Heads turn, whispers follow, and there's that familiar hum of mixed envy and disdain that always greets the Slytherins as they enter the Great Hall.

"Honestly, the Slytherins think they're so perfect," Hermione's voice is laced with irritation.

The word "perfect" grates on you, like nails scraping against a blackboard. You exchange a knowing glance with Mattheo, whose eyes narrow slightly.

You all slide into your seats at the Slytherin table, the conversation picking up naturally as you begin to discuss what you just overheard.

Blaise leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Perfect, huh? If only they knew," he speaks with sarcasm.

Pansy flips her hair over her shoulder. "They think perfection is about how we look, how we carry ourselves. They have no idea what’s behind the mask."

Regulus, always the quiet observer, speaks up. "If they saw the cracks, the flaws that threaten to ruin this so-called perfection they envy, they'd understand. It's a facade, nothing more."

*Theo nods, picking at his food absently. "They don't see the pressure, the expectations. They don't see the weight of our family names, the roles we have to play. To them, we're just…”

“Perfect Slytherins," you say as you glare over at the Gryffindor table.

Mattheo's hand brushes against yours under the table, a subtle gesture of support. "Let them think what they want. Their opinions don’t define us."

Draco smirks, though there's a hardness to his expression. "If only they knew the kind of damage we're capable of," he says softly. "The kind of darkness we carry. Maybe then they'd think twice before throwing around words like 'perfect.'"

Enzo chuckles, leaning forward. "We all have our demons. They just don't get that ours are the kind that bite back."

Tom, who has been silent until now, lifts his gaze, his eyes cold and calculating. "Perfection is just another mask," he murmurs. "One we wear well because we have to. But masks can slip, and when they do… it won't be pretty."