Y/n stood at the entrance, surveying the chaos of the Sorting Feast's first moments. Families reunited, first-years gawked at the enchanted ceiling, and prefects shouted themselves hoarse trying to maintain order.

A cluster of Slytherins near the far end of the hall drew the eye. They were laughing—low and sharp, like knives scraping against stone.

In the center of that group, a girl with jet-black curls that fell in cascades past her shoulders tilted her head back, laughing at something her companion had said. Her eyes, when they caught the candlelight, were a startling, icy blue.

She nudged her brother with a single elegant finger.