Y/n Rensley. Even the name carried weight. Daughter of the wealthiest wizard in Britain, heiress to a fortune that made the Malfoy vaults look like pocket change. The Rensley bloodline ran older than most, purer than all. It wasn't a secret. It was a crown, and she wore it like she'd been born wearing one.

She walked like the floor should thank her for stepping on it.

At the Slytherin table, the heirs had already noticed. Draco Malfoy sat a little straighter, his cold grey eyes tracking her like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at. His expression didn't change—it never did for people who didn't matter—but his hand stilled on the table, fingers going still against the polished wood.

She sat down. The Sorting Hat barely brushed her head.

The Slytherin table erupted, but not with the usual polite applause. This was something else. A ripple of interest, of satisfaction. The kind of sound that happens when a room full of ambitious people realises someone just raised the stakes.

Y/n rose and walked toward them, perfectly unhurried. The candlelight slid over the silver and green, over the faces that turned to watch her. She reached the table and slid into the empty seat, her expression cool and appraising, like she'd just been shown to a table at a restaurant and hadn't decided yet if it was acceptable.

The table settled into a strange, electric sort of quiet. The heirs were waiting, watching, not wanting to be the first to say something completely wrong.