In the Great Hall, the golden candles floated lazily above enchanted skies.
A hush swept the room as the Sorting Hat made its final cry.
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
Light applause followed, and Professor McGonagall stepped forward to collect the Sorting Hat and the long parchment that had carried the names of every new arrival.
But then she paused.
"One more," she called, voice ringing across the Hall. "Rubeus Hagrid."
There were a few quiet chuckles as a giant-sized boy made his way toward the stool — awkward, wide-eyed, and clearly too big for the hat.
He stumbled, nearly knocking over the stand, and sat with a loud thump.
The Sorting Hat dropped onto his head, paused only briefly, then shouted:
"GRYFFINDOR!"
A loud cheer exploded from the far end of the Hall. Hagrid grinned from ear to ear as he shuffled over, barely squeezing onto the Gryffindor bench.
At the Slytherin table, Tom watched in silence.
"Half-giant, probably," Sameyr muttered.
"He'll crush those benches before Christmas," someone else whispered.
Tom said nothing. His attention had already shifted.
Toward the staff table.
Dumbledore hadn't clapped.
And the central chair — one that hadn't been empty last year — still sat vacant, untouched.
The noise returned, slowly.
Chatter picked up again. Cutlery clinked. Students leaned into conversations, passing plates and laughing over house gossip. The feast was in full swing.
Tom Riddle sliced into a roasted leg of something mildly glowing, only half listening to the noise around him. To him, it was just another start-of-term dinner — nothing new.
But then, silence.
No one called for it. No spell. No shout.
It just... fell.
The golden flames flickered above, and all across the hall, heads began to turn.
Dumbledore was standing.
He didn't raise a hand or a glass. He simply stood — and the silence deepened like water filling a well.
"Welcome," he said calmly, "to a new year at Hogwarts. A year of learning, of growth…"
A pause.
"…and of fire."
Before anyone could ask what he meant, it began.
Thud.
One sharp bang from the Ravenclaw table.
Then Hufflepuff.
Then Gryffindor.
Then Slytherin.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Slow. Heavy. Perfectly in sync.
Every table — except for the first- and second-years — was now banging their palms against the wood in a chilling rhythm.
The sound shook the air.
First-years looked terrified.
Second-years looked confused.
"What's going on?" Sameyr muttered, staring down the table.
Samera leaned forward, lips parting slightly. "This isn't normal."
Tom blinked, brow furrowed.
Even he didn't know what this was.
Dumbledore let the pounding continue a few moments longer — then raised one hand.
Silence.
He stood tall, letting the last echo die.
"Over a thousand years ago, this castle was built by four great founders: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw... and Salazar Slytherin.
But what they built was more than stone and spellwork.
It was an idea — that strength comes not only from knowledge or blood... but from unity."
He stepped forward slowly, voice calm but unmistakably commanding.
"In the early days of Hogwarts, when house rivalries ran deep and trust ran thin, the Founders created something to challenge that tension.
A trial.
A bond.
A fire."
He paused just long enough for the second-years to lean in.
"They called it... the Housefire Games."
The name rang through the Hall like an incantation.
"Since then, each year — quietly, and always for second-years — Hogwarts has carried out this tradition.
Not for punishment.
Not for glory.
But to forge something between you... something stronger than house colours."
The upper-years sat proud, knowing what was coming.
The first-years looked confused.
The second-years? Silent.
"In two days, you will leave this castle.
Your destination is unknown to you, as it has been for every class before.
Each year, the location changes — hidden, protected, enchanted."
He let that mystery breathe.
"You will be sorted again — into eight teams of twelve students.
Three from each house.
Your team name. Your symbol. Your unity... will be yours to shape."
A faint smile curved on his lips.
"There will be scores. There will be challenges.
And yes — you will use your wands. You will cast spells.
But there will be moments when magic alone won't be enough.
It will not be the strength of your spells that defines you…
It will be the strength of your decisions."
Then, a pause.
"This is no game of houses.
This is a game of fire."
And with that, Dumbledore raised his goblet high above the flames.
"To the Housefire Games. May your fire burn steady."
The Hall erupted into noise — cheers, claps, curious whispers.
And at the second-year tables...
Shock.
Wide eyes.
A few pale faces.
Tom Riddle leaned back in his seat, processing.
Sameyr grinned darkly.
Samera looked like she already knew she'd enjoy it.
But none of them could predict what that fire would burn down first.
The feast eventually ended, but the tension didn't.
The whispers followed them out of the Great Hall.
Second-years drifted in nervous huddles, speculating about what the Games meant.
Some tried to act unfazed. Others were already shaking.
Tom didn't say much.
He walked quietly alongside the Thornwick sisters, their footsteps echoing in the corridors as they headed back to the Slytherin dormitory.
They had nearly reached the turning staircase when a voice called out behind them—
"Hey, Riddle!"
Tom stopped.
So did the twins.
Footsteps. Fast ones. Confident.
James Potter came around the corner, Sirius at his side — grinning, as always.
James slowed as he approached, the light catching his face — still boyish, but sharper now. Taller. His eyes burned with something more than mischief.
"You look awfully quiet for someone who's about to be flattened in front of the whole school," he said.
Tom tilted his head slightly. "Is that so?"
"Yeah," James said. "This Housefire thing? It's where I take the crown. Just thought I'd give you a heads-up, so you don't feel too blindsided."
Sameyr raised a brow. "Confident."
"Delusional," Samera added sweetly.
James didn't flinch. His gaze never left Tom.
"Last year you had a moment," James said, "but it's a new term now. New rules. No Gaunt thugs to fight. No special mysteries to unravel. Just skill. Speed. Magic. And let's face it—"
"I've got more of all three."
Tom didn't smile. He didn't blink.
"You're loud, Potter," he said calmly. "But the Games won't care how loud you are.
They'll care who's still standing at the end."
James stepped a little closer, voice lowering.
"Then I'll be seeing you at the finish line."
He turned and walked away without another word.
Sirius lingered just long enough to smirk at the twins, then followed.
Tom stood still for a second.
Samera nudged his shoulder. "He's trying to get under your skin."
Sameyr scoffed. "Pathetic attempt."
Tom finally moved again, hands in his pockets, voice low.
"He'll need more than words to win."
The corridors hummed with new energy as students trickled back to their houses, minds buzzing with Dumbledore's announcement. Some were excited.
Others nervous.
A few... ready to make the Games their stage.
Up in Gryffindor Tower, the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open, and the room inside glowed like a hearth. Firelight crackled across deep reds, battered armchairs, and a worn rug that had seen decades of feet and flames.
James Potter stepped in like he owned the room — and maybe, in his head, he did.
He dropped onto the center couch, kicked up his feet, and let out a sigh that turned into a grin.
"The Housefire Games," he declared. "Finally. A stage big enough for me.
Sirius groaned and collapsed into a seat beside him. "Here we go."
"Nah, I'm serious this time," James said, hopping to his feet. "Last year was all Gaunts and shadows and secret chambers. This year? Just me, my wand, and the win."
Several first-years gathered near the fireplace, eyes wide.
"I'll probably break a few records," James added, spinning his wand lazily. "Dumbledore practically said it without saying it. Potter's got potential. Boom. Champion arc begins."
The room had just begun to chuckle — until a voice cut through the warmth.
"It's cute how you think that," said Samera, her voice flat as stone.
James turned, his grin not quite fading. "I'm sorry — I don't think I was taking questions."
She crossed her arms and leaned against the stone wall. "That wasn't a question. It was a reminder that you're not the only one with a wand."
Lily Evans stepped into view next, arms folded, expression unimpressed.
"You're treating the Games like it's a joke, James," she said. "Like it's a Quidditch match with a bigger trophy."
"And you're treating it like a funeral," James replied. "Come on, Lily. This is what we train for. Adventure. Magic. I mean — unity, yeah, sure, but let's not pretend anyone's coming for hugs."
Samera muttered under her breath, "And there goes the dignity."
Lily looked straight at him.
"You're going to embarrass yourself."
James shrugged, smiling wider. "Wouldn't be the first time."
That... was the last straw.
A few students began getting up. Quietly. Shuffling books. Whispering to each other.
Sirius groaned. "Mate..."
One by one, the common room emptied. Even the enchanted chess set stopped playing mid-match. Within a few minutes, James was left standing in the glow of the fire, Sirius shaking his head beside him.
"Well," James said, scratching his head, "that escalated."
Sirius raised a brow. "You've got the spirit. Just maybe aim it better next time."
James flopped back into the couch, still grinning.
"They'll see. When I win this thing, everyone'll come back running."
But the crackle of the fire was his only reply.
Far below the castle, the dungeons glowed in muted green.
The Slytherin common room pulsed with quiet light from the lake outside, shadows weaving between ancient stone and silver trim.
Tom Riddle sat in his usual spot near the fire, quiet and calm, one leg crossed over the other.
Across from him, Sameyr Thornwick flipped through a worn spellbook, her face unreadable.
Around them, Slytherin students whispered.
Not loudly — that wasn't their style.
But the room buzzed in its own subtle way.
"That's him, right? The one who fought the Gaunts?"
"I heard he stunned one of them mid-air."
"Second-year, and already they say he's got more raw power than some graduates."
"He's not loud like Potter. He's dangerous quiet."
Tom heard every word.
He didn't move. He didn't even blink.
Sameyr smirked behind her book.
"They're circling," she said quietly. "Like moths to a green flame."
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Do they think flattery wins the Games?"
Sameyr turned a page, voice dry. "In Slytherin? Yes."
A few older students passed by, offering polite nods — nothing forced, but definitely deliberate.
One third-year lingered for a second too long before stumbling on a step and mumbling an apology.
Sameyr finally looked at him.
"They're impressed, you know. Last year, it was whispers. This year, it's awe."
Tom leaned back into the chair, eyes on the fire.
"Let them whisper."
He didn't need the attention.
But the room was watching him anyway.
And he wasn't about to give them a reason to look away.
Two days passed in a blur of rumors, rushed packing, and whispered predictions.
Now, the second-years stood gathered in the courtyard — trunks at their feet, cloaks fluttering in the morning breeze, and eyes darting between faces they might soon call teammates… or rivals.
It was still too early for the sun to fully break through the mist hanging over the castle towers.
The stone beneath their feet was cool.
The excitement in the air? Anything but.
Tom Riddle stood quietly beside Sameyr, a leather strap across his chest and his wand tucked safely in his robe.
On the other side of the courtyard, James Potter twirled his wand with flair, talking to Sirius and gesturing way too confidently.
Nearby, Lily whispered something to Samera, who looked like she'd barely slept — but still managed to look calm, if not slightly amused.
"Attention, students!"
Professor McGonagall's voice cut clean through the courtyard.
Beside her stood Professor Bramwick, clipboard in hand, and Dumbledore, arms folded behind his back, gaze soft but unreadable.
"Your transport has arrived. When your name is called, step forward and board the carriage."
A rumble echoed in the distance — not the usual Hogwarts carriages.
Instead, eight grand black chariots, each etched with the crest of a different magical creature, floated into view, pulled by dark thestrals.
A hush fell.
Even the bravest looked hesitant.
Dumbledore stepped forward.
"The Housefire Games will begin the moment you step into those carriages.
Choose courage. Choose unity.
And choose to rise — even when you do not yet understand the fire you face."
One by one, the chariots had taken flight — soaring into the skies, each filled with a mix of students who would soon become teams, rivals, and maybe even allies.
Now, only one chariot remained on the courtyard stone — its dark thestrals pawing the ground, breath steaming in the morning cold.
Professor Bramwick looked down at his parchment, then raised his voice.
"Final team — step forward as your name is called."
He began reading, clear and precise:
"Lily Evans. James Potter. Tom Riddle. Sameyr Thornwick. Samera Thornwick.
Lucius Malfoy."
Whispers sparked across the crowd — that many big names in one group?
"Helena Wren."
A Ravenclaw girl with sharp eyes and a calm presence stepped forward.
"Kaito Goldfinch."
A second Ravenclaw — wiry, quiet, with a quick nod and a journal clutched under his arm.
"Thalia Reed."
The third Ravenclaw — tall, observant, and already scanning the others as if piecing together a puzzle.
"Beatrix Clay."
A cheerful Hufflepuff who smiled at everyone — even Lucius.
"Oren Brooks."
Hufflepuff boy, stocky with a wide grin, dragging his trunk like it was nothing.
"And finally, Cordelia Knott."
The last Hufflepuff stepped forward — serious, quiet, and slightly suspicious of everyone.
"You twelve," Bramwick said, lowering the scroll, "board your chariot."
They exchanged glances. Some surprised.
Some excited.
And some — like Tom — unreadable.
Samera stepped in first, without hesitation.
Sameyr followed, cold and poised.
James and Lily moved in sync, though not together.
Tom climbed aboard without a word.
Lucius rolled his eyes and muttered something smug.
The rest filled in slowly.
Twelve strangers. Twelve wands.
One chariot.
The thestrals reared and launched into the air with a thunderous beat of wings.
The courtyard vanished beneath them — and with it, the comfort of anything they knew.
Professor McGonagall stood still, arms tightly crossed, eyes following the dark silhouette as it disappeared into the clouds.
"Are you certain that was wise?" she asked, voice clipped. "That group — all of them in one team?"
Dumbledore didn't answer at first. He simply watched the mist curl behind the chariot's wake, his eyes thoughtful beneath his half-moon spectacles.
Then — just the faintest smile.
"Let's wait for the outcome," he said, turning away with a sweep of his cloak.
"Some stories write themselves when given a little fire."
The chariot the last group was in soared for what felt like hours — through twisting clouds, past silver mountains, over forests that shimmered with enchantments.
No one spoke much.
They didn't need to.
Tension sat beside each of them like a thirteenth passenger.
Then — a sudden jolt.
The chariot slowed.
James sat up straighter. "Uh... is it supposed to—?"
Before he could finish, the thestrals descended sharply, wings cutting through fog until the ground came into view — a rocky cliff edge surrounded by dense pine forest.
With a hiss and a creak, the chariot landed.
And without a word, the thestrals unhooked themselves and vanished into the trees.
"What the—" Lucius began.
The chariot groaned again… and lurched back into the sky, leaving the twelve students behind.
A dull thud landed in the dust where the wheels had just been.
A large canvas duffel bag. Old. Enchanted. Glowing faintly.
Tom stepped toward it slowly.
"So," he muttered, "this is how it begins."
Sameyr was the first to step forward, silent and precise, taking her place beside Tom as the others fanned out in a loose circle around the old duffel bag.
Tom knelt and unclipped the flap.
Inside were four neatly sealed leather packs, each stamped with the Hogwarts crest and glowing faintly from enchantment. He pulled one out and opened it.
Inside:
One water bottle, still cold with condensation
A wrapped snack kit, compact and enchanted
And… nothing else.
Tom looked into the bag again — reaching deeper — until his fingers brushed parchment.
He pulled it out carefully.
A single map — old, enchanted, and flickering with shifting ink.
Sameyr leaned closer beside him. "That's it?"
Tom stood, eyes scanning the edges of the forest. "That's it."
Samera folded her arms. "Four packs. Twelve of us. One map."
James stepped forward. "Well, that's fair. Everyone gets a sip and a crumb."
Lily gave him a look. "They're testing something. Either we cooperate or… fall apart trying."
Lucius raised an eyebrow. "What happens if I take a pack and leave the rest of you to figure it out?"
"Then we let the thestrals eat you," Sameyr muttered.
"Not funny," he shot back.
"I wasn't joking."
Tom unfolded the map. The lines pulsed gently, trails shifting like veins.
"This place isn't static," he murmured. "It moves."
Kaito peered over his shoulder. "That's a living map. You don't follow it. You adapt to it."
Silence followed — thick, heavy.
Then Tom looked up.
"This is a game of fire, right?
Then we stay warm by sticking close…
...or burn trying to go alone."
The others watched him. Some with hesitation. Some with curiosity.
But no one walked away.
Not yet.
NESSGEEORIGINAL