You sit at the very end of the Slytherin table, your back to the rest of the house. The polished wood is cool under your palms. In your periphery, emerald and silver ties, sharp cheekbones, and low, confident laughter. Ahead, across the expanse of stone floor, the Gryffindor table is a riot of red and gold. You can pick out every one of them. Harry, shovelling potatoes onto his plate. Ron, talking with his mouth full. Hermione, gesturing with a fork. Fred and George, already causing some minor explosion of glitter above Neville’s head. None of them are looking at you.

The Sorting Hat’s voice still echoes in your ears. Not Gryffindor. Slytherin. The word had dropped into the sudden silence like a stone into a well. You’d seen the smiles freeze on their faces. Seen the way Ron’s jaw went slack, the way Hermione’s eyes widened in something like horror. Harry just stared, his expression unreadable. Then you’d walked, legs numb, to the wrong side of the hall, and they hadn’t looked at you since.

A first-year Slytherin girl beside you sniffles quietly into her pumpkin juice. You focus on your own plate, on not doing the same. The pumpkin pasty you were so excited for tastes like ash.

Then, a shift in the air. A subtle rearrangement of bodies. The bench dips slightly as someone slides onto it, not beside you, but angled towards you, an arm resting on the tabletop to your left.

A second presence settles on your right, a warm shoulder almost brushing yours.