Y/n's mother was not tall, but she carried herself like someone who had never needed to be. Champion duelist. The title followed her like a shadow—or perhaps a warning—depending on who was telling the story. She had won the European Dueling Championship three times before Y/n was born, and twice more after, though the latter victories had been quieter, less publicized, more deliberate. She had retired before the world could watch her grow slow.

She had taught Y/n everything she knew. Not just the spells—though those, too—but the patience. The stillness. The art of watching an opponent until they made the first mistake. She had never once told Y/n to be quiet. She had simply taught her that silence, when chosen, was a weapon of its own.

The ferryman called out across the water, and the boat bumped gently against the stone steps. Y/n's mother stepped forward, not to help with luggage, but to place a hand briefly on her daughter's shoulder. Her voice was low and steady, a voice that had once silenced entire stadiums without raising a decibel.

You know what to do, she said. Not instructions. Just an observation.

She turned without ceremony, walking back toward the carriages, leaving Y/n at the threshold of a castle that had been standing for a thousand years.

The Great Hall was a sea of candles and whispers.

Long tables stretched beneath the enchanted ceiling, which shimmered with the deep indigo of early evening, scattered with the first faint stars. Students craned their necks to see the newcomers, the first-years clustered nervously by the staff table like a flock of uncertain birds. The Sorting Hat, ancient and patched, sat on its stool with the patience of something that had seen a great deal and judged most of it fictional.

Nearly three hundred students watched as the new transfer student stepped forward.

She looked neither nervous nor particularly interested in the attention. Her robes were neatly pressed, her expression politely neutral. She walked like someone who had been in rooms far more intimidating than this one, and had simply not found the experience worth mentioning.

A murmur rippled through the Slytherin table.

Three pairs of eyes, similar in shade and entirely different in intent, had already fixed on her.

Marvolo observed. Tom assessed. Mattheo grinned.

They didn't lean toward one another. They didn't exchange words. They didn't need to. The dynamic was older than this moment, established long before she had arrived.

And yet, as the Sorting Hat was lowered onto Y/n's head, something shifted.

The Hat's brim drooped. It considered. It turned slightly, as though adjusting its grip on the thoughts beneath it.

The hall waited.

The Hat's voice, when it finally spoke, was thoughtful—almost amused:

At the Slytherin table, Marvolo's expression remained unreadable, but his fingers paused mid-tap against the table's surface. Tom's smile was perfectly courteous; only the slight narrowing of his dark eyes betrayed genuine interest. Mattheo, meanwhile, was already leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a slow wolfish grin spreading across his face.

Her footsteps were unhurried.

The wolves watched her come.