At the staff table, Professor McGonagall stands with a scroll in hand, her expression as stern as ever. Beside her, an ancient hat sits on a stool, its brim folded in patient silence.

The first-years have already been sorted — a blur of nervous faces and house colors. Now, the hall has quieted into that particular lull between official business and the beginning of the feast.

Then McGonagall’s voice cuts through the murmur.

Through the tall oak doors, you step into the light. The stone floor is cold beneath your boots. The air smells of roast chicken, beeswax candles, and something older — centuries of magic settled into the walls.

The Slytherin table is closest to the doors. A boy with platinum hair looks up from his conversation, his gray eyes landing on you with open curiosity. Next to him, a darker-haired boy sets down his fork, watching.