The Late-Arriving Freshmen

"Mr. Norton, I will make a note of your explanation."

Professor McGonagall's voice grew several degrees colder. She did not directly refute him, but neither did she show any approval.

"Now, proceed to the Great Hall immediately. Your classmates are all waiting there for the Sorting Ceremony to begin. As for Mr. Uchiha," she turned to Madara, her tone leaving no room for argument, "he will remain here and wait until all the other freshmen have arrived, then enter the Great Hall with them."

This was her bottom line.

No matter what, the procedure of first-year students entering together and awaiting Sorting could not be broken.

Upon hearing this, Norton immediately bowed again, his movements perfectly smooth. "Of course, Professor. I'll head to the Great Hall now."

He turned to Madara, his tone returning to its earlier respectfulness, though he spoke at a normal volume to ensure Professor McGonagall could hear him as well. "Lord Madara, please excuse me for now. I'll wait for you in the Great Hall. I wish you a smooth Sorting."

After saying that, he inclined his head to Professor McGonagall once more, then turned and walked calmly down the side corridor beside the doors, toward the brightly lit interior of the castle and the faint sounds of voices. He soon disappeared around the corner.

Under the portico, only Uchiha Madara and Minerva McGonagall remained.

Professor McGonagall once again fixed her scrutinizing gaze on Madara.

She tried to read something from the overly calm boy's face—nervousness? Anticipation? Curiosity?

Or at least a little respect for her, the Deputy Headmistress?

Yet there was nothing.

Madara's face held only the stillness of a deep pool. It could even be called... hollow.

His gaze passed over her, settling on the rolling outlines of distant mountains in the darkness—or perhaps he was simply staring into space.

That disregard seemed to make even the air stagnate.

Professor McGonagall had taught for many years and seen all kinds of students: arrogant ones, timid ones, geniuses, ordinary children. But never had she seen a first-year remain so composed beneath her stern gaze, so... detached.

There was a cold sense of distance about him that was utterly at odds with his age.

Madara truly felt nothing in response to Professor McGonagall's scrutiny.

In his eyes, this severe witch was no fundamentally different from Norton, Hagrid at the station, or the frightened faces on the train—they were all part of this magical world's established order, "environmental factors" awaiting evaluation.

Norton had briefly mentioned on the way that the Sorting Ceremony required all the freshmen to gather first, so Madara had no objection. As for where he waited or whom he waited for, it was all the same.

He had neither the desire to explain himself nor any emotional reaction to being left behind alone.

Seeing that Professor McGonagall had no intention of speaking further, Madara simply turned slightly and leaned back against the cold, rough stone pillar of the portico. His arms folded casually across his chest, the Flame Fan Crest on his left breast becoming a striking dark mark beneath the dim light.

Then he closed his eyes.

He was not pretending to nap, nor was he tired. It was simply a pure, complete posture of rest, as though everything around him—

the stern professor, the towering castle, the cold night wind, the faint clamor of freshmen drifting across the distant Black Lake—had nothing to do with him, all shut out behind an invisible barrier.

Professor McGonagall was left momentarily speechless by this series of utterly natural yet deeply disrespectful actions.

Her lips parted, but in the end, she said nothing. Her brows only drew tighter, and her gaze pinned itself more sharply on Madara, as if trying to pierce through that indifferent shell of his.

The night wind swept through the portico, carrying the damp scent of the Black Lake and the vegetation at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

From afar came Hagrid's rough shouts, along with countless hushed voices filled with excitement and unease, drawing closer and closer—the freshmen aboard the boats were finally nearing the dock.

Inside the castle, the lively sounds from the Great Hall grew clearer. The long tables of the four Houses were surely already filled with students awaiting the freshmen's arrival.

Under the portico, one stood while the other "leaned"; one was poised and vigilant while the other was utterly indifferent, creating a strange standoff.

Hogwarts' timeless first-year night had quietly gained a cold crack unlike anything before because of this boy who had arrived early and regarded himself as the absolute center of all things.

Uchiha Madara leaned against the pillar with his eyes closed, as if asleep.

Only the Flame Fan Crest on his chest caught the occasional flicker of light, its muted dark-red gleam shifting silently yet impossible to ignore, like a dormant volcano waiting for the moment to erupt.

And the Sorting Ceremony was merely the first insignificant milestone in what was destined to be an extraordinary life at Hogwarts.

What truly interested him were the "resources" and "challenges" this ancient school could offer, as well as... what role that boy called the "Savior" would play in the coming storm.

To him, waiting had never been passive. It was lying in wait before a hunt.

When the final small boat rocked into the stone steps along the shore, every first-year was covered in dampness and mud splatters—quite a few had stepped into the shallows while climbing out—wearing expressions tangled with exhaustion, excitement, and unease.

At last, they stumbled onto the firm ground beneath the castle's foundations.

Hagrid's enormous figure was like a lighthouse, guiding the somewhat disorderly group up the final slope toward the pair of oak doors, which looked incomparably heavy beneath the night sky and the castle's brilliant lights.

The doors were not fully open, only slightly ajar, spilling warm light and faint bursts of noisy conversation from within. And beneath the portico, two figures had already been waiting.

Minerva McGonagall stood ramrod straight, her emerald-green robes immaculate. Behind her square spectacles, her eyes remained as sharp as ever as they swept over every approaching freshman's face, carrying scrutiny and unquestionable authority.

Yet anyone observant might have noticed that the corner of her eye remained fixed on the other side of the portico, on that black figure leaning against the ancient stone pillars as though he had nearly blended into them.

Uchiha Madara stood with his arms folded and his eyes closed, seemingly unaware of the noisy group drawing near.

The night wind stirred the loose strands of hair over his forehead. Under the mingled light of the portico lamps and the glow spilling from within the castle, the Flame Fan Crest on his left breast occasionally flashed with a restrained dark red.

His very presence was like an alien color cast into a peaceful painting—quiet, yet impossible to ignore.

Under Professor McGonagall's imposing gaze, the freshmen unconsciously slowed their steps and gradually fell silent. Still, curious or fearful eyes kept darting between Professor McGonagall and Madara.

"Quiet!" Professor McGonagall's voice was not especially loud, but it was clear, steady, and carried a penetrating force. Like an invisible conductor's baton, it instantly suppressed every lingering whisper and stir.

"Line up," her gaze swept over the somewhat disordered group. "Two to a row, and straighten your robes. The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin." The freshmen awkwardly shifted into place, trying to stand more neatly.

And at that moment, a clear division appeared within the group.

Led by Draco Malfoy, Daphne Greengrass, and several other well-dressed pure-blood freshmen with similar pride in their bearing, they almost naturally broke away from the larger group the moment Professor McGonagall finished speaking. They quickly crossed to the other side of the portico and gathered around Uchiha Madara.

Their movements were swift and orderly. They did not speak, merely standing behind or beside Madara to form a small, tightly knit group, respectful yet alert, as though guarding their core.

Daphne even gave Madara, who opened his eyes and casually glanced at them, a reserved but friendly smile in return.

This blatant formation of a clique and differential treatment brought subtle expressions to the faces of many non-pure-blood and half-blood freshmen—resentment, confusion, or an even deeper sense of alienation.

On the other side, Ron Weasley took in the entire scene. Seeing Malfoy's smug expression as though he had "found his people," and remembering the conflict and humiliation on the train, an inexplicable anger flared up inside him.