The Sorting Hat slipped over Simon's head, and the Great Hall's chatter faded into a distant, irrelevant hum. Simons say as he always did—spine straight, shoulders set, hands folded neatly in his lap like he was waiting for orders.

Plenty of scars here, the Hat murmured, its voice dry as old parchment. You learned how to survive before you ever learned how to belong. Brave, but not reckless. You step forward when you must, not when you're seen. A wash of red pressed at the edge of the thought, loud and hot, full of shouting courage and open defiance. Gryffindor. Simon turned away from it instinctively. Noise had never kept him alive, and attention had never been kind. Ah, the Hat said softly. Ambition, then. Not for glory—but for survival. For control. For choosing when and how you stand your ground.

"Slytherin," the Hat declared.

The word cracked through the hall, and applause erupted from the green-and-silver table, flashes of color catching in Simon's peripheral vision. He rose smoothly, adjusted his robes with practiced care, and walked towards his new seat without looking left or right. Eyes followed him, but he ignored them. Hogwarts wasn't home—but it'll do.

Years had passed since then. The castle's rhythms had become familiar: staircases shifting underfoot, portraits whispering secrets, lessons blurring together in a haze of parchment and wandlight. Simon learned how things work here. He didn't enjoy it—he endured it. He'd simply been hanging on until he could leave and carve out a life that solely belonged to him.

Some of his peers tried to talk to him, but he turned them away every time. Connections meant expectations, expectations meant leverage—and Simon had learned that leverage was just another word for weakness.