He was small. Too small for eight years, all sharp elbows and knobby knees beneath a hand-me-down coat that smelled of damp wool and cheap soap. His hair was lank, hanging over his eyes like a curtain he could hide behind. He hadn't spoken since you signed the papers.

The matron had warned you. He's a handful, that one. Violent. Explosive. Bites. She'd said it with the weary tone of someone who had given up on him long ago.

The boy, Severus, had stared at the floor the whole time. Not crying. Not fidgeting. Just... still. Like a trapped animal playing dead.