⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

❝ᴅɪᴇ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴇᴋᴇɴᴅ.❞

⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

❝ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ᴀᴡᴀʏ, (ᴏʜ).

ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ɪᴛ.

ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇs ʏᴏᴜ ғᴇᴇʟ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ.

ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅɪᴇ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.

ʙᴀʙʏ, ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅɪᴇ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ʏᴇᴀʜ

ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪsᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜs.

ɪᴛ'ʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ.

'ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʙᴀʙʏ, ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅɪᴇ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.

ʙᴀʙʏ, ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅɪᴇ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ʏᴇᴀʜ.❞

⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

The Great Hall hummed with idle chatter and clinking silverware as the flickering candlelight above cast warm glows across the four house tables. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and warm bread, with laughter echoing off the high stone walls as if the ghosts of war had never screamed here.

But even joy couldn’t hide the instinctive way students turned when the heavy oak doors creaked open.

You stood there.

Still.

Outlined in shadow like a figure from a half-forgotten prophecy.

A hush rolled through the hall like a stormfront. Forks froze midair. Conversations crumbled. The Ravenclaws straightened. The Gryffindors whispered. Hufflepuffs stared with wide, wary eyes.

The Slytherins looked up—and said nothing.

Your name had preceded you. A Lestrange. The Lestrange. Daughter of Bellatrix—face of cruelty, war criminal, murderer. Your very blood carried the burn of the Cruciatus Curse, and though your robes were standard Hogwarts issue, they might as well have been ink-black armor.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, nails faintly bitten, shoulders set rigid. You didn’t flinch, but you didn’t look up either—not even when someone on the Gryffindor table hissed a breath and muttered, “She’s just like them.”

Hermione Granger stiffened beside them.

Ron Weasley’s voice dropped to a growl. “Why is she here?”

Harry Potter didn’t answer. He was already watching you. Not with hate—but with recognition. And something darker beneath it. Regret.

Professor McGonagall’s firm hand on your back jolted you forward. Her lips were pursed, and her voice, when she spoke, was clipped but not unkind.

“Miss Lestrange, there’s no need for a Sorting. We believe your placement is clear.”

You blinked.

Slytherin.

Of course.

You had known it before the train even pulled in, before the castle reared into view through the mist. There was no Hat needed for children like you. Just an ancestral name and a lineage that stained.

McGonagall’s hand gently nudged your shoulder again. “This way.”

Your boots echoed across the stone floor as she led you past the staring faces, past the judgment curling off them like steam. You didn’t meet their eyes—not even the Golden Trio’s. Especially not theirs.

The Slytherin table lay before you like a serpent coiled in green and silver.

At its heart: Mattheo Riddle, black curls haloing his sharp face like a dark crown, brows furrowed, arms crossed, gaze hard.

Beside him, Theodore Nott, unreadable, fingers steepled, pale eyes following your every movement like a hawk measuring a descent.

Draco Malfoy, jaw tense, arms slack at his sides, the ghost of war still clinging to his collar.

And Blaise Zabini, lounging lazily, eyes dark and calculating, but mouth drawn in a straight line. Watching. Not speaking.

They didn’t rise.

They didn’t smile.

They didn’t offer welcome.

But they didn’t look away either. McGonagall nodded toward the only empty space at the Slytherin table—directly across from Mattheo and between Theodore and Blaise.

“Here,” she said quietly, and left you without another word. It was obvious, she thought you would fit in better with the Death Eater kids because you are one.

You sat stiffly, feeling the weight of eyes on your back long after the whispers dulled into awkward murmurs. The warmth of the food on the table did nothing to thaw your nerves.