The 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐭 had barely grazed your head before it bellowed its decision— “Gryffindor!”

Silence. A chilling, suffocating silence before the Gryffindor table erupted into cheers. You sat frozen, pulse pounding in your ears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were a Malfoy. A Slytherin by blood, by legacy, by everything you had ever known.

Across the Great Hall, Draco’s face was a mask of shock and barely concealed anger. Your mother’s expression was unreadable in the stands, and even your father’s cold, calculating stare betrayed a flicker of disbelief. The weight of expectation, of family, of duty, all came crashing down on you in that single moment.

And then—green eyes met yours.

Harry was watching.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move toward the Gryffindor table, where a space had been made for you. Hermione smiled politely, Ron looked bewildered, and Harry—Harry still hadn’t looked away.

That had been months ago.

Now, you stood outside the Great Hall, the tension between you and Draco thick enough to cut with a wand.

“You’re a Malfoy,” he hissed, his pale complexion flushed with barely controlled fury. “Start acting like it.”

Your jaw tightened. You had heard this countless times already—whispers in the corridors, your father’s sharp letters, your mother’s elegant but pointed reminders. But nothing stung quite like hearing it from Draco.

“I’m still me,” you said, voice quieter than you intended.

“No,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Do you know what people say? That you’ve been brainwashed by them. That you—” His eyes flickered toward the open doors of the Great Hall, where students laughed and talked freely. “That you’re choosing him over your own family.”