Chapter Text
The Great Hall was ancient. It felt like it had seen everything—every emotion, every triumph, every failure, each one etched into the stone of its walls, hidden in the flickering shadows of the towering candles. Harry stood at the threshold, a feeling of being small settling in his chest, pressing down on him like the weight of something unspoken, something impossible to put into words. The ceiling above shimmered, reflecting the stars as though they, too, were trapped beneath glass, pinned to the world by something they couldn’t escape. The voices around him murmured, low and soft, blending into the hum of a world that had nothing to do with him.
The Sorting Hat rested on the stool, waiting, as it always did, for the next life to decide. Its frayed edges whispered secrets no one cared to hear. Harry’s fingers tightened around the edge of his too-large robe, the fabric hanging on him like a shroud, too loose, too heavy. He stood there—alone, though not really alone. Their eyes were on him, like the cold fingers of an unseen hand. Watching. Expecting. Knowing nothing, but still asking for everything.
The Hat beckoned, its voice low, threading through his mind, sharp and quick, as if it already knew him. Harry's stomach churned, something deep inside recoiling from the thought of it all—the weight, the unknown, the eyes that could look through him and tear at what was hidden.
"Ah, yes. A curious one. Very curious."
The words lingered like smoke, curling through his thoughts. His fingers flexed, nails pressing into the raw skin of his palms. He winced, the sudden shock of pain coming as quickly as it went—like a deep breath he wasn’t allowed to take. His ribs, his side, they flared with the subtle throb of old bruises, barely healing but never forgotten. The Hat’s voice cut through it all, dissecting, slicing open parts of him that had been buried in dark corners of his mind.
"So much to hide... so much to prove. You're clever, yes. You’ve learned to keep your thoughts quiet, to keep your heart buried. But that's not all. Not even close. You could be something else. Something dangerous."
His chest tightened. His breath stilled for a moment, the air thick in his lungs, as if even his breath betrayed him. Something about the Hat’s words… It felt too close, too familiar, like it could see him through to the places he didn’t dare to visit, the ones he kept hidden from the world. He had long learned how to disappear into the background, how to make himself invisible. How to keep himself small, quiet, unnoticed.
"A survivor. You’ve had to be. But can you survive here?"
Harry’s head spun. He wanted to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but under this weight.
"Slytherin."
The Hat’s voice was final, ringing in his ears like a verdict, like a sentence he had no choice but to accept. There was no hesitation, no pause—just that single, unavoidable word. It was too much. He hadn’t expected it to happen like this, so quickly, so decisively. But the world had always been fast. Always choosing for him.
He could feel the eyes then, sharp and searching, like knives pressed against his skin. They weren’t just watching him—they were waiting for him to slip. Waiting for him to break. And he wasn’t sure if he could bear it.
His legs moved, stiff, reluctant. The floor felt cold beneath his feet, the stones seeming to press into him with every step. He wasn’t sure what it was—fear or relief, the two of them tangled together like vines—but he couldn’t bring himself to look up. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them. Not yet.
The Slytherin table was there, bathed in green and silver, the colors of ambition and secrecy. Draco Malfoy, a face too pale and too sharp for a boy, sat beside the space meant for Harry. There was nothing particularly welcoming in the way Draco looked at him, but there was something… different. Something Harry couldn’t quite place.
Draco’s lips barely moved as he offered a greeting, soft and almost polite, his gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary.
"Malfoy," he said, his voice low. "You’ll fit in here."
The words weren’t grand, weren’t the things Harry had expected to hear from someone like Draco. They were simple. Quiet. Almost—almost—understanding.
Harry didn’t know how to respond. His mouth felt dry. He nodded. That was all. That was enough. And for a moment, that was enough.
The feast began, the tables laden with food that smelled almost too good, a rich, heady scent that made Harry’s stomach churn in hunger, in longing. His body wanted to devour it, to fill the hollow space inside him, the place where hunger was always more than just food. But he kept his gaze on the plate in front of him, only eating in small bites, careful not to take too much, as though there would be someone watching, waiting for him to do something wrong. He glanced up only when the laughter grew louder, when the chatter spilled over and mixed with the clinking of silverware.
Draco was talking about Quidditch, as he always did, his voice smooth and confident, but Harry’s mind wandered, following the flicker of the candle flames, the way they twisted in the air, like ghosts struggling to escape. There was too much happening—too much noise, too much life—but none of it touched him. It didn’t reach him. He was still too far from it all. He still didn’t know how to be here.
In the midst of it, a shadow loomed over him. Snape. The Potions Master’s gaze was sharp, cutting, like a knife that sliced through everything else. His eyes didn’t just look at Harry. They looked into him. They pierced him, finding places Harry didn’t know were visible. It was unsettling in the way nothing ever had been. Snape saw something—something Harry hadn’t let anyone see. His eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line as he studied him from across the hall.
Harry didn’t know why, but he felt the shift in the air, the change, like something had been set in motion with that single look. It was too heavy to name. Too much to hold.
And when Snape looked away, when his attention shifted, it didn’t feel like a release. It felt like the opposite. As though the brief moment of focus had left something lingering, something waiting.
But Harry didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He didn’t have the courage to face it yet.
The feast wore on, but Harry didn’t really feel a part of it. The noise, the laughter, the chatter—it all felt distant, muffled, like it was happening to someone else. The weight of the evening sat heavy on him, pressing him into the shadows of the room, where he didn’t belong, but had no choice but to be.
And through it all, Harry felt the ache—the quiet, persistent ache—of something breaking. Of something that had always been there, always hidden, always bruised. It was still with him. It would always be with him.
But for now, for the first time in his life, Harry allowed himself to hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a place for him here.
Even if he didn’t yet know how to fit into it.
Even if he wasn’t sure he ever would.