Ravenclaw

When the Sorting Hat shouted "Ravenclaw," thunderous applause erupted in the Great Hall, especially at the Ravenclaw table. However, the atmosphere at the staff table was somewhat delicate.

Professor Severus Snape's already sallow, rarely expressive face darkened several shades the instant he heard the result, as though ink might drip from it. His cold black eyes fixed fiercely on the red-cloaked figure reluctantly making his way toward the Ravenclaw table, his thin lips pressed into a severe line.

An oppressive aura seemed to spread outward from him, making even Professor Quirrell, seated beside him, instinctively shrink his neck.

In a voice almost like a whisper, yet filled with barely contained irritation and confusion, he forced out a question through clenched teeth, as though asking himself and challenging fate at once: "Why... not Slytherin..."

Though he outwardly found fault with and dismissed this "arrogant, ill-mannered" boy who was "gifted but endlessly troublesome," deep down, Snape had to admit that over the past four years, this "special student" Dumbledore had forcibly placed in the castle had indeed displayed astonishing talent in potions—though his methods were often unconventional enough to send Snape's blood pressure soaring. His almost instinctive intuition for the properties of ingredients, his exacting control over dosage, and even the occasional unorthodox yet unexpectedly effective ideas he proposed all showed Snape the potential of someone who could truly understand and master the precise art of potion-making. And such talent ought to belong to Slytherin, the House that pursued power, ambition, and pure blood—though Silas was Muggle-born, which only made his extraordinary talent more remarkable.

Seated at the head of the table, Albus Dumbledore took in Snape's reaction completely. A trace of understanding and barely perceptible mischief flickered in his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles. He tilted his head slightly and spoke softly in a gentle voice only the two of them could hear, carrying just enough meaning to expose the truth.

"Severus, it seems... you actually care quite a bit about him. Understandably so. After all, over the past four years, you have been half of his introduction to potions, even if only informally."

Those words were like a needle, precisely piercing Snape's mask of indifference. Snape whipped his head around and glared viciously at Dumbledore, anger burning in his black eyes at having been seen through and provoked. Almost gritting his teeth, he replied in his lowest, coldest voice, full of warning and annoyance.

"Shut up, Dumbledore."

With that, he sharply turned away. He no longer looked at Dumbledore, nor at the center of the Great Hall, but instead stared fixedly at the empty golden plate before him as if he meant to burn two holes through it. For the remainder of the Sorting ceremony, he maintained that petrified state that radiated an unmistakable stay-away-from-me aura.

Dumbledore merely smiled without concern, turned back, and continued watching the new students being sorted into their respective Houses with pleasure, as though the brief exchange had never happened. He knew Severus Snape's heart was far more complicated than he let on. And the arrival of a variable like Silas Cyril would undoubtedly make Hogwarts' future Potions Classes much more... interesting.

Silas dawdled over to the Ravenclaw table and found an empty seat amid enthusiastic welcomes. Beside him sat an older Asian girl with long black hair and a gentle air. He slumped bonelessly onto the bench, turned his head weakly, and asked, "Senior... is the academic competition in Ravenclaw especially intense? I heard everyone here is a top student, competing themselves to death..." His tone was full of "fear" for his future studies—mainly because he hated trouble.

The older girl turned to him, revealing a delicate face and a gentle smile. In fluent English, she reassured him, "It's not too bad. Everyone is mainly interested in knowledge itself, so the atmosphere is quite nice. There's no need to panic. Just be yourself." She was Cho Chang, Ravenclaw's Seeker and a popular student at school.

Hearing her standard British accent and studying her appearance more closely, Silas asked curiously, "Are you Chinese?"

Cho nodded, her smile becoming warmer. "Yes. My parents are from Guangzhou."

"Oh." Silas acknowledged it without much reaction—after all, he had been from China in his previous life. His attention was quickly drawn elsewhere. His gaze passed over the long table and settled on Albus Dumbledore, who was slowly rising from the head of the staff table.

"Quiet, quiet." Dumbledore's gentle voice was not loud, yet it carried clearly through the noisy Great Hall, instantly silencing everyone and drawing all eyes to him.

"Welcome!" Dumbledore spread his arms, a kind smile on his face. "Welcome back to Hogwarts for a new school year! And a special welcome to our newly enrolled students!" He gave a slight nod toward the first-years.

"Before the feast begins," he continued, mischief glinting in his eyes, "I would like to say a few words. And here they are—Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

He shouted the four words loudly, with a peculiar sense of rhythm.

Most first-years and some younger students wore baffled expressions. Yet Silas quietly and clearly explained to Cho Chang beside him—and to the nearby students who could hear him—in a tone of bored insight, "Got it. The Old Bee is playing a word game. 'Nitwit'—Ravenclaw probably thinks students from the other Houses aren't smart enough. 'Blubber'—Gryffindor thinks everyone else is overly sentimental and not brave enough. 'Oddment'—Slytherin's classic pure-blood superiority complex, looking down on 'Mudbloods' and blood traitors. 'Tweak'—Hufflepuff thinks people from the other Houses are too calculating, not straightforward, and all twisted up..."

He explained it clearly and hit the mark, earning surprised and appreciative looks from several older Ravenclaws nearby. Cho Chang widened her eyes slightly as well, not expecting this new junior to react so quickly.

After explaining, Silas let out a huge yawn and rubbed his eyes, curling even more listlessly into his chair as he complained under his breath, "...I want to sleep, but I'm too hungry to sleep... Can this old man hurry up and finish talking so we can eat..."

His focus had completely shifted from House rivalries and the headmaster's speech to the most basic physical need. To Silas Cyril, no House spirit or test of wisdom was as real as the hearty dinner about to appear before him.

Dumbledore's metaphor-laden opening remarks finally ended amid gazes that were puzzled, understanding, or thoughtful. With his cry of "Let the feast begin!" mountains of food and all kinds of drinks instantly appeared out of nowhere on the previously empty golden plates and goblets.

Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, sausages, bacon, steaks... all kinds of roasted meat gave off enticing aromas. Boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, mashed potatoes... potatoes occupied half the table. There were also Yorkshire puddings, haggis, black pudding, and other traditional British dishes.

For most hungry first-years and returning students, it was practically paradise. The Great Hall immediately filled with the clinking of cutlery and cheerful conversation.

However, as Silas Cyril looked at the dazzling spread of steaming food before him, his face took on an expression of despair as though he had just witnessed the end of the world.

"Finally finished..." He first let out a sigh of relief, but when his gaze swept over those familiar dishes he had considered culinary disasters in his previous life, he could not help muttering, "...shit."

The roast meat looked dry, the boiled potatoes had lost all their soul, and the black pudding reminded him of certain unpleasant memories. He could feel his taste buds wailing and his stomach cramping.

"I'm going to die..." he lamented, listlessly poking a piece of roast beef that at least looked somewhat juicy with his fork. In the end, he gave up the courage to try it. "Forget it. I'll wait for dessert... Hopefully the pudding and cake will be normal."

With that, he simply buried his face in the crook of his arms, lying directly on the long table covered in a blue cloth. He closed his eyes and tried to use sleep to resist hunger and the temptation of the food(?). The Ravenclaw students around him were happily enjoying dinner, and they found his behavior both amusing and strange. Cho Chang kindly nudged him and asked softly, "Silas, aren't you going to eat something? It tastes pretty good."

Without lifting his head, Silas replied in a muffled voice from beneath his arms, "No... thank you, Senior... I... I get sick from British food..."

Then, amid the surrounding symphony of knives and forks and bursts of laughter, he stubbornly... fell asleep. Perhaps in his dreams, a steaming hot pot, a table of colorful and fragrant stir-fries, or even just a simple bowl of noodle soup was waiting for him. And so Hogwarts' opening feast continued while this newly minted Ravenclaw student slept as though staging a hunger strike.

Just as Silas lay facedown on the table, battling the psychological trauma brought on by hunger and British food and successfully slipping into a light sleep, a slightly excited voice sounded beside his ear. At the same time, someone gently nudged his shoulder.

"Hey! Wake up! Cyril! Dessert's here!"

Silas groggily raised his head and rubbed his eyes. The food on the long table had already been replaced by a new spread: puddings of every flavor, ice cream, apple pie, treacle tarts, chocolate gateau... colorful treats that certainly looked much more tempting than the main course.

He looked toward the person who had woken him. It was a Ravenclaw boy who looked quite sharp, with slightly messy hair. Silas did not seem to have seen him before.

"Oh... thanks. You are...?" Silas said as he unceremoniously picked up a piece of chocolate gateau and stuffed it into his mouth.

"Eddie Camilleche." The boy introduced himself with a friendly smile.

Silas's chewing slowed slightly. Eddie Camilleche? Was there someone like that in the original story? I vaguely remember... wasn't he the one who later dealt in magical trinkets? He quickly sifted through his memories without dwelling on it, merely nodding. "Thanks for waking me, Eddie." Then he let out another huge yawn, clearly not fully awake yet.

Finally, after Silas barely filled his stomach with dessert, the feast ended. Dumbledore stood again and announced the bedtime reminders—mainly warnings not to enter the Forbidden Forest and a list of prohibited items from Filch—then had everyone sing the school song. Silas merely mouthed the words from start to finish.

The prefects of each House began leading the first-years back to their common rooms.

Walking up the spiral staircase toward Ravenclaw Tower, Silas rubbed his still slightly hungry stomach—dessert was not filling—and muttered quietly to Eddie beside him in a determined tone, "I've made up my mind, Eddie. Tonight, I'm sneaking out... or opening a door to Hogsmeade to buy some fresh ingredients. Then I'll make something tasty in the dorm with that cauldron I use for brewing potions! I can't take it anymore. If I keep eating the castle food, I'm going to become malnourished!"

Eddie Camilleche's eyes went round as he lowered his voice and cried, "Cooking with a cauldron?! In the dorm?! Merlin! Silas, are you insane? If Professor Snape finds out you used his precious potion equipment to cook food... he'll kill you! He'll absolutely give you detention for the rest of your life, or maybe even throw you in to feed those... things in his dungeon!"

Silas imagined Snape's gloomy face and venomous tirade, and the back of his neck went cold. Still, he stubbornly said, "...Ahem. I'll clean it properly. He won't find out."

At last, they reached the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room—the smooth oak door with no handle, only an Eagle-shaped bronze knocker.

The prefect signaled for everyone to be quiet, then knocked on the door. The eagle on the knocker came to life and asked in a clear, calm voice:

"What is it that the more you take away, the less you have?"

The first-years looked at one another and began discussing it in low voices. "Time?" "Money?" "Patience?"

Silas was so sleepy his eyelids were drooping. He only wanted to get inside and find a bed. Hearing the question, he answered almost without thinking, with a trace of impatience.

"A hole."

The surroundings instantly fell silent. Everyone looked at him in surprise, including the prefect and Eddie. The answer was simple, yet it seemed to contain a profound philosophy.

The knocker fell silent for a moment. Then the oak door slid open soundlessly.

Silas yawned and, without even looking at the astonished gazes around him, muttered as he walked inside, "Was that hard? Isn't that question pretty simple..."

He walked straight through the common room—without even having the energy to admire the starry ceiling or elegant decor—and, relying on his familiarity with the place from the past four years, made directly for the empty dormitory he had chosen long ago, muttering all the while.

"I'm dying of sleepiness... I'll deal with cooking tomorrow... Zzz..."

Behind him, a group of first-years remained, still pondering that seemingly simple yet perfectly accurate answer, as well as their new classmate's unconventional style. Life in Ravenclaw was destined not to be peaceful from its very first night.