The antechamber buzzed with nervous whispers as the first-years awaited the Sorting Ceremony. Torches flickered on the stone walls, casting shadows that danced like restless spirits.
Sean stood near Harry and Ron, keeping his distance from the chatter, when a sharp voice cut through the noise.
"So it's true—the famous Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts." Draco Malfoy sauntered forward, his pale face and pointed chin tilted with smug confidence.
He sized Harry up like an arrogant lord inspecting a servant, his gray eyes glinting with malice. Harry's jaw tightened, but Draco pressed on, his tone slow and grating. "I have a question, though. Is your mother a witch or a Muggle?"
Sean glanced at Harry, whose fists clenched, anger flashing in his green eyes. Draco's arrogance was palpable, a pure-blood superiority that oozed from every word.
Unlike the polished charm some might imagine, this Malfoy was all sharp edges—petty, entitled, and utterly unlikable.
Sean's plan was simple: aim for Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, keep his head down, and coast through seven years at Hogwarts. Let Gryffindors like Harry tangle with Slytherins like Draco. He'd study, duel, and bide his time until the wizarding world's chaos—Harry versus You-Know-Who—sorted itself out.
Then, he'd pursue his own ambitions, perhaps in a bustling magical city, chasing ventures far from Hogwarts' drama. Draco's sneers were irrelevant to that goal.
Harry and Draco traded barbs, their voices rising, but Sean edged back, ready to slip away from the brewing storm.
Before he could, Draco's finger jabbed toward Ron and Sean, his sneer widening.
"Potter, some wizarding families are better than others," Draco drawled. "If you want friends, stick with our sort, not ragtag types in patched robes with red hair like lesser wizards." His gaze raked over Sean, dripping with contempt.
"Or Squib-born nobodies, barely a step above Muggle-borns. Their parents are useless Squibs—even a noble surname can't make their kind superior."
The words stung, sharp and personal. Sean's calm cracked, his eyebrows lifting as he stepped forward, planting himself inches from Draco. The antechamber's chatter faded, eyes turning to the standoff.
Draco smirked, unfazed. "This is Hogwarts. My father's a governor here. Cross me, and I'll have you chucked out before you can blink, Squib-born."
Sean's lips curled into a half-smile, his voice deceptively calm. "So, because your family has a governor, you can do whatever you want at Hogwarts, right?"
"Exactly!" Draco grinned, his confidence unshakable. He'd seen plenty of wizards—small-family nobodies or Muggle-born upstarts—cower at the Malfoy name.
A Squib-born like Sean, even with a Bulstrode surname, would surely bend.
Sean's smile sharpened, his eyes glinting with mischief. "As long as someone in your family's a governor, you can do whatever you want. That's what you're saying?"
Draco snorted, mistaking Sean's repetition for submission. "Yes! Ask me again, and I'll say the same. A governor in the family means you rule Hogwarts!"
"Funny coincidence," Sean said, taking another step closer, his voice low and deliberate. "My grandfather's a governor too. So, by your logic, I can do whatever I want here, right?"
Draco's smirk faltered. "A Squib-born like you, even with a Bulstrode name—"
Sean's fist swung before Draco could finish.
The crack of knuckles against nose echoed in the antechamber, and Draco staggered back, blood streaming from his nostrils. His once-handsome face twisted in shock, his nose crooked and red.
Beaten? By a Squib-born? Draco's hand flew to his face, his scream shrill as he realized what had happened.
Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, lumbering and loyal, charged at Sean.
Their families clung to the Malfoys' coattails, and they'd been drilled to leap into any fray. Sean sized them up—big, but clumsy, all bulk and no finesse.
A real fight would be tough without magic, and Draco's taunt rang true: a governor's son might skate by, but Sean couldn't afford to break rules like casting spells. A punch, though? That was just kids scrapping, not a disciplinary disaster.
Sean moved fast, darting to angle Goyle between him and Crabbe.
He feinted a punch, drawing Goyle's attention, then drove his foot into Goyle's crotch with ruthless precision.
Goyle crumpled, clutching himself and squawking like a trodden duck, his face a mask of pain.
Crabbe froze, stunned by Goyle's fall, but before he could lunge, Harry and Ron tackled him. The three hit the floor in a tangle of fists and elbows, grunting and thrashing.
Sean blinked, surprised by their backup, but a grin spread across his face. He spun toward Draco, who was clutching his bloody nose, tears mixing with the mess.
Draco's eyes widened as Sean advanced. He turned and bolted, stumbling toward the Great Hall's towering doors, blood dripping down his chin.
He knew he couldn't outrun Sean, but the hall—full of professors—might save him.
Sean wasn't letting him off that easy. As Draco reached the doors, Sean's foot connected with his lower back, sending him sprawling through the entrance.
Draco skidded face-first across the polished floor, two bloody teeth clattering free. He slid to a stop at the feet of Professor Minerva McGonagall, who'd been moments from leading the first-years inside.
The Great Hall, alive with the hum of older students, fell silent.
Hundreds of eyes turned to the scene—Draco, bloodied and toothless, sprawled before McGonagall's stern gaze. The enchanted ceiling above swirled with stars, but no magic could undo the spectacle at her feet.
Draco Malfoy sprawled on the Great Hall's polished floor, clutching his nose and mouth, blood streaking his pale face.
Sobs wracked his body, growing louder as he realized the entire hall—students, professors, and the enchanted ceiling's starry swirl—was watching his humiliation. The Gryffindor table buzzed with stifled laughter, while Slytherins glared, their pride stung.
Professor Minerva McGonagall's eyes blazed as she took in the scene: Draco, a bloody mess; Sean, standing at the Great Hall's doors with a mix of defiance and unease; and Harry and Ron, still grappling with Crabbe on the antechamber floor.
Her voice trembled with fury. "This is unprecedented! I step away for a moment, and you start brawling! Mr. Malfoy's injuries are severe—this is outrageous!"
She paused, her wand twitching, then faltered. "I'd deduct points, but… you haven't been sorted yet."
Heads turned as Albus Dumbledore approached, his silver beard catching the torchlight. His calm voice cut through the tension.
"Minerva, let's prioritize sending the injured to Madam Pomfrey. We can address the rest later."
Severus Snape, his black robes billowing, knelt beside Draco. With a flick of his wand and a muttered "Episkey," he stanched the blood flowing from Draco's nose.
The crooked nose and missing teeth remained, requiring more than a quick fix. Snape hauled Draco to his feet, half-dragging him toward the Hospital Wing. As they passed Sean, Snape's cold, empty gaze lingered—a silent warning that sent a shiver down Sean's spine.
McGonagall regained her composure, her lips a thin line. She marched to the antechamber, where Harry, Ron, and Crabbe were still tangled in a heap of torn robes and bruises. "Enough!" she snapped, pulling them apart.
She turned to Professor Pomona Sprout, the Hufflepuff Head, who'd joined the scene.
"Pomona, please escort Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Crabbe to the Hospital Wing. And take Mr. Goyle—he's… groaning."
Her gaze settled on Sean, sharp and unyielding. "This incident isn't over, Mr. Bulstrode. After the Sorting Ceremony, your punishment will reflect on your house's score."
Sean bowed slightly, his tone measured. "I'm sorry to disturb the professors' evening."
McGonagall's eyes softened, just a fraction.
"Once points are deducted, this matter ends. Focus on your studies at Hogwarts." Her words were cryptic but clear: take the punishment, and the slate would be clean.
Sean nodded, bowing again, and said nothing more. He understood—McGonagall was offering a way out, provided he kept his nose clean.
In the Hospital Wing, Madam Poppy Pomfrey's skill shone.
Her wand danced, casting golden light over Draco's battered face. Within five minutes, his nose straightened, his teeth regrew, and his bruises faded. Harry, Ron, and Crabbe's scrapes vanished just as swiftly, while Goyle, still wincing, was patched up with a pain-relieving charm.
Medical magic, Sean noted, was a marvel for non-magical injuries—fast, precise, and almost miraculous.
Draco, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, rejoined the first-years under Snape's watchful eye, his smirk restored but his eyes burning with resentment.
Harry and Ron, escorted by Professor Sprout, slipped back beside Sean.
They opened their mouths to speak, but McGonagall's stern glance silenced them.
"Line up and follow me!" McGonagall commanded.
"The Sorting Ceremony begins now!"
"Wait!" Snape's voice cut through, cold and deliberate.
McGonagall turned, her brow furrowed. "Yes, Severus?"
Snape's dark eyes flicked to Sean. "Before the Sorting, we should settle this matter. Your thoughts?"
Professor Sprout had briefed McGonagall on Harry and Ron's account—Draco's taunts had sparked the fight. McGonagall's voice was firm.
"Mr. Malfoy's injuries were severe, but he provoked the incident. All involved—Mr. Malfoy included—will lose twenty points from their house, regardless of where they're sorted. Does that suit you, Professor Snape?"
Snape's lip curled. "I agree for the others, but Mr. Bulstrode struck first. Draco's words were… impolite, but physical violence breaks school rules. I propose fifty points deducted from Mr. Bulstrode's house."
Sean's stomach sank. Fifty points was brutal—each house started with roughly five hundred points per term.
McGonagall hesitated, her eyes flickering with concern. Sean caught the glint—she suspected he'd land in Gryffindor, her house. But Snape's expression was unyielding, and she relented.
"Very well," McGonagall said. "Twenty points from the others, fifty from Mr. Bulstrode, regardless of their house."
With that, she turned and led the first-years into the Great Hall.
The older students, who'd witnessed the brawl, buzzed with excitement. Gryffindors grinned, some whistling—Sean spotted two redheads, likely Fred and George Weasley, leading the cheer.
Slytherins, knowing Draco was destined for their house, glowered. Their future housemate's thrashing was a blow to their pride.
The first-years lined up before a battered, patched Sorting Hat perched on a stool. McGonagall unfurled a parchment list, her voice echoing.
"When I call your name, sit and place the Hat on your head."
Sean's eyes sparkled with curiosity, eager to see the iconic Sorting Ceremony unfold.
"Hannah Abbott!"
A nervous girl stepped forward, the first of many. Sean recognized her name—Hannah, a Hufflepuff stalwart in the stories.
One by one, students were called, the Hat's decisions shaping their futures.
Sean's turn came quickly, his Bulstrode surname near the list's start. "Sean Bulstrode!"
Every professor's gaze snapped to him, especially the house heads. Snape's sneer, McGonagall's frown, Sprout's wary glance, and Flitwick's curious tilt—they all saw a walking fifty-point deficit. Snape, though, seemed smug, certain no "reckless" troublemaker like Sean could land in Slytherin.
Sean sat, and McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on his head. Its brim sagged over his eyes, and a low, muttering voice filled his mind.
"Hmm… A thirst for power, a hunger for knowledge, pure-blood roots, and courage most lack. A tricky one, you are."
Sean's heart raced.
He whispered mentally, Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin…
"Not Slytherin?" the Hat mused. "You sure?"
"Positive," Sean hissed in his mind. "Anywhere but Slytherin."
"Hmm… I see. Your house is…"
The Hat's brim opened wide, its voice booming. "Slytherin!"
Sean's smile froze. Across the hall, Snape's smug expression shattered, his face a mask of disbelief.
The Slytherin table erupted in cautious applause, while Sean's mind reeled. Slytherin? The one place he'd vowed to avoid—home of Draco, Miles, and every pure-blood snob he'd hoped to dodge.
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