Bringing Fairytales to Hogwarts!

By the time Viktor arrived at the Great Hall, lunchtime had already passed.

The hall looked quite different from his last visit. The wide open space, once cleared for staff interviews, had been returned to its traditional layout—four long house tables, each marked at the ends with their respective emblems: the badger, the eagle, the serpent, and the lion.

Professor McGonagall stood at the center of the hall, working with Hagrid to finish the decorations.

"I don't think we're celebrating Christmas today. Let's move that tree over just a bit, thank you, Hagrid."

As she spoke, she waved her wand and conjured four long banners behind the staff table.

"I'll leave the rest to you."

"No problem, Professor," Hagrid replied cheerfully.

With the matter settled, McGonagall turned to Viktor with a warm expression.

"Good afternoon, Professor Vanderboom."

"Your office is ready—you may take your things there first. By the way, have you submitted your syllabus yet?"

"…Hm? Not yet? It hasn't arrived?" Viktor blinked innocently. "Must be a delay with the owl post. I sent it out days ago."

For a brief moment, McGonagall's gaze sharpened.

Her years of teaching instantly conjured up a flood of familiar excuses: "I turned it in, Professor, you must've lost it!" and "Oh no, I left it at home!"

The classic student move—say nothing until asked, then feign surprise.

But since Viktor was a professor and not a student, she didn't press the issue. Still, it surprised her that someone who looked as grim as Snape could be so… evasive.

Then again, perhaps it was a good thing he didn't resemble Severus in personality.

"Is there anything else I should know?" Viktor asked, pretending not to notice her shifting expression.

McGonagall quickly composed herself. "Yes, of course."

She reached into her robe and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment. "Here's the elective course schedule for the year. Your classes usually hover around a dozen students, though you'll see a larger group in Year Three."

"In the first week, you're encouraged to make the subject as engaging as possible. It helps the students decide whether to continue with Divination—it's optional after all."

"Understood," Viktor said.

In truth, he planned to make the first week incredibly boring. He didn't want too many noisy twelve-year-olds signing up.

He glanced at the schedule.

Divination was allotted two sessions a day on average. Occasionally there was a third—those were for the seventh years, who only attended once a week due to internships.

Monday: Year Seven and Year Three.

He folded the parchment neatly and tucked it away.

"Thank you, Professor McGonagall."

Elsewhere, Harry Potter was boarding the Hogwarts Express with no small amount of nerves.

The past month had been relatively pleasant, all things considered. After Hagrid dropped him off, he'd also taken the liberty of putting the Dursleys in their place—meaning Harry hadn't had to sleep in a cupboard or fetch anyone's slippers all summer.

Now, seated in a train compartment alongside the red-haired Ron Weasley, Harry finally let himself feel excited.

The compartment was cozy—two padded benches facing each other, upholstered in worn red velvet. Sitting there, Harry felt like he'd stepped back into the Victorian era.

"My mum's got this second cousin who's an accountant," Ron was saying, "but I've never met him, and we don't talk about him much… What about you? First time finding out you're a wizard? I heard you were raised by Muggles."

"Yeah. But the day I got my letter wasn't my first brush with magic," Harry said. "I got lost and ended up in Professor Viktor's house."

"Viktor?" Ron blinked. "We've got a Professor Viktor? Never heard of him. What does he teach?"

"Divination."

At the mention of Viktor, Harry's thoughts drifted back to that day in the enchanted cottage—the day he met the mysterious man with mirror doors and talking teacups. He would remember it for the rest of his life.

"His house was full of magical things," Harry added. "Like mirrors you could travel through… and teacups that moved on their own."

"Traveling mirrors?" Ron's eyes widened. "Never heard of those. But we've got a hopping teapot back home."

"The mirror was special. It let me—"

But Harry didn't get to finish. The door to their compartment was abruptly flung open.

Standing in the doorway was a pale blond boy flanked by two hulking boys with blank, dumb looks on their faces.

"You're Harry Potter?"

The boy's voice was familiar—Harry had bumped into him at Diagon Alley, and it hadn't gone well.

"Yeah," Harry said evenly.

"I'm Draco Malfoy. This is Crabbe, and this is Goyle. We're all from pureblood families," Malfoy said with his nose tilted high.

But in English, "Draco" sounded comically pompous. And coupled with the surname Malfoy, the entire name came off as embarrassingly theatrical.

Ron barely stifled a laugh, his face turning bright red.

Malfoy's expression darkened immediately.

"What's so funny? I know who you are. You're a Weasley—everyone knows your family's too poor to feed all its kids. I'm surprised your wand hasn't fallen apart. Careful it doesn't start spewing slugs when you cast a spell!"

"You wanna go!?" Ron shot back, half-standing.

Malfoy ignored him and turned back to Harry, extending a hand.

"You do know who you should align with, right?"

"Of course," Harry replied coldly. "I'm sticking with Ron."

Malfoy's face froze.

Then twisted.

"Hmph. If I were you, I wouldn't be so sure. Maybe if your parents had known which side to pick, they'd still be alive."

Harry and Ron stood up simultaneously.

Something unfamiliar surged through Harry—pure rage, sharp and white-hot—and it brought with it a terrifying clarity.

"You think your family's so grand, Malfoy?" Harry said, suddenly smiling—a cold, calculating smile.

"But if you ask me, they're the most pathetic of all. I heard from Borgin that your family's been scrambling to buy concealment charms—trying to hide stuff before the Ministry raids your house. If they find anything, the only place you'll see your dad again is Azkaban."

"Which would make you no different from me—an orphan."

Silence fell across the train corridor.

Malfoy's face went from pale to green to crimson.

Even Ron looked stunned.

Wasn't Harry raised by Muggles? How does he know all this?!

Harry, for his part, took a deep breath. The moment the words left his mouth, he realized how harsh they were—but he didn't regret it. Malfoy had brought up his parents. That crossed a line.

His only regret was not eavesdropping more on Viktor back in Borgin and Burkes.

And the worst part?

Every word he said was true.

Malfoy stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish, utterly speechless.

His whole face flushed a furious red as he finally hissed:

"Get him!"

Goyle lunged. Malfoy rolled up his sleeves, clearly ready to brawl.

But Ron leapt forward, taking a punch for Harry and giving him just enough time to grab his wand.

In that split second, Harry locked eyes with Malfoy. His mind went razor-sharp.

He raised his wand and shouted:

"Draconifors!"