Marks Within the Hogwarts Great Hall

The four long tables representing the Houses were steeped in the magical imprints left behind by countless students over a thousand years, faintly radiating glimmers of different hues—

Gryffindor's fierceness, Hufflepuff's warmth, Ravenclaw's wisdom, Slytherin's depths.

These glimmers were not still, but pulsed slowly as if breathing.

Slytherin's table in particular was visibly mixed with more cold, sharp magical qualities that carried a clear sense of direction.

His gaze swept over the older students beside the long tables, who whispered among themselves and pointed at him.

In his eyes, their faces blurred away, replaced by magical auras of varying colors and intensities emanating from their bodies.

Most were faint and muddled, like candle flames in the wind;

only a very few, particularly among the upper-years, gave off energy fluctuations that could not be underestimated.

To him, their discussions were nothing more than background noise, but the emotions mixed within them—

curiosity, jealousy, fear, calculation—could be sensed through subtle disturbances in their magical fields.

"Pure jealousy and ignorance."

"A shallow assessment based on money."

"Fear of and probing toward unknown power."

Madara's mind coldly analyzed the essence behind these emotions, as though labeling specimens.

Then his gaze passed over the noisy student tables and landed on the faculty table, raised slightly above the floor at the end of the Great Hall.

Hogwarts' professors were seated there.

In the Sharingan's vision, they were no longer individuals dressed in differently styled robes, but magical cores of astonishing intensity and distinct characteristics!

The plump witch near the edge was Pomona Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff House. Rich, nearly tangible emerald-green magic brimming with vitality surrounded her;

the short wizard beside her clearly had goblin blood. He was Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw House, his magic condensed like needles, nimble and swift, carrying a sharp metallic sheen.

As for the man wrapped in a purple turban, who appeared timid and nervous, he was Professor Quirrell, responsible for this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

To Madara's eyes, his magical fluctuations displayed an extremely strange sense of division—

his surface magic was weak and chaotic, trembling with fear like a dying candle in the wind;

yet beneath that disguise lay a deeply hidden dark magic, cold and clammy, filled with malice and ancient resentment.

Madara's gaze lingered on that hidden darkness for an extra moment.

Next was the witch standing beside the new students, the one who had just led them inside: McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House.

Her magical field was powerful and stable, carrying a sense of order, rules, and unquestionable authority.

Then Madara's gaze fell upon the pale, gloomy man in black robes and with black hair, seated beside Flitwick.

He was none other than Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House, whom Madara had encountered at Ivan's Clothing Store last month.

His magical field was the most unusual one Madara had seen since entering the Great Hall.

Cold and slick currents surged across its surface, but beneath that seemingly pure "darkness" lay something deeply suppressed—

profound, complex, full of contradictions, carrying a twisted obsession and... pain?

Madara narrowed his eyes slightly. This was an interesting specimen; the complexity of his magical structure far exceeded what appeared on the surface.

Finally, his gaze settled on the very center of the faculty table.

The headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Dumbledore.

To an ordinary new student, he was an elderly man in magnificent robes, with silver hair and beard, wearing half-moon spectacles.

His blue eyes shimmered with gentle, wise light beneath the candlelight.

But through Uchiha Madara's Sharingan, Dumbledore presented an entirely different sight.

He was no longer a human-shaped being, but more like a magical sun that had withdrawn most of its light and heat, yet still could not entirely conceal its vast essence!

Magic too immense to measure, in the form of a gentle, warm golden radiance brimming with life, naturally enveloped every corner of the Hogwarts Great Hall as though breathing.

Yet beneath that appearance lay terrifying power capable of moving mountains, filling seas, and transforming heaven and earth.

This power was so restrained that most people—including most professors—would only feel reassurance and reverence, unable to perceive its true depth and terror.

But Madara was different. His eyes and experience made him understand at once—

the kindly old man before him possessed magic and mastery far beyond his previous estimate of the "strong" within this magical world.

"Interesting..." Madara's cold system of evaluation was quietly pried open by this discovery.

Dumbledore's existence gently brushed away labels such as "opponent worth watching" or "potential obstacle."

For now, it replaced them with a more neutral yet vastly weightier designation: "A key individual requiring a reassessment of this world's upper limit of power."

The nearly imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth deepened slightly. It was the instinctive interest of a researcher encountering an unexpected "variable."

At the same time, after the initial shock and the uproar over Madara's appearance and manner of arrival, the discussions at the student tables began turning toward deeper topics that reflected the state of the magical world more clearly:

(Ravenclaw table, several upper-years were analyzing the matter rationally)

"Elliot Norton of the Norton family has both talent and ambition. He's making such a high-profile show of goodwill toward this Uchiha first-year; clearly, he's after something."

"That's right. The Uchiha Clan's 'fire magic' system is said to be an ancient inheritance entirely independent of our existing spell system, and its power is terrifying."

"I heard many pure-blood families, especially those whose strength was damaged after Voldemort's era and who are eager to find new backers, are trying to make contact."

"But their style is too forceful. The Ministry of Magic's attitude is ambiguous right now, and Fudge only wants to keep the peace. Hogwarts accepting him is probably not simply about following the International Magical Education Cooperation Act."

(Hufflepuff table, the discussion was comparatively plainspoken)

"As long as things don't end up like they did during Voldemort's time, when no one could eat or study in peace..."

"My uncle works at St. Mungo's. He said the Uchiha Clan invested a huge sum to upgrade the potion preparation rooms and introduced some Eastern healing concepts. They seem quite effective."

"I hope so... but he really does look hard to mess with."

(Gryffindor table, the atmosphere was more direct)

"Putting on airs! Doesn't he just have a bit of money and a few thugs?" a green-haired second-year boy said loudly, drawing a burst of agreeing laughter.

"Percy said he nearly started a conflict on the train, and even Professor McGonagall couldn't keep their side under control at the entrance," another student added.

"Who cares whether he's Uchiha or Sharingan? At Hogwarts, a dragon has to coil up, and a tiger has to lie down! Don't forget whose territory this is!" A burly seventh-year waved his fist.

(Slytherin table, the atmosphere was the most subtle and complicated, with voices kept low)

"The Malfoy Family's boy was clever this time. He found himself a powerful backer."

"Hmph, whether that backer is truly powerful remains to be seen. No matter how strong the Uchiha Clan is, they're outsiders with unstable foundations. Their reckless style will sooner or later offend someone they shouldn't."

"But there's no denying that they're in the limelight right now, with resources and connections in hand. Working with them would bring enormous short-term benefits."

"Be careful not to become a stepping stone... My father said the Uchiha Clan's eyes can not only see through illusions, but perhaps through people's hearts and schemes as well. That Madara may be young, but he feels more frightening than many adults."

"Shh, he seems to be looking at the faculty table..."

The tangled discussions—clear or vague, full of calculation or blunt rejection—failed to disturb Madara in the slightest.

He slowly withdrew his gaze from Dumbledore. Professor McGonagall had already guided the new students to the front of the Great Hall, where they stood beneath the platform facing the entire school.

She held a long roll of parchment in her hand, her stern gaze sweeping across every new student's face.

"Before we begin the Sorting," she cleared her throat, her voice carrying clearly through the Great Hall and suppressing the last of the noise, "let us welcome Headmaster Albus Dumbledore to say a few words."

Applause broke out. Dumbledore rose to his feet, his robes flowing with soft starlight beneath the candles.