Azkaban students at Hogwarts

"Ladies and gentlemen, please be quiet."

Dumbledore stood up and knocked on the goblet in front of him, and the hall fell silent for an instant.

"Roman, go aside and rest first."

He waved his hand, signaling Professor McGonagall to continue; it seemed that the Sorting Hat had just shouted not Azkaban, but Bibi's All-Flavour Beans.

"The sorting continues!"

He shouted to continue sorting, but Professor McGonagall hesitated a little while holding the list.

Roman gave up his stool, not knowing where to go.

On the high platform, all the little wizards without branches looked directly at him.

There is obviously no place for him at the long tables of the four colleges.

Before anyone else could say anything, the man in a lavender cloak on the staff bench hurriedly stood up and pulled Roman over.

They left under the surprised eyes of the students and entered a small classroom along the corridor.

This is a spare Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

The podium was covered with dust, and the specimens of Grindylow and Red Hat were piled messily in the corner.

Roman looked at the gloomy classroom, chose to stick himself next to the door, and tentatively said:

"professor?"

"To be honest, none of us thought that someone as cautious as you would be caught by an Auror."

The professor sat carelessly on the table in the first row and responded in an almost mocking tone.

"Professor, have we met before?"

Roman took the opportunity to look carefully at the man in front of him.

He is in his 30s, has good features, a well-groomed beard, and blond hair that is curled and draped down smoothly.

The person opposite smiled, revealing his white teeth, the two canines being particularly sharp.

He didn't answer, but instead took out a messy black hair from his cloak and put it on his face. He also put many dirty-looking stickers on his teeth, and finally put his hair together and put it in a ball. Brown messy hair.

Then his mouth seemed to move twice, and his cheeks shriveled up visibly.

Roman's eyes grew bigger and bigger!

Isn't this the downline whom I lost contact with half a year ago, the potion dealer "Carrot"!

This guy still owes him money for a fine unicorn horn.

"Merlin's beard, Trokar what are you doing?"

Professor McGonagall, who hurried over after the sorting, was surprised to see his colleague's cross-dressing.

"Nothing, I would like to ask Roman for some makeup advice. You know, Defense Against the Dark Arts also needs to consider disguises."

This man took off his wig nonchalantly without any awareness of being caught behaving strangely.

I just don’t know whether this behavior of using my real name upside down as a pseudonym should be considered prudent or reckless.

"You can put your business aside first. I think we should let this child complete the sorting first, and then eat!"

Mag didn't seem surprised, but looked at his colleagues who didn't know the importance of it angrily.

I guess a teacher's resume cannot be hidden from the vice principal.

"This kid probably hasn't had anything to eat in days."

She continued to chant.

But wait.

Why does it seem like eating is more important than hospital? .

"You know, Roman knows this better than us. This opportunity is rare." Troca protested in a low voice.

"I know better than you! But now the Sorting Hat refuses to sort this child! We have to find a way."

Mag pulled Roman over angrily and rubbed his head.

As if to tell Troca that this is a child waiting to be sorted, not a pumpkin ready to be cut.

Who can tell me why these professors seem to know me very well?

Roman smiled dryly.

He would rather go to Azkaban with Scrimgeour again than stay in this "warm" atmosphere.

"If that's the case, I have a suggestion."

Dumbledore's voice sounded from outside the door.

He poked his head in like a child, blinking his sky-blue eyes.

"How about we not sort them into different hospitals for now?"

If the problem cannot be solved, solve the problem.

The art of leadership...

Roman looked at Dumbledore in admiration.

If the Minister of Magic had been so decisive, he would still be squatting in Azkaban.

"There is no precedent for this."

Mag pursed his lips, but couldn't say anything against it.

After all, the Sorting Hat barely finished the rest of its work and then started pretending to be dead.

"I think it's good. There has to be an example before there is a precedent."

Trocca waved his wand, and a silver tray filled with chicken drumstick sandwiches appeared on the table.

"Give the Sorting Hat a break."

Roman looked at his "old friend" gratefully and prepared to cross out from his notebook the fact that he cheated him out of twenty galleons.

"I don't think it's necessary."

Dumbledore also waved his wand, the food disappeared, and Roman's half-stretched hand stopped in the air.

I almost reached the sandwich.

He turned around and looked at Dumbledore with some confusion.

"Let me tell you, we can't let a child miss the back-to-school banquet just because of an accident."

Dumbledore winked at him.

Roman took his hand back and smiled awkwardly.

So the dinner took a strange direction.

The four people eating at the long table, as well as the ghosts who didn't eat, had countless pairs of eyes staring at Roman sitting in the faculty seat.

Together with the thousands of candles suspended in the air, it looked like she was going to send him off.

The professors sitting next to him couldn't stand this strange atmosphere. They stopped their knives and forks to indicate that they were full, and then joined the crowd of stares.

And Roman was concentrating on the fried pork chops, roast lamb chops, sausages, bacon steaks, turkey legs on the plate in front of him... He didn't stop until he could see a piece of Cornish pasty from his throat, and looked at it silently. A piece of butter pudding.

Dumbledore only took a few bites of food throughout the whole process, but watching Roman swallow the last bite of pudding, he still felt like something was pushing out of his throat out of thin air.

He suppressed the feeling of vomiting and grabbed Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse who was eager to take action at the side - she wanted to rush over for first aid while Roman was eating the pie.

"Kid, have a cup of pumpkin juice."

Dumbledore handed over a drink regardless of his identity, without using magic, even his hands were shaking.

Roman took the cup but hesitated.

He didn't like this kind of drink, but seeing the principal's dying expression, he still drank it in a big gulp with the intention of treating illnesses and saving lives.

And everyone in the hall, relieved by his sip of pumpkin juice, put down their knives and forks one after another.

Even the breathless ghost showed a relaxed expression. Sir Porpington even let his head hang to the side, not bothering to hold it up.

"Since, burp! We have all eaten and drank enough, I will say a few more words."

Dumbledore obviously didn't eat or drink enough.

Most of the students did not have enough to eat or drink.

But they all said their stomachs were bloated and uncomfortable.

"The woods on the playground are strictly prohibited for students."

"Our administrator, Mr. Filch, asked me to remind you—"

A certain little wizard finally couldn't hold it in anymore and hiccupped loudly, and the hiccups came one after another in an instant.

Sitting high up, Roman easily discovered the source of the sound - Fred and George were burying their faces in their robes, trying desperately to encourage everyone to burp.

"No magic is allowed in the corridors between classes."

Dumbledore waved his wand helplessly and took control of the situation.

In the face of this riot, Roman, the instigator, had no awareness of taking responsibility, and even broke the rules and used the debut song of the "Weird Sisters" band - "My Hand Through Your Crucible" with the Weasley twins. The school song was sung.

He originally planned to use Celestine Warbeck's "Wand of Passion" as the keynote, but the twins were too infectious.

Lee Jordan, a proponent of his own tunes, quickly went off the rails.

But anyway, the effect is outstanding.

The students look at him much more normally now.

Everyone thought he was just mentally ill and not a terrorist.

The noisy students were led away by their respective prefects, hungry but exhausted.

Roman was led by Dumbledore to an empty room on the eighth floor.

"You will live here until the sorting is determined."

He opened the door and found that the room was empty except for a pile of cauldrons in the corner, which was more than enough for three or four people.

"If you want to wash up, you can use the prefect's bathroom on the sixth floor. It's the fourth door to the left of the statue of Reese. The password is Hawthorn."

He waved his magic wand, and a carved four-poster bed and a set of tables and chairs suddenly appeared in the room. Even Roman's suitcase appeared at the foot of the bed.

"At Hogwarts, everyone who needs help can always find it."

He winked at Romanza playfully.

"These are the class schedules of the four colleges. You can choose one and follow it. Just tell the professor."

Dumbledore threw down four timetables on the table and wanted to say something, but then he patted his forehead and turned away.

"I have to hide the cockroaches quickly, Fox is going to eat all the candy."

Do phoenixes like to eat piles of cockroaches?

Roman struggled to control the twitching corners of his eyes.

He looked at the tapestry not far away from the room where silly Barnabas was teaching the troll to dance ballet, and felt that the headmaster's hand was either particularly despicable or extremely beautiful.

There's no way Dumbledore didn't know about the Room of Requirement.

When Filch ran out of tools, he would go to the Room of Requirement for spare tools; Trelawney would use it to hide mead; not to mention the vast array of stuff hidden by the students inside.

But the principal could only find a room full of chamber pots when he was in a hurry to find the toilet.

Do you believe it?

Little wizards can see such a simple thing.

Can't he, a principal, see that?

Who is Voldemort?

A person who keeps a diary.

No one who writes a diary can fool him.

How could I, the one who writes notes, deceive him?

"I need a place to hide things."

"I need a place to hide my things without anyone finding out."

Roman waited patiently in the house until late at night, then came to the tapestry and started pacing.

When the third thought was over, the smooth door of the Room of Requirement appeared in front of him.

A second before he pushed the door open, there was a crack in the air.

A house elf wearing gray casual clothes, a light gray cotton peaked cap on his head, and a dark blue scarf around his neck appeared in front of Roman.

He was on crutches and gasping for air.

"Loyal!"

Roman called out in a low voice, holding the elf by the hand and walking into the Room of Requirement.