"Malfoy, Dorkus!" cried the sorting hat, and a bespeckled boy with large teeth came up. Nobody was surprised when he, the seventh Malfoy of the day and the eighteenth in the past three years, was sorted into Slytherin.
It was a popular theory that the Malfoys were using some sort of spell to increase their birth rate and then shagging like grindylows to have litters of children. 11 years ago, Astoria Malfoy had birthed her largest litter yet by having octuplets. One was a squib, but that was all right. Seven was the most magical number, after all. (The squib, poor Mortimer Malfoy, had perished in an unfortunate accident some years ago. For all their wealth, the Malfoys had proven unable to afford a funeral for the child.)
The families of Crabbe and Goyle (never Goyle and Crabbe, as this would not be in alphabetical order) were apparently using a similar method to have many children. As a result, the current glut of new first-year students was comprised almost entirely of Slytherins.
This had been happening for three years now. The dwindling tables for Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw all watched with concerned eyes, whispering that their houses were on the verge of extinction.
The older Slytherins couldn't help but be concerned, as well. For one thing, the sheer amount of new students coming to their table meant that there was less space. For another, a great many of their new first years seemed, well...beneath the standards of the Great Salazar Slytherin. The appropriately-named Dorkus Malfoy had all the awkwardness of a Longbottom, and he wasn't the only one. Some of the new Goyle children were chewing with their mouths open, making terribly peasant-like chewing noises in the process. A new Crabbe girl had a profoundly annoying laugh that would probably have to be beaten out of her.
Granted, the first-years were only eleven, and eleven-year-olds were obnoxious at the best of times. But there were concerns that the plan to populate Hogwarts with Slytherins alone may have backfired. What if the plot to increase the number of Slytherin children had in fact led to *inferior* Slytherin children? What if they had chosen quantity over quality? And how could one be the best when everyone else was, too?
With the sorting ceremony concluded, the alcoholic charms professor whispered "Wingardium Leviosa," and Headmaster Dumbledore levitated into the air for new-year announcements. It wasn't the real Dumbledore, mind you, but rather his portrait. Nobody wanted the job of Headmaster this year (McGonnagal had long since given up trying to put this crackpot school in check) so people had decided that this was the best plan, given how widely loved Dumbledore was. But even Dumbledore's portrait had only agreed to do it after being threatened with paint thinner.
The levitation spell was necessary for anyone to see him, because, as he was a portrait, he had no ability to stand up.
"This school is cracked," said Dumbledore. "It has gone cray cray. But I guess that's to be expected when we all have PTSD from the war. Mostly thanks to you lot," he added, pointing with a flat, painted finger at the overstuffed Slytherin table. "Honestly, I don't know why we even still let you in at this point."
The other tables laughed. The Slytherin table didn't, but Portrait Dumbledore didn't care that he was insulting what was currently more than half the school. Portrait Dumbledore didn't give a shit. Portrait Dumbledore knew he was already dead.
"Now it's time for the school song!" said Portrait Dumbledore, and everybody at the overstuffed Slytherin table groaned. Well, except for Patrick Parkinson. "What's wrong with the school song?" he shouted, turning red. "I LIKE the school song!"
"It's the same bloody song every year," moaned Serpantus Malfoy, whose name nobody, not even his parents, could take seriously.
But this year, the song was different. The lyrics made no mention of "Hoggy-Wotty Hogwarts."
Rather, it just seemed to be Portrait Dumbledore saying "Fuck this shit, I'm on crack!" over and over.
It was going to be a very strange year.
