The train's whistle cut through the night air, long and sharp, echoing across the darkened countryside. Steam hissed from the scarlet engine as students pressed out of the carriages, voices carrying on the crisp air. Sanemi Shinazugawa stepped down among them, trunk dragging heavily at his side. He sniffed the air instinctively—old habits—his scarred face turning toward the deep black waters glimmering beyond the platform.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"
A booming voice called out, belonging to a massive man with a beard like a lion's mane and beetle-black eyes that twinkled with warmth. The children surged toward him, chattering and bumping into one another. Sanemi lingered near the back, his eyes sharp, scanning the shadows around the platform as though expecting danger to leap forth.
The giant waved them toward a narrow path down the slope. "No more'n four to a boat!"
Sanemi's gaze caught on the boats rocking at the edge of the lake. No oars, no lanterns—yet when the students clambered aboard, the boats glided forward of their own accord, cutting across the ink-black water.
Sanemi hesitated before stepping in. His instincts flared—no human hand guiding it, no ropes or paddles. He crouched slightly, ready to leap free at the faintest sign of danger. But then the boat pushed off smoothly, the surface of the water unbroken beneath them.
The chatter of the children faded into background noise. His eyes widened.
For ahead, emerging from behind the cliffs, rose the castle.
Hogwarts.
Stone towers stretched into the night sky, windows glowing with golden light. The turrets stood proud, crowned with banners that fluttered in the unseen wind. Bridges arched gracefully between spires, torches flickering like fireflies. The castle sat enthroned on its mountain, reflected perfectly in the glassy lake below.
Sanemi's breath caught. He could not help it.
"…Incredible."
The amulet whispered the translation into English, but no one heard him over the gasps of the others.
His chest tightened. He had seen temples, shrines, and fortresses in his old world, but none thrummed with this kind of presence. The stones themselves seemed alive, as though the very earth had been carved into a monument to magic. He felt the air shift, currents invisible to the naked eye, drawn to the castle like wind funneled through a canyon.
It stirred something inside him—a sense of belonging he had never expected to feel again.
The boats reached the far shore, bumping gently against the dock. The giant led them up a narrow path, torches flickering along the walls. The air smelled of moss and old stone, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly. Sanemi walked near the back again, silent and alert, but his eyes betrayed his wonder as they drank in every detail.
Finally, they reached a set of massive oak doors, towering above them. The giant knocked, and a stern witch with black hair pinned in a tight bun opened them—Professor McGonagall, though Sanemi did not know her name yet.
"The first years, Professor," the giant rumbled.
"Thank you, Hagrid."
She ushered the students inside, her eyes sharp as she scanned the crowd. They entered a vast entryway, its ceiling arching high above, lit with torches that burned brighter than any Sanemi had ever seen. He felt the hum of enchantments in the air, like a constant thrum beneath the skin.
The children whispered nervously. Sanemi only watched in silence.
〆彡彡彡彡彡彡彡彡彡彡彡
They reached the great double doors of the Great Hall, closed tight for now. Professor McGonagall paused to explain the Sorting, her voice crisp and clipped, but Sanemi hardly listened. His senses were tuned to the low hum thrumming in the stone around him, as if the castle itself breathed magic through every joint and seam. The air pressed differently here, alive, heavy, ancient.
He clenched his fists without realizing.
That was when he noticed three boys striding across the corridor with deliberate swagger.
The one in the lead was pale, his blond hair combed back sleek and tidy, chin angled just so—as if the air itself ought to bow around him. Flanking him were two hulking shapes, thickset and broad, shadows that moved where he moved. They carried themselves like guards, though the dullness in their eyes betrayed little thought beyond loyalty.
Sanemi recognized the boy immediately for what he was. He had seen that same posture before: pampered nobles, senior swordsmen who sneered at him for his scars, men who wore arrogance like armor.
The blond boy ignored the crowd and went straight to Harry Potter. His smile was polished, but it held no warmth.
"So it's true, then," he said smoothly. "What they're saying on the train. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts."
Harry shifted awkwardly, not quite knowing how to answer.
"My name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
He thrust out his hand. "You'll find out that some wizarding families are much better than others. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort." His gray eyes swept the gathered first-years, dismissing them one by one, before landing on Sanemi.
And lingering.
For a heartbeat, Malfoy's mask of politeness faltered. His gaze traced the jagged scars carved deep into Sanemi's face, his lips curling as though he'd caught a foul odor.
"Merlin's beard," Draco muttered, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "What happened to you? You look like you got chewed up by a Hippogriff. Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to show your… disfigurement in public?"
His words dripped with smug cruelty. Crabbe and Goyle let out dull chuckles, the sound echoing through the hall.
The corridor stilled.
Sanemi's eyes narrowed, his chest rising slow and sharp like the intake of breath before a storm.
Then he moved.
One stride—and he was upon Draco before anyone could blink. His scarred hand shot forward, clamping over the boy's mouth. Draco's smirk shattered into panic, his muffled shout lost against Sanemi's iron grip. His gray eyes went wide as his feet left the ground, body hoisted effortlessly upward.
"You talk too much," Sanemi growled, the amulet at his throat twisting his Japanese into perfect English, his words deep and venomous.
Draco thrashed, legs kicking against empty air, nails scraping uselessly at Sanemi's scarred wrist.
Gasps broke from the watching students.
Then Sanemi hurled him.
Draco's body crashed into the sealed doors of the Great Hall with a bone-jarring thud, sliding to the floor in a heap. His pale skin flushed red where he struck, his lower lip split and bleeding. He groaned, robes disheveled, sprawled awkwardly at the base of the towering oak doors.
Crabbe and Goyle froze, eyes flicking from their leader to Sanemi, too afraid to act.
For a moment, the gathered students froze—an entire sea of black-robed children and the watchful professors at the staff table, all staring at the sight of one pale-haired boy curled up on the floor, clutching his elbow, his robes dirtied and torn from the impact.
Draco Malfoy was crying.
His pale face twisted in shock and humiliation, tears brimming against his will. His voice cracked high and shrill.
"He—he threw me! He—did you see what he did?"
A gasp traveled through the hall like wind through tall grass. Whispers erupted instantly, buzzing between houses yet to even be sorted.
"Isn't that Malfoy?"
"He got tossed like a sack of laundry!"
"Who was that boy with the scars—did you see his face?"
The boy in question, Sanemi Shinazugawa, stood in the entranceway with his expression carved in stone. His eleven-years old broad shoulders rose and fell slowly, his scarred face twisted into a grimace—not of anger, but of faint disgust. He wiped his hand against his robe as though Draco's skin had contaminated it. The faint glint of the translation amulet at his neck shimmered, translating his mutter in a low, guttural growl.
"Pathetic."
Crabbe and Goyle, who had rushed to their friend's side with fumbling concern, now turned to face Sanemi. Their thick brows knitted, their fists clenched, and their hulking bodies moved in front of Draco like a wall of flesh.
"You'll pay for that!" Goyle barked, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his nerves.
"You don't touch Draco like that!" Crabbe added.
But Sanemi's pale eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a wolfish grin. The faint candlelight caught on the jagged scars across his face, making him look even more feral. His voice came low, like gravel grinding beneath boots.
"You think you can threaten me? You're not worth drawing a blade for."
He moved so fast the watching first-years barely followed. One moment he was standing still; the next, his hand lashed out with terrifying precision.
SLAP.
The sharp crack rang louder than any spell. Crabbe's massive head snapped sideways as though struck by a Bludger, his body collapsing in an awkward heap. His hulking frame hit the floor with a dull thud, limbs splayed, completely unconscious.
SLAP.
Before Goyle could even gasp, the second blow landed. Sanemi's palm struck with the weight of a hammer, and Goyle crumpled beside his companion, sprawled on the stone floor like a discarded puppet.
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the enchanted ceiling above seemed to pause, the drifting starlight frozen in reverent shock.
Dozens of first-years stared, mouths agape. Some looked horrified, others thrilled. The older students leaned forward from their house tables, expressions a mix of fascination and disbelief. Gryffindors snickered nervously, Slytherins muttered curses under their breath, Hufflepuffs looked ready to faint, and Ravenclaws simply tried to commit every detail to memory.
At the staff table, a collective stir went through the professors. Professor McGonagall's jaw clenched so tightly her lips disappeared. Snape's eyes went wide, then narrowed with uncharacteristic Fury. Even Dumbledore, ever calm and enigmatic, raised his brows and folded his hands, studying Sanemi with eyes that twinkled less than usual.
Draco's tears turned into choking sobs as he scrambled back on hands and knees, dragging himself away from the unconscious bulk of his supposed protectors. His pride burned hotter than the pain in his body, his words spilling in between hiccups.
"H-he's a monster! He's—look at him! He—he attacked us!"
Sanemi snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice echoed through the hushed hall, translated clearly by the amulet.
"You ran your mouth. I shut it. If that's enough to break you, then you're weaker than you look."
The bluntness of his tone sent another wave of murmurs across the hall.
"He's terrifying…"
"No, he's brilliant!"
"Did you see Malfoy cry?"
Harry Potter, standing not far from the altercation, blinked at the scene with a mix of awe and shock. Ron Weasley's ears had gone red as he struggled to smother his laughter, while Hermione Granger's wide eyes flickered between Sanemi and the staff table, clearly already calculating what punishments would follow.
McGonagall finally found her voice, her Scottish brogue snapping through the whispers like a whip.
"Mister Shinazugawa! That is enough!"
Sanemi's eyes shifted toward her, but he didn't flinch. He stood rooted like an unyielding mountain, arms still crossed, his scarred face unrepentant.
"They started it," he said simply. His tone carried neither apology nor arrogance—just cold fact.
Snape's robes billowed as he rose sharply, his dark gaze landing on the crumpled forms of Crabbe and Goyle before sliding back to Sanemi. There was venom in his voice, but also, strangely, hesitation.
"You dare assault students before you've even been sorted? Insolent—"
But before Snape could finish, Dumbledore lifted a hand. The murmurs fell silent once more.
The Headmaster's voice, though calm, carried a subtle weight that bent the tension back under control.
"Sanemi Shinazugawa," he said, pronouncing the foreign syllables carefully. "Though your methods are… unconventional, I daresay the school has seen its fair share of brawls before the Sorting. Still, such violence cannot be condoned. You will have to learn that strength is not measured merely by the force of your hand."
Sanemi's pale eyes locked on Dumbledore's, and for a flicker of a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. The boy gave a short, sharp nod, as if recognizing the presence of another figure who would not bend before him.
"Tch…Fine."