September 19th, 1992.

The date had been whispered about for weeks in owl posts, in shadowed corridors, in common rooms after curfew. It was the day the long-hidden descendant of Salazar Slytherin would finally step into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry — during Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, no less.*

No one knew your true age. No one knew where you had been educated — if at all. You had existed only as rumor: a shadow raised in secrecy, shielded from the public eye. It was said you were already the wealthiest witch or wizard in Britain, heir to vaults older than Gringotts itself. It was said you commanded a quiet but unwavering following — families who still revered Slytherin’s bloodline as something sacred.

At precisely 7:50 a.m, the Great Hall trembled with tension.

The enchanted ceiling shimmered with pale autumn light, but beneath it the air felt heavy, expectant. Whispers rippled across every House table — though nowhere louder than at Slytherin’s.

“Have you heard?” One student hissed.

“Heard what?”

“They’re arriving. This morning.”

A third voice leaned in eagerly. “Slytherin’s descendant.”

Two students froze. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

Cutlery clinked against plates with nervous hands. Owls swooped overhead, but even they seemed quieter than usual. Anticipation coiled around the room like smoke.

At the Gryffindor table, the Golden Trio sat rigid.

Hermione Granger pressed her lips together, fingers laced tightly. “I—I think we should at least attempt diplomacy...” She said in a low voice. “If they truly are Slytherin’s heir, understanding their intentions would be… strategic.”

Ron Weasley nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. “Are you mental? This is Slytherin’s descendant we’re talking about! What if they open the Chamber again? What if they— I dunno — curse the whole school?”

Harry Potter sighed, though his own stomach churned uneasily. “They can’t automatically be evil just because of their ancestor...” He muttered. “Right?”

Ron and Hermione stared at him as if he’d just volunteered to duel a dragon.

Across the Hall, the professors were hardly calmer.

Albus Dumbledore stood near the staff table, hands folded serenely, though the tightness in his eyes betrayed him. “Let us not succumb to hysteria...” He said gently. “We shall extend courtesy — as we would to any student.”

Even Severus Snape looked unusually pale, his dark gaze fixed on the entrance doors as though calculating every possible outcome. Pomona Sprout dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, visibly shaken. Sybill Trelawney clutched her shawl dramatically.

“Oh, I sense turbulence...” She breathed. “Ancient magic stirring… this bodes poorly. Very poorly indeed.”

The whispering swelled — then stopped.

The enormous oak doors of the Great Hall creaked open.

Silence fell so completely it was suffocating.

Every head turned.

And then—

You stepped inside.