall gently lowered the hat onto his head. Not a couple of seconds passed before the Hat, to everyone's astonishment, loudly shouted, its voice echoing through the Hall:

"SLYTHERIN!"

A deathly silence fell over the hall. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, and McGonagall nearly dropped the hat in surprise. After all, Slytherin usually took pure-bloods or at least half-bloods. The Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress exchanged glances, their faces expressing clear bewilderment. Then Dumbledore gestured to McGonagall to check Viktor's biography scroll. McGonagall quickly scanned the lines, and her eyebrows rose even higher – the dossier stated that Viktor was taken from a Muggle orphanage where he had been left by Muggle parents. After a short deliberation, McGonagall nodded to Dumbledore, accepting the Hat's decision. Despite such an unexpected sorting for everyone, Viktor was not offended; he smiled widely. His smile was even a little frightening in its unusualness, as if he was enjoying this surprise.

"Crazy," Ron muttered, who knew that Viktor, from a Muggle family, had been sorted into Slytherin and was still smiling so widely.

"He has that peculiarity," Hermione sighed, watching him, her face a mixture of worry and curiosity.

Viktor, lightly bouncing with ease, headed to the Slytherin table and, sitting among the other first-years, cheerfully said:

"Hi everyone!"

No one replied. All the Slytherins sitting at the table looked at him sternly, their faces expressing cold disapproval, as if he were an uninvited intruder in their ranks.

The feast began. The tables groaned with food: huge mountains of roast potatoes, whole turkeys, pumpkin pies, puddings – everything in abundance. The hall filled with the aroma of food and cheerful chatter. Viktor didn't rush at the food like most hungry first-years, but sampled everything bit by bit, with taste, like a true gourmand. He examined the dishes, smelled them, savored each piece, as if conducting a tasting. His calm and slightly detached demeanor clearly irritated some Slytherins.

"You're not a pure-blood, are you?" asked a second-year sitting next to him, with narrow eyes and sharp features, his voice full of contempt.

"No," Viktor replied with a smile, not looking up from his plate of pumpkin juice.

"So, you're a half-blood?" the boy clarified, his tone becoming even more arrogant.

"No," Viktor replied in the same calm tone, taking another sip.

Complete silence fell. The boy paled, then abruptly flushed with rage, his eyes flashing. He lowered his voice, but undisguised threat rang in it:

"How dare you sit at this table with your dirty blood?! You won't last, got it? You're finished!"

Viktor continued to eat calmly, as if not hearing the threats, or perhaps pointedly ignoring them.

"Are you stupid? Or did you swallow your tongue out of fear?!" the second-year bellowed, slamming the table so hard that the plates jumped, attracting attention.

Now everyone in the hall turned their attention to the scene. The buzz at the tables died down, and gazes from all houses turned to the Slytherin table, where the drama was unfolding. Viktor, ignoring the widespread attention, raised a finger, as if to say "one moment." He unhurriedly finished chewing, neatly wiped his mouth with a napkin, then looked directly into his tormentor's eyes and gave his characteristic sunny, but now somewhat unsettling, smile. Then he sharply struck the tormentor's palm with his fork, pinning it to the table with a dull thud.

A loud, piercing shriek of pain rang out. The boy screamed, trying to pull his hand away, but Viktor did not release the fork. Then Viktor moved even closer, leaned towards the boy so their faces were very close, and whispered, his voice cold as ice, without a trace of his former cheerfulness:

"For the first time, I forgive you, but one more word – and you're dead, my snake friend."

"VIKTOR!" echoed through the hall. It was Professor McGonagall's cry, who had finally reacted.

McGonagall sprang from her seat at the teachers' table. Viktor stood up, carefully removed the fork from the boy's hand, and, still smiling, turned to the professor:

"Yes, Professor? Did something happen?"

At his innocent smile, contrasting with what had just occurred, McGonagall's eye began to twitch. Professor Snape, sitting at the teachers' table, glared at Viktor with a murderous look full of rage. McGonagall sighed heavily, trying to calm down and compose herself.

"Professor Snape, take your student to the hospital wing!" she commanded, pointing to the boy who was still moaning in pain. "And you, Mr. Moss, follow me. Immediately."

Headmaster Dumbledore, who had been observing everything from the far end of the table, stood up. His eyes behind his half-moon spectacles twinkled.

"Minerva, take him to my office. I will join you. And we will talk," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but firm, leaving no room for argument.

Viktor calmly watched as Snape, with a face full of indignation, led away the crying student who was clutching his bleeding hand. He shrugged indifferently, as if it had nothing to do with him. Then he glanced at the fork, from which blood was still dripping, licked its tip, and chuckled:

"Blood is blood. No different from ordinary."

He placed the fork on the table, surveyed the frozen students who stared at him with horror and astonishment, and, still smiling, followed McGonagall. Many felt shivers run down their spines from his words and behavior, and a heavy, oppressive silence hung in the Great Hall.