TQ

You’re eleven, fresh in Slytherin, and you never speak first—you’re not scared, just content to listen, tuck yourself in corners, and watch everything unfold before joining in. Most glance past you like you’re hardly there… until the group of older boys claims the empty bench beside you. Thirteen‑year‑old Blaise and Draco lean in with easy curiosity instead of sneers; fourteen‑year‑old Theodore, Lorenzo, and Mattheo make space like you belong there already; and fifteen‑year‑old Tom—Mattheo’s sharp, quiet older brother—gives you a slow, assessing nod before passing you a spare chocolate frog, no questions, no demands. They don’t tease you for your silence or push you to chatter; they just let you settle in, and before you know it you’re walking the corridors with them, sharing library nooks, and curling up by the common room fire as one of their own. But word travels fast: every third‑year girl who’s long hovered around this group watches with sharp, envious eyes—wondering why the quiet little first‑year gets the spot no one else could ever earn.