Chapter Text
The Hogwarts-Express‘s steam hung over platform nine and three-quarters, like a thin veil over the silhouettes of new students saying goodbye to their parents.
Mafioso stood at the corridor connection, looking through the window at the bustling crowd outside, the brim of his black fedora pulled low, hiding most of his face. He pressed his gloved right hand lightly against the window glass, feeling the slight coolness from the glass on his fingertips.
“Master, we should go find a compartment. The train is about to leave soon.” The Consigliere‘s voice sounded behind him. This boy, who was also wearing a brand-new suit, had a calm gaze that didn‘t match his age.
Mafioso didn‘t answer right away. He looked at a mother and daughter on the platform who were hugging goodbye, the mother wiping the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, while the girl was standing on tiptoe excitedly. Such a scene made him feel a strange sense of unfamiliarity.
“Mafioso?” the Consigliere called softly again.
“Mm.” He finally turned around, a habitual smile hanging on the corners of his mouth under the brim of his hat. “Let‘s go.”
The four boys immediately followed behind him in tacit agreement. Caporagime walked on the outermost edge, warily scanning the students coming and going in the corridor; Soldier nodded amicably to everyone who passed; and Contractee skipped ahead, occasionally looking back to see if they were following.
“I think we should go to the middle of the train. I heard you can see a better view from there!” Contractee said cheerfully.
“That‘s fine too.” Mafia nodded.
They finally found an empty compartment in the middle of the train. Consigliere entered last, carefully checking the door locks and curtains before sitting down. Caporagime silently placed Mafia‘s luggage on the luggage rack, moving as lightly as if placing fragile glass products. Soldier took out several boxes of sweets from his bag and arranged them neatly on the seat.
“What does the master want to eat?” Soldier asked gently. He pointed with his finger at the box of chocolate frogs: “This is fine.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door of the compartment.
Caporagime immediately stood up, his hand already reaching for his sleeve. The Consigliere gave him a calming look, then calmly asked: “Who is it?”
“Sorry to disturb you,” a polite voice came from outside the door. “The other booths are all full. Can we sit here? Just the two of us.”
Through the glass on the door, a silver-haired boy could be seen smiling and waving. He wore a black fedora similar to Mafioso‘s, but without the decorative stripes. Behind him stood a blond boy, looking at them with slightly apologetic eyes.
The Consigliere turned to look at Mafioso.
Mafioso raised his eyes and studied the two people outside the door through the shadow of his hat brim. The silver-haired boy‘s smile was sincere and frank, and his sunglasses and headphones made him look a little comical; while the other boy, although dressed casually, had a natural elegance in his movements.
“Please come in.” Mafioso put on his gloves again and nodded with a smile.
The silver-haired boy immediately pulled open the door and walked in boldly: “Thank you! My name is Chance, this is Elliot. While we were looking for seats, the people in the other boxes were all...” He paused, seeming to search for the right words, “er, not very welcome to us.”
Elliot sighed softly. “Chance, you‘re wearing Muggle sunglasses and headphones when you enter the wizard train. Of course, you’ll be stared at.”
“But this is cool!” Chance protested, then turned to Mafia and company. “What do you think? It‘s cool, right?”
Contractee looked at his headphones curiously. “Can that thing play music? Like a wizard radio?”
“Pretty much!” Chance‘s eyes lit up. “Want to listen to it? I brought a lot of Muggle music tapes.”
Contractee tilted her head. “Tape? What‘s that?”
While Chance was enthusiastically explaining Muggle technology to Contractee, Elliot sat down in the window seat, his gaze inadvertently sweeping over Mafioso‘s gloves. The pair of black leather gloves looked well-made, but wearing them in the still hot September weather always felt a little strange.
“You‘re... from the Sonnellino family?” Elliot asked softly, his tone not malicious, purely curious. “I‘ve heard my father mention this surname. It’s very famous among the pure-blooded families in Italy.”
Mafioso‘s eyebrows raised slightly under the brim of his hat: “You know Sonnellino?”
“My parents are Muggles,” Elliot said frankly, “but I learned a lot about the magical world before school started. Sonnellino is famous for growing special magical plants, right?”
“It used to be,” the Consigliere interjected calmly. “Now our family business has diversified.”
Elliot nodded and didn‘t continue asking questions. He sensitively sensed that this topic might not be very popular. Instead, he took out a deck of cards from his pocket and skillfully shuffled the cards: “Do you know how to play Explosive Poker? My sister taught me the Muggle way to play, and I modified it slightly, adding some magical elements.”
Mafioso looked at the cards fluttering at his fingertips and suddenly asked, “Muggle poker... is it shuffled by hand?”
“Of course,” Elliot was a little puzzled, “what else?”
“In our world, cards shuffle themselves. I thought Muggles had ways to make objects move by themselves.” Mafioso‘s tone carried a strange innocence.
When Chance heard this, he couldn‘t help but laugh out loud: “Isn‘t that magic? Muggles don’t have—”
“Chance.” Elliot gave him a warning look.
But Mafioso didn‘t seem to mind. Instead, he asked seriously, “How do the Muggles arrange the cards in a specific order? They can‘t use spells. How do they ensure the randomness of the cards?”
This question stunned both Chance and Elliot. They had never thought that a wizard from a pure-blood family would ask such a... basic question. But the expression on Mafioso‘s face when he asked was sincere, with no mocking or probing intent.
“They shuffle the cards with their hands,” Elliot said slowly, demonstrating as he spoke. “Look, they divide the cards into two piles like this, then mix them over each other. If they shuffle enough times, the order becomes completely random.”
Mafioso watched intently as Elliot‘s fingers moved. The shadow of his hat brim hid his expression, but his slightly forward-leaning body betrayed his interest. His four henchmen also moved closer.
Mafioso said softly, “Unbelievable, doing with your hands work that should have been done by magic.”
Chance took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of bright blue eyes. “You think it‘s strange that Muggles do things with their hands?”
“No.” Mafioso shook his head. “I think it‘s... amazing.”
This answer made the atmosphere in the box become subtle. Elliot and Chance exchanged a look, both seeing the same confusion in each other‘s eyes.
The train suddenly shook for a moment, the whistle blew loudly, and began to slowly move away from the platform. The view outside the window changed from the brick wall of platform nine and three-quarters to the fields of London‘s suburbs, the setting sun dyeing the sky orange-red.
“Do you want to play a game?” Elliot broke the silence, holding up the poker cards in his hand. “We can shuffle and hand out the cards without magic. Just as... a way to experience Muggles?”
Mafioso was silent for a few seconds, then took off his right glove.
The air in the box seemed to freeze for an instant. On the back of Mafioso‘s hand, the golden contract lines sparkled in the setting sun, like an exquisite pattern woven from molten gold threads. The Consigliere‘s body visibly tensed, and the Caporagime even took half a step forward, but Mafioso gently raised his hand to stop them.
“Sure,” the smile at the corner of Mafioso‘s mouth deepened, “but you‘ll have to teach me the rules. I‘ve never played... Muggle poker.”
Chance whistled and put his sunglasses back on. “Then you‘ve found the right person. Elliot is an expert in this area, and I...” He grinned. “I‘m an expert among experts.”
“You lost three Galleons to me last time,” Elliot revealed mercilessly.
“I let you do that!”
While they bickered, Mafioso carefully observed Elliot‘s shuffling movements. That smooth and natural hand movement fascinated him—no wand needed, no incantations needed, just the coordination and practice of the fingers could achieve an effect almost as elegant as magic.
Consigliere sat next to Mafioso, watching all of this warily. His gaze occasionally swept over Chance and Elliot, assessing these two uninvited Gryffindors. But Mafioso seemed relaxed, even a little... curious? This was rare. In the family estate, Mafioso rarely showed such obvious interest in things outside.
“First of all, each card has a different number of points...” Elliot began patiently explaining the rules.
Night had fully fallen when the train arrived at Hogwarts. Mafioso had already learned three different poker games, losing twelve Sickles to Elliot and winning five to Chance, although Chance insisted that he had “deliberately given way to the novice.”
They parted ways on the platform. Chance and Elliot walked toward the line of first-year students, while the five Mafiosi blended into the crowd of Slytherin students, like five drops of water falling into an inkwell.
As the ferry crossed the Black Lake, Mafioso sat alone in the bow. The moonlight shattered on the water into millions of silver sheets, and the outline of Hogwarts Castle gradually became clear in the night, the warm yellow light from the windows making it look like a giant lantern hanging in the air.
The Consigliere, sitting behind him, said softly, “Those two...”
“Very interesting,” said Mafia.
“They asked a lot of questions.”
“I asked them a lot of questions too.” Mafioso turned his head, the moonlight illuminating half of his face, making that eternal smile look a little sad. “Do you know, Consigliere? Until today, I had never personally touched a poker card.”
The Consigliere fell silent. He knew the environment in which Mafioso had grown up. He was strictly protected by his family. Almost all of his daily needs were fulfilled by domestic elves, and he rarely even dressed himself. Those hands that were always wearing gloves were said to be due to some kind of inherited skin sensitivity in the family, but for deeper reasons...
Consigliere finally said, “The master wants to learn Muggle things,” “We can find relevant books in the family library.”
“Books are not the same as actual experience.” Mafioso turned back to the castle.
The fleet slowly docked. The students filed through the castle gates, where the school professors were already waiting. Mafia noticed Chance at the front of the line talking excitedly to Elliot, pointing at the candles suspended from the ceiling, his sunglasses reflecting the candlelight.
The Sorting Ceremony was held in the Great Hall. When the professor said the name “Chance,” the silver-haired boy strode toward the Sorting Hat, not taking off his sunglasses or headphones. The Sorting Hat hovered silently over his head for a moment, then shouted, “Gryffindor!”
The long Gryffindor table erupted in cheers. Chance took off his sunglasses and waved at them, then jumped down from his chair and made an encouraging gesture to Elliot.
“Elliot!” the professor read.
Elliot stepped forward in a much more composed manner than Chance. He sat on the stool, the Sorting Hat almost touching his hair as he shouted, “Gryffindor!”
Chance‘s cheers were especially loud. Elliot smiled as he walked to the long Gryffindor table and sat down next to Chance.
After a few more names—
“Mafioso!”
Whispers echoed in the auditorium. The surname Sonnellino was not unfamiliar among pure-blood families, and Mafia‘s attire was even more eye-catching.
When he sat down, the shadow of the brim of his hat completely concealed his expression, only the smile at the corners of his mouth remained visible.
The Sorting Hat remained silent on his head for a long time. One minute, two minutes, three minutes... The whispering grew louder and louder. Mafioso sat motionless, his hands resting calmly on his knees.
Finally, the Sorting Hat spoke, its voice echoing only in Mafioso‘s mind: “Interesting... very interesting. Loyalty, pride, a desire to prove yourself... Slytherin suits you well. But I see... a desire for the unknown, a pursuit of understanding... these are rare in your family.”
“I belong to Slytherin,” Mafioso said quietly in his mind.
“Yes, yes, Slytherin can give you the support and protection you need. But child, one day you will have to choose your own path...”
“Slytherin!” the Sorting Hat announced loudly.
The long Slytherin table rang with restrained applause. Mafioso stood up and walked towards that silver-green sea. The Consigliere, Caporagime, Soldier and Contractee followed closely behind, being assigned to Slytherin in turn, without any suspense.
As he sat at the long Slytherin table, Mafioso could feel the gazes coming from all sides. Some were curious, assessing, and some with obvious hostility, especially from the Gryffindor direction. But he just kept smiling, occasionally gently rotating the brim of his hat.
After the banquet began, the Consigliere brought him food, the Caporagime observed the surroundings warily, the Soldier chatted amicably with the nearby freshmen, and the Contractee was already chatting happily with the ghost. The Mafioso ate slowly, his gaze occasionally drifting to the long Gryffindor table.
Chance was wolfing down a chicken leg while talking to the person next to him. Elliot was elegantly cutting a steak, occasionally nodding in response. Suddenly, Chance seemed to sense something and looked up at the Slytherin table.
Their eyes met in the air. Chance grinned, raised the cup of pumpkin juice in his hand, and made a toast gesture.
Mafioso was stunned, then he also raised his glass and nodded slightly.
“The master knows that Gryffindor?” the Consigliere asked in a low voice.
“The one I met on the train today.” Mafia put down his glass. “Consigliere, what do you think... is a friend?”
The Consigliere frowned. “We are enough for the master.”
“This is different,” Mafioso said softly, more like talking to himself. “You are family, an extension of the contract. But friends... are something outside the contract.”
After the dinner ended, the Slytherin students were led by their prefects to the basement common room. They passed through damp stone corridors, past hidden doors, and finally came to an empty stone wall. The prefect said the password “necklace,” and the stone wall slowly opened, revealing the ornate common room behind it.
Dark green silk curtains hung from the ceiling to the floor, black leather sofas surrounded in a semicircle, and green flames danced in silver candlesticks. Through the huge windows, one could see the bottom of the Black Lake, and occasionally the shadow of a giant squid slowly swam past.
Mafioso was assigned a separate dormitory—this was a special requirement of the Sonnellino family, and it was said that they had also donated a considerable amount of Galleons. The four Consigliere lived in the four-person room next door.
While the Consigliere helped him pack, Mafioso stood by the window, looking at the waves of the Black Lake. He had already taken off his glove, and he unconsciously stroked the golden lines on the back of his left hand with his right hand.
“Consigliere, did you know? That Muggle-born boy today, Elliot... when he shuffles the cards with his hand, his fingers move beautifully.”
The Consigliere‘s hands, folding his robes, paused. “Master...”
“I didn‘t mean that.” Mafia turned around, the moonlight refracting from the lake water, casting flowing shadows on his face. “I was just thinking... how many things in this world I don‘t know. Simple, ordinary things that everyone knows... but I don‘t.”
The Consigliere put down his robe and walked up to him. “That‘s not important. The master doesn’t need to know those things. You have us, you have the family, you have...”
“What is it?” Mafioso asked softly, his eyes staring straight at him from under the brim of his hat. “Consigliere, tell me, apart from the obligations stipulated in the contract, apart from the identity granted by the family, what else do I possess?”
The Consigliere opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The golden contract lines faintly heated at the position of his heart, reminding him of the oath he had made—eternal loyalty, eternal protection, eternal love for him. But that “love,” was it imposed by the contract, or...
“Go to sleep.” Mafioso put on his gloves again.
He lay down on the bed and drew the curtains, leaving the Consigliere standing alone in the moonlit room.
At the same time in Gryffindor Tower, Chance and Elliot lay on their four-poster beds, unable to sleep.
“What do you think of that Mafioso?” Chance asked, staring at the curtains above the bed.
“It‘s special.” Elliot‘s voice came from the next bed. “When he asked me how Muggles shuffle cards... it didn‘t feel like he was pretending. He really didn’t know.”
“A pure-blood wizard doesn‘t know Muggles do things with their hands?”
“Maybe his family protects him too well.” Elliot rolled over. “But strangely, he‘s not arrogant like the other Purists. Did you notice the expression on his face when I explained the rules? That serious look... as if every word I said mattered.”
Chance was silent for a moment, then suddenly said, “His smile was a little scary.”
“What?”
“It‘s just... he kept smiling, but with the hat covering his eyes, you don’t know what that smile really means. Like he‘s wearing a mask.”
Elliot thought about it. “Maybe it really is a mask. Everyone needs a way to protect themselves, doesn‘t they?”
“Philosopher Elliot is online.” Chance laughed and threw the pillow over.
Elliot caught the pillow and threw it back: “Go to sleep quickly, there‘s Potions class tomorrow, I heard that this professor especially hates Gryffindor.”
“Who?” Chance asked blankly.
“The Potions Professor, Headmaster Slytherin. You didn‘t even look at the staff list?”
“I saw it, but I didn‘t remember.” Chance yawned. “Anyway, I’ll know tomorrow. Good night, Elliot.”
“Good night.”
The windows of the tower had no curtains drawn, and the moonlight poured in, dyeing the room silver-blue. Elliot stared at the ceiling, and in his mind came the scene of Mafioso taking off his gloves, the golden lines shimmering in the setting sun, like living vines. Those lines he had never seen in any magic book. They were neither the scars of an Unbreakable Spell, nor the marks of the Blood Alliance.
What exactly was it?
Mafioso opened his eyes and realized it was only four in the morning. The water of the Black Lake flowed outside the window, and occasionally a school of fish swam by, their scales reflecting the faint light. He sat up, took off his nightcap, and put on the black fedora again.
The gloves were neatly placed on the bedside table. He looked at his hands. Except for the golden lines, the skin was so pale it was almost transparent. In fact, there was nothing wrong with his skin. The gloves were just a kind of barrier.
He gently stroked the lines on the back of his left hand, feeling the faint pulse under the skin. It wasn‘t his heartbeat, but the lives of four people connected together, proof of the existence of the contract. Through this connection, he could vaguely sense the emotions of the Consigliere and the others. At this moment, they were all still sleeping deeply, their heartbeats steady, their dreams peaceful.
This was what he possessed. These four lives were tightly connected to him.
But the enthusiasm with which Elliot and Chance had talked about Muggles, the “desire for the unknown” mentioned by the Sorting Hat, all pointed to a world beyond the contract, a world he had never truly touched.
“Friends...” he said the word softly, as if tasting a candy.
The waters of the Black Lake flowed silently, giving no answers.
The next morning, Hogwarts‘s daily routine began. Owl couriers shuttled through the air above the Great Hall, dropping letters and packages, and ghosts floated across the walls.
As the five Mafiosi sat at the long Slytherin table for breakfast, a flock of owls dropped several copies of the Daily Prophet. The Consigliere picked up one and quickly scanned the front page.
“No important news,” he reported. “The Ministry of Magic is discussing the rights of house elves again...”
“Look at the horoscopes!” Contractee snatched the newspaper and flipped to the back. “I‘m the Lion. It says, ‘Today you will encounter an unexpected surprise.’ What will it be?”
“Maybe some professor is giving you extra points in class,” Soldier suggested mildly.
The first class was Transfiguration class, with Ravenclaw. The professor was strict and efficient, turning the podium into a pig as soon as she came up, then turning back again, successfully attracting the attention of all the students. Then she distributed matches and asked everyone to try turning them into needles.
Mafioso held his match, feeling the grain of the wood. He had read theoretical books, knew spells and wand movements, but this was the first time he had tried it with his own hands. He took a deep breath and waved his wand as instructed by the professor.
The match trembled slightly, one end began to sharpen, and the color changed from wood to silver gray. But it only lasted for a few seconds, before returning to its original state.
“Good start,” the professor nodded as he passed by. “Mr. Sonnellino. Continue practicing.”
Mafioso noticed that the professor didn‘t comment on his wearing gloves and hat. Perhaps the professors had been notified in advance.
He tried a few more times, each time managing to make the match produce more changes. On the fourth attempt, a perfect silver needle appeared on the table. The Professor smiled a rare smile and added five points to Slytherin.
The Consigliere next to him was also succeeding at the same time. Caporagime was a bit slower, but Soldier and Contractee were still trying hard.
“Your wand movements are very precise, but don‘t rely too much on your visual imagination. Transfiguration requires you to truly ‘understand’ the changes in the nature of objects, not just picture them in your mind.”
Mafioso nodded thoughtfully. Understanding the essence... This was completely different from what his family had taught him. The family focused on results and power, not process and understanding.
In the afternoon was Potions class, with Gryffindor. The basement classroom was cold and damp, with shelves filled with glass jars containing various disgusting specimens.
“You are here to learn the precise science and rigorous craft of potion making.” The Potions Professor‘s clear voice carried to every corner. “Since there are no foolish wands waving here, many of you will not believe this is magic. I do not expect you to truly understand—”
His dark eyes swept the classroom.
“—the beauty of the cauldron simmering on a slow fire, the magic of the rising steam, the mysterious power of the liquid slowly seeping into human veins...”
During roll call, the professor paused when he read Mafia‘s name: “Sonnellino... I taught a few of your cousins. I hope you won‘t be like them... disappointing.”
Mafioso maintained his smile, his eyes calm and unruffled beneath the brim of his hat.
After starting to make the scabies potion, Mafioso carefully operated according to the textbook steps. But he quickly discovered that he needed to take off his right glove to cut the potion ingredients. He hesitated for a moment, then took off his glove and picked up the silver knife.
The porcupine thorns needed to be cut into delicate diagonals. He held the knife somewhat clumsily, trying to imitate the illustrations in the textbook. The knife work was crude, and the thorns cut out were of varying lengths.
The professor appeared behind him at some point. “Your knife technique is like a troll cutting down trees.”
Mafioso didn‘t defend himself, just nodded. “I‘ll practice, Professor.”
The professor didn‘t seem to have expected this reaction. He fell silent for a moment, then strode toward Chance, who was struggling with the crucible. “Chance! Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered daffodil root to sage infusion?”
Chance looked at him blankly: “Uh... a mess?”
Suppressed laughter came from Gryffindor‘s side. The corner of the professor‘s mouth twitched: “Since you are so unprepared, Gryffindor deducts five points.”
He turned to Elliot again: “Same question.”
Elliot calmly replied: “Life and Death Water, Professor. Narcissus root and sagebrush are two key ingredients for making Life and Death Water.”
Snape stared at him for a few seconds, then turned and left without saying anything.
After class, Chance walked out of the cellar with Elliot, dejected: “I screwed up. Completely screwed up. That professor absolutely hates me.”
“He‘s the same for all Gryffindors,” Elliot consoled.
“But he‘s nice to you!”
“Because I know the answer. Chance, if you‘d listened to less music last night and looked at your textbooks more...”
They turned the corner of the corridor and almost collided with Mafia and his henchmen. Both stopped in their tracks.
“How‘s your hand?” Chance suddenly asked.
Mafioso was stunned: “What?”
“When you cut the porcupine spines in class, it didn‘t seem very smooth. Is it because of the gloves?”
Mafioso subconsciously looked at his right hand. “No, it‘s just... lack of practice.”
“Want to practice together?” Chance suggested enthusiastically. “Elliot and I are planning to find an empty classroom this weekend to review potions and transformations. You can come, and your... uh, friends.”
The Consigliere frowned and was about to refuse, but the Mafia spoke first: “Okay.”
This short answer surprised everyone.
“Master—” the Consigliere whispered.
“Saturday afternoon, the abandoned arithmetic and divination classroom on the third floor,” Elliot said quickly, as if afraid he might change his mind. “We‘ll arrive at two.”
Mafioso nodded, then led his four followers on their way to the Slytherin common room.
“Master, you shouldn‘t—” the Consigliere finally couldn‘t help but say after walking away.
“Shouldn‘t what?” Mafioso didn‘t stop walking. “Shouldn’t make friends with Gryffindor? Or shouldn’t...” He finally stopped and turned to face the Consigliere. “...make decisions on your own?”
The Consigliere opened his mouth, and the contract lines on his chest suddenly heated up. He lowered his head: “I‘m just worried about your safety.”
“At Hogwarts, I‘m safe.” Mafioso‘s tone softened a bit. “Consigliere, I know the contract requires you to protect me. But protecting doesn‘t mean making all the decisions for me.”
Caporagime, Soldier, and Contractee stood silently to the side, watching this scene. Finally, Contractee broke the silence: “Actually, I think those two Gryffindors are quite nice! Especially that Chance, he knows a lot about Muggle stuff, I even want to ask him how to use the headphones.”
Soldier added gently, “Elliot seems reliable too. He helped that Hufflepuff with the shaking hand next to him in Potions.”
Mafioso looked at the Consigliere, and the smile under the brim of his hat became a little warmer. “See? Maybe this time you can trust my judgment.”
The Consigliere took a deep breath and finally nodded: “As you wish, master.”
On Saturday afternoon, when the five of them arrived at the abandoned classroom on the third floor, Chance and Elliot were already there. The classroom was full of dust, abandoned arithmetic divination charts were still taped to the walls, and desks and chairs had been pushed to the corners, leaving an empty space in the middle.
“You‘re here! We brought the ingredients—some potion ingredients, and matches and needles for transformation practice. Oh, I also brought chocolate frogs. You can eat them when you’re tired from practicing.” Chance waved happily.
Elliot was cleaning the dust with his wand. When he saw Mafia, he nodded. “Good afternoon.”
Mafioso noticed that Elliot was wearing a bright red Muggle-style sweater today, while Chance was still wearing sunglasses and headphones, his fedora tilted to one side.
“Let‘s get started,” Mafioso said.
The next two hours were unexpectedly pleasant for everyone. They practiced in groups, Elliot patiently teaching Mafioso various knife techniques, Mafioso focused on learning, his finger agility gradually improving. Chance discussed Muggle technology with Contractee, practicing Transfiguration while at it, during which he accidentally turned a match into a feather.
“Is this progress?” Chance scratched his head.
“At least they‘re all thin and long,” Contractee said optimistically.
At first, Consigliere stood warily to the side, but as time passed, he gradually relaxed and even joined in Soldier and Caporagime‘s spell practice. Elliot‘s magic foundation was surprisingly solid, he could accurately cast any spell, and was willing to share his skills.
During the break, they sat around on the ground eating chocolate frogs. Chance collected cards, and Elliot told everyone the stories of the characters on the cards as jokes.
“...So Merlin actually went to school at Hogwarts? How is that possible? Hogwarts was founded long after his time.” Elliot flipped through a Merlin card.
“Maybe he time-traveled,” Chance said nonchalantly.
“Merlin can‘t time travel, that’s a violation—”
“Breaking what? Magic rules?” Chance grinned. “Magic itself is breaking the rules, right?”
Mafioso listened to their argument, nibbling on his chocolate frog. Sunlight slanted in through the window, and dust slowly floated in the pillar of light. At that moment, he felt a strange peace, no family expectations, no contractual constraints, just a few peers eating snacks together, arguing about unimportant topics.
Chance suddenly turned to him. “Mafioso, why do you always wear your hat? I mean, even indoors?”
The Consigliere‘s body tensed. But Mafioso only touched the brim of his hat: “This is a family symbol. All the heirs of the Sonnellino family have one.”
“I see.” Chance nodded without asking any further questions. “It‘s quite cool. My hat was just something I bought at a Muggle shop, nothing special.”
“But you like it.”
“Yes.” Chance smiled and adjusted the brim of his hat. “It makes me feel... like myself.”
This simple answer left Mafia silent for a moment. Then he took off his hat, revealing his full face to them for the first time.
Without the shadow of the brim of the hat, Mafioso‘s face was fully presented—black hair slightly curled, pale skin, delicate and young features. But his eyes were the most striking, dark brown, almost black. And his expression... When he wasn‘t smiling, that face looked unusually vulnerable, even a little lost.
Mafioso ran his fingers over the gray stripes on the brim of the hat. “Me too. When I put it on, I feel like myself.”
The classroom was quiet for a moment. Then Chance took off his sunglasses. “Do you want to exchange your sunglasses? Experience what it feels like to be ‘like me’?”
Mafioso stared at the sunglasses, then actually reached out to take them. He carefully put them on, and the world immediately darkened, all colors filtered by the lenses into varying shades of gray.
“How was it?” Chance asked expectantly.
“...It‘s very dark,” Mafioso said honestly.
Chance burst out laughing. “Of course, these are sunglasses! Wait, you‘ve never worn sunglasses before?”
“No.”
“What do you do when the sun is too bright?”
“Shadow the sun with my hat.”
Chance was laughing so hard, Elliot couldn‘t help but smile too. Even the corners of the Consigliere‘s mouth twitched. Mafia didn‘t laugh, but neither did he feel offended. He could sense that it wasn‘t mockery, but rather the joy of sharing a new discovery.
“Try my headphones.” Chance took off the headphones and handed them over. “It‘s playing Muggle music called ‘rock and roll.’”
Mafioso took the headphones and put them on. Immediately, a violent rhythm he had never heard before hit his eardrums, drums like heartbeats, guitars like metal scraping, and voices shouting lyrics he didn‘t understand. This was completely different from the slow melodies played with harps and flutes on the wizard radio.
“How‘s it going?” Chance asked loudly, leaning closer.
Mafioso took off his headphones. “It‘s... noisy.”
“That‘s rock and roll!” Chance said proudly.
“But,” Mafioso paused, as if searching for the right words, “it has a sense of rhythm.”
Chance‘s eyes lit up: “Yes! That‘s exactly the feeling! Elliot didn‘t like it at all when he first heard it, saying it sounded like ‘a bunch of cats fighting.’”
“I still feel the same way,” Elliot said expressionlessly.
Everyone laughed, including Mafioso. This was the first time he had laughed out of happiness today. The Consigliere watched this scene in shock, the contract lines on his chest slightly heating up, a warmth he had never felt before coming from Mafioso‘s side.
In the evening, they packed their things to leave. As they were parting in the corridor, Chance suddenly said, “Are we still together next week?”
Mafioso looked at Chance‘s face, half hidden by his sunglasses, then at Elliot’s gentle smile, and finally turned to his four henchmen: the Contractee‘s expectant gaze, the Soldier‘s friendly nod, the Caporagime’s silent acquiescence, and the Consigliere‘s complex but accepting gaze.
“Good,” he said.
On the way back to the Slytherin cellars, the Consigliere walked beside the Mafioso, wanting to speak but hesitating.
“What do you want to say?” Mafioso spoke up.
“Master... smiled today.”
“I smile often.”
“It‘s different,” the Consigliere insisted.
Mafioso walked a few steps in silence, then said softly: “Maybe it‘s because there’s something worth being really happy about today.”
He looked down at his gloves, which were somewhat worn from practicing cutting potion materials.
“Consigliere, why do you think Chance and Elliot would be willing to be friends with me? I‘m not a Purist, but my family doesn’t have a good reputation. I‘m Slytherin, they’re Gryffindor. I don’t know any common sense, I have to learn to cut porcupine spines from scratch...”
“Perhaps that‘s exactly why,” the Consigliere said quietly.
“What?”
“Precisely because you are not what they expect you to be. You genuinely want to know how Muggles shuffle cards, you study cutting potion ingredients seriously, you are willing to try out sunglasses and Muggle music... Most pure-blood wizards would not do this.”
Mafioso stopped in his tracks and turned to face the window overlooking the Black Lake. The water was a deep dark green in the moonlight, like Slytherin‘s signature color.
“Do you think it‘s right? To want to know about the world beyond the contract?”
The Consigliere walked to his side, also looking at the lake water. The golden lines on his chest continued to emit a faint warmth. The warmth didn‘t come from the constraint of the contract, but from his own heart.
“I don‘t know, master,” he replied honestly, “but whatever you choose, we will follow.”
Mafioso turned his head, his eyes under the brim of his hat meeting the Consigliere‘s. “Thank you, Consigliere,” Mafioso said.
Back in the bedroom, Mafioso stood in front of the mirror. He took off his hat, removed his gloves, and for the first time examined himself for a long time in the mirror, his pale skin, dark eyes, and the golden lines spreading across the back of his hands. The traces of the contract would never disappear, it was an unbreakable link between him and his four followers.
But today he had made friends outside the contract.
He remembered what Chance had said: “It makes me feel like myself.”
Mafioso touched his face in the mirror and said softly, “Then... who am I?”
The boy in the mirror didn‘t answer, just looked back at him quietly with those abyss-like eyes.
The first term was spent in regular classes and joint study on Saturdays. Mafioso‘s grades were top-notch, particularly excellent in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts. But his Potions knife skills were still clumsy, and Herbology was only average—he was always reluctant to directly touch those writhing plants.
Chance, on the other hand, was terrible at Herbology (he nearly got detention from the professor the third time he pulled mandragora out by the roots), but he was quite good at both Transfiguration and Charms. And his most dazzling talent was shown for the first time in flying lessons.
It was the second Thursday in October. The teacher blew a silver whistle, and the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins stood on the lawn in front of the castle, each with a broomstick beside him.
“Stretch out your right hand, place it on top of the broom, and say ‘Rise!’”
“Get up!” the students shouted in confusion.
Chance‘s broom immediately jumped into his hand, almost eagerly pressing against his palm. Elliot‘s broom also obediently rose. Mafioso‘s broom rolled on the ground for a moment, only flying into his hand on the second attempt.
“Very good. Now ride the broomstick and gently kick the ground with your feet. Just hover low, don‘t fly high!”
Chance rose into the air almost eagerly. His broom responded to him as if it were alive, hovering steadily three feet in the air. But several Slytherin students nearby were clearly not very skilled, and one boy‘s broom suddenly tilted, almost throwing him off.
“Careful!” Chance subconsciously reached out to help, but this movement made him lose his balance, and his entire person slid down the side of the broom.
“Chance!” Elliot exclaimed.
At the last moment, he grabbed the broom handle with one hand, his entire body suspended in the air, then used the force to flip over and ride the broom again. The entire process was smooth as if he had rehearsed it beforehand.
The teacher‘s eyes widened: “You—get down!”
Chance landed on the ground, feeling a little nervous. But the teacher just carefully sized him up: “Have you flown before?”
“No, Professor. The first time.”
“Native,” the teacher commented briefly. “Have you considered joining the Quidditch team? First-years are usually not allowed, but if you maintain such talent...”
Chance‘s eyes shone like lit lanterns.
That night in the Gryffindor common room, he was so excited he could barely sleep. “Quidditch! Real Quidditch! Elliot, can you believe it? First-years joining the team!”
“Don‘t get too excited just yet,” Elliot said as he wrote his Transformations essay and threw cold water. “The teacher just said it‘s possible. And you still need to pass the selection.”
“I‘m definitely going to pass! I want to be the youngest Seeker in history!”
“A Seeker? Not a Chaser?”
“The Seeker is more exciting. And the Golden Snitch... catching it must be like playing the best gamble, you never know where it‘s going next.”
Elliot stopped his quill and turned to look at him. “You think Quidditch is a gamble?”
“Everything in life is a gamble,” Chance grinned, his sunglasses reflecting the firelight. “Only the Quidditch stakes are more interesting.”
In December, when the first snow fell at Hogwarts, Chance actually passed the Quidditch selection, becoming the youngest Seeker for Gryffindor in a century. When the news spread, the entire school was in an uproar. The long Gryffindor table erupted in continuous cheers, and Chance was carried around the field on the shoulders of the team members.
Mafioso watched this scene from afar at the long Slytherin table. His smile still hung on the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were filled with curiosity.
“Master?” the Consigliere asked softly.
“He looks happy,” said the Mafioso.
“That Gryffindor?”
“Hmm.” Mafioso continued cutting the steak. “Finding something you‘re good at, being recognized by everyone... what does that feel like?”
The Consigliere didn‘t answer. He knew that the Mafia had never lacked recognition in the Sonnellino family, but that recognition always came with expectations and conditions. Excellence was taken for granted, failure was not allowed. And Chance‘s happiness seemed so simple and pure, simply because he could do what he liked.
As the Christmas holidays approached, the students began discussing plans to go home. Mafioso received a family letter, an owl delivered a parchment with only one short line: “Stay at school. Have a mission. — Father”
He read it calmly, then threw the letter into the fireplace.
“We‘re not going back either,” the Consigliere said immediately, and the other three nodded as well.
“You should go home for the holidays.”
“The contract stipulates that we must be by your side,” the Consigliere insisted, “especially when you have a ‘mission.’”
Mafioso didn‘t say anything else. He knew that persuasion was ineffective, that the power of contracts was stronger than any individual will.
On Christmas Eve, most of the students went home. Hogwarts became quiet and empty, with only the occasional footsteps of a few students staying in the corridors. The five members of the Mafia remained in the Slytherin cellar, waiting for their so-called “mission” instructions.
But when Christmas Eve came, there were no owls, no letters, no news from the Sonnellino family.
Mafioso sat in a chair in front of the window of the Black Lake, watching the occasional school of fish swimming in the depths of the lake. He was wearing a formal robe, hat, and gloves, as if ready to receive important visitors at any time.
Time passed minute by minute.
Nine o‘clock, ten o‘clock, eleven o‘clock...
“Master,” the Consigliere finally couldn‘t help saying, “perhaps the mission has been canceled. You should rest.”
“Wait a little longer,” Mafia said calmly.
At midnight, the door to the common room suddenly opened. A tall fellow wearing a travel cloak strode in - not a member of the Sonnellino family, but a Hogwarts professor.
“Mr. Mafioso? The principal sent me to... uh, he said if you‘re still up, you can come to his office for a cup of hot cocoa.”
Mafioso was stunned. Headmaster? Is this what the mission is about?
“Go, master,” the Consigliere said softly. “We‘ll wait for you in the bedroom.”
Mafioso stood up and followed the professor through the empty castle. Heavy snow was falling from the magical sky through the windows, and the armor in the corridors was dozing, making faint metallic scraping sounds.
The principal‘s office was located behind the gargoyle. After the professor spoke the password, the gargoyle jumped aside, revealing a spiral staircase. Mafia went up alone and knocked on the oak door.
“Mr. Sonnellino, please sit down.” The Headmaster waved his wand and conjured a comfortable armchair.
A cup of steaming cocoa appeared in Mafia‘s hand. He looked down at the cup, the brim of his hat hiding his expression.
“You must have been waiting for news from the family. But I intercepted it without permission.”
Mafioso looked up sharply.
“Don‘t worry, your father has agreed.” The principal calmly sipped his cocoa, “Or rather, he has agreed to leave tonight‘s ‘mission’ to me to... arrange.”
“I don‘t understand, Headmaster.”
“It‘s a tradition in your family to give underage members some kind of test on Christmas Eve, isn’t it?” The principal put down his cup. “A loyalty test, an ability test, or both. But this year, I proposed to your father that I be in charge of this matter.”
Mafioso gripped his cup tightly. “Why?”
“Because I noticed something.” The Headmaster stood up and walked to the window to look at the snowy scenery. “A boy wearing a hat that hides his expression, always wearing gloves, and always accompanied by four inseparable companions. He studied diligently and had excellent grades, but rarely took the initiative to answer questions. He became friends with two Gryffindors, which is almost unprecedented in the history of the Sonnellino family, which has always focused on bloodline.”
He turned around and looked directly at Mafia: “I‘m very curious, who exactly is this boy? Is he the person the family expects him to become, or the person he himself wants to become?”
The office was so quiet you could hear snowflakes falling on the window glass.
“I don‘t know,” Mafia finally said, his voice very soft. “I... don’t know.”
The principal nodded, as if this answer was within his expectations: “That‘s normal. At eleven years old, few people really know who they are. But the important thing is that you are exploring.”
He walked back to the table and picked up a shallow stone basin—a meditation basin. A silver substance swirled in it, like liquid light.
“As your ‘Christmas mission,’ I want to show you something. It‘s not a test, but... a gift.”
The Headmaster pulled out his wand and extracted a strand of silver memory from his temple, placing it in the Pensieve. Then he gestured for Mafioso to come forward.
Mafioso hesitated for a moment, then took off his hat, placed it on the table, and approached the meditation basin. He took a deep breath and buried his face in the silver substance.
The world spun, then rearranged itself.
He was standing in the garden of the Sonnellino estate. It was summer, the roses were in bloom, the fountain sparkled in the sunlight. A boy was squatting by the flower bed, intently observing a beetle.
It was himself, about five years old.
The young Mafioso was not wearing a hat or gloves. He held out his fingers and let the beetle climb up, his eyes shining with curiosity. But then an adult wizard appeared, and Mafioso recognized him as his grandfather.
“Mafioso, what are you doing?” Grandfather‘s voice was stern. “The heir of the Sonnellino family, playing with insects?”
The young Mafioso immediately stood up, and the beetle fell to the ground. “I‘m sorry, Grandfather.”
“Where are your gloves?”
“It‘s too hot, I...”
“Put it on,” my grandfather said coldly. “Never let anyone see your skin. You have the mark of the contract on the back of your hand. It‘s the symbol of the family, but it’s also a weakness. True power should be hidden.”
The young Mafioso silently took a glove from his pocket and put it on.
The scene changed.
Now it was seven-year-old Mafioso, standing in the family library. Consigliere, Caporagime, Soldier, and Contractee knelt before him, their clothing at the heart area pulled open, revealing golden patterns. Mafioso‘s right hand was pressed on the Book of Contracts, and the patterns on the back of his left hand glowed brightly.
“Are you willing to swear?” Old Sonnellino‘s voice rang out. “To be eternally loyal to the Mafia, to protect him, to give your lives and souls for him, and not to harm him in the slightest, even if you are controlled, even if you lose yourself?”
“We do,” the four boys said in unison.
Golden light flashed, and the contract was established. The seven-year-old Mafioso had a smile on his face, but his eyes... there was no joy in those dark eyes, only heaviness.
The scene changed again.
The ten-year-old Mafioso practiced Animagi transformation alone late at night. It wasn‘t something his family required, but something he had secretly learned himself. He failed again and again, his body twisting into all sorts of strange shapes, the intense pain making his forehead sweat, but he gritted his teeth and continued.
Finally, on a full moon night, he succeeded. A huge yellow rabbit took the boy‘s place, the black fedora still on the rabbit‘s head, the gray stripes on the brim particularly clear in the moonlight. In rabbit form, he stood in front of the mirror, looking at his new image.
The memory ended there. Mafia raised his head from the meditation basin and found that his cheeks were wet.
The headmaster handed him a handkerchief without saying anything.
Mafioso wiped his face and was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Why are you showing me these?”
“Because you‘ve forgotten,” the headmaster said gently. “You remember what your family expects you to become, but you’ve forgotten what you used to be.”
“What can this change?” Mafioso‘s voice was a little hoarse. “The contract already exists. Responsibility cannot be avoided.”
“Yes, the contract cannot be dissolved,” the Headmaster admitted, “but you can decide what it means to you. Is it a shackle, or a bond? A burden, or a support? Those four boys, they are more than just a contractual obligation to you, right? And your friendship with those two Gryffindors is not something the contract requires either.”
Mafioso remembered the warmth of the veins on the Consigliere‘s chest when they heated up, remembered Chance‘s laughter when he let him try on sunglasses, remembered Elliot‘s fingers patiently teaching him how to cut potion ingredients...
“I don‘t know how to be ‘me.’ I never... never learned.”
“Then start learning from now. It‘s not too late to start at eleven. I know a lot of people who are still learning to be themselves until they’re over a hundred.”
Mafioso couldn‘t help but chuckle softly.
“What about my mission?” he asked. “The family‘s demands...”
“Your father will receive my report,” the principal said, his eyes flashing behind his half-moon glasses. “I will tell him that Mafioso has completed his task perfectly. He has proven himself capable of thinking independently and building his own relationships, which is precisely the quality the Sonnellino heir needs most.”
“Will he believe it?”
“He has to believe. After all, I‘m the principal.”
It was already one o‘clock in the morning when Mafioso left the principal‘s office. The snow had stopped, and the moonlight spilled over the castle corridors, dyeing everything silver-white. He was wearing a hat, but this time he didn‘t pull the brim down very low.
Back in the Slytherin common room, the four followers immediately stoo