Chapter Text
The Hogwarts Express gleamed crimson under the grey London sky, steam billowing from its engine in thick clouds that obscured the hurried goodbyes of families on Platform 9 3/4. Chan stood alone near the barrier, his trunk at his feet, it was secondhand, passed down from Nana when she had noticed him carrying his belongings in a worn backpack last year. The leather was cracked and the locks did not quite catch anymore, but it was still nicer than anything his parents would have bought him.
He watched the other students embrace their families, mothers smoothing down robes and fathers clapping sons on shoulders. A young girl, probably a first year, clung to her mother’s waist while her father levitated her trunk onto the train with a casual flick of his wand. Chan’s fingers twitched toward his own wand, again a hand-me-down from an older Slytherin who had kindly given it to him since her parents bought her a new one, tucked safely in his jacket pocket. He had practiced that spell a hundred times over the summer in the precious night hours when his parents were fast asleep, but the levitation charm still felt clumsy. Magic for him was not the effortless extension of will it seemed to be for everyone else. It was constant, exhausting work.
“All aboard!” the conductor called, his voice magically amplified to carry over the chaos of the platform.
Chan grabbed his trunk, the muggle way, with both hands, and hauled it onto the train. The handle bit into his palms as he dragged it down the narrow corridor, peering into compartment after compartment. Groups of students had already claimed their spaces, laughing and sharing sweets, catching up after the long summer. No one looked up as he passed, not that he was expecting it.
He found an empty compartment near the back of the train and wrestled his trunk onto the overhead rack. The effort made his ribs ache, a lingering soreness from where his father had shoved him into the kitchen counter two weeks ago for apparently not cleaning the room properly even Chan had thought it was spotless. Magic, his father had spat, as if the word itself was poison. Filling your head with nonsense. Making you think you’re special.
Chan slumped into the seat by the window and drew his knees up, making himself small. The platform outside was emptying now, the final goodbyes exchanged. He caught sight of a family, a boy about his age with his parents, both of them beaming with pride as they waved. The boy waved back enthusiastically, his Hufflepuff scarf bright yellow even in the dim light.
Chan turned away and stared at his own reflection in the window glass. Hollow-cheeked, dark circles under his eyes, the fading yellow-green of an old bruise just visible along his jawline if he looked closely. He had gotten good at glamour charms over the summer, but they took concentration to maintain and right now he was too tired. It is not as though anyone would look at him closely enough to care either.
The train lurched into motion, and Chan closed his eyes as London fell away, replaced by the rolling countryside. He should have felt relief, another eight months away from home, away from his parents’ casual cruelty and his younger brother’s spoiled attitude. But all he felt was the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.
He is all alone. The other Slytherins would not be on the train. They never were. Ren had mentioned it when they had parted ways before the summer, how his family always apparated directly to Hogsmeade or traveled by portkey, arriving just in time for the feast. “Much more convenient than that dreadfully long train ride,” he had said, not in an unkindly way but just stating a fact. Nayoung traveled with her family by private carriage drawn by Abraxans. Nana’s family had a personal connection to the Floo Network that deposited them directly in the Hog’s Head.
Old families, old money, old magic. Everything Chan is not.
The compartment door slid open, jolting him from his thoughts. Two Gryffindor boys, third or fourth years by the looks of them, stood in the doorway. One of them held a Chocolate Frog card, examining it with exaggerated interest, in an extremely artificial way. The other’s eyes landed on Chan’s robes, on the green and silver trim he had to sewn back on himself after it had been torn off last year.
“Oh,” the first boy said, his smile sharpening into something cruel. “It’s a snake.”
Chan said nothing, just pulled his knees closer to his chest.
“Didn’t know they let your kind on the train,” the second boy added. “Thought you’d slither your way there through the dungeons.”
“I’m not bothering anyone,” Chan said quietly, hating how small his voice sounded.
“Just your existence bothers people,” the first boy said. He flicked his wand—showing off, really—and Chan’s trunk tumbled from the overhead rack, crashing to the floor. The old locks gave way, and his belongings spilled across the compartment. Robes, textbooks, the bag of quills Ren had given him. A photograph of the night sky he had cut from an old magazine, the only decoration he had allowed himself.
“Oops,” the boy said, not sounding sorry at all. “Guess snakes can’t even pack properly. What can you expect?”
They left, their laughter echoing down the corridor. Chan waited until their voices faded completely before he moved, kneeling to gather his scattered belongings. His hands shook as he folded his robes, as he stacked his textbooks—Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, Advanced Star Charts with extensive notes in the margins from whatever Slytherin had owned it before him.
The photograph had landed face-down. When Chan picked it up, he saw the glass had cracked, a spiderweb fracture across the constellations.
He repaired it with a whispered “Reparo,” watching the glass knit itself back together. Small victories, he was getting better at these basic spells, at least.
The Sorting Ceremony always felt longer than it actually was. Chan stood at the Slytherin table, although the same size as the other three, not even halfway full, and watched the first years file into the Great Hall. Their faces were pale with nervousness, eyes wide as they took in the floating candles and the enchanted ceiling that reflected the darkening sky outside. Chan remembered that feeling.
Last year, he had not known what was happening. The letter had arrived on his fifteenth birthday, delivered by owl, which had caused such chaos in his ordinary suburban home that his mother had called animal control. By the time a representative from the Ministry arrived to explain, his father had already decided that Chan was lying, that this was some elaborate prank, that magic did not exist and Chan was just trying to cause trouble like always, like the freak they called him.
The Ministry representative, a stern woman named Ardley, had been patient but firm. Chan was a wizard, whether his parents liked it or not. He would attend Hogwarts. It was his right. His parents had signed the papers in front of her because they had to, but they had refused to take him to Diagon Alley, refused to buy his supplies.
Chan had arrived at King’s Cross with nothing but the clothes on his back and a measly backpack of muggle belongings and a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, this new world would be different. That maybe he could belong somewhere.
He had barely understood what was happening when Ardley, apparently the Deputy Headmistress, though he had not known that then, had pulled him aside before the Sorting Ceremony and pressed a bag into his hands. “Your uniform,” she had said briskly. “Every student must have at least that. Though I must say, Mr. Lee, it is quite irregular that you didn’t read your welcome letter thoroughly enough to prepare—”
“I read it,” Chan had said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I read it, but—”
But what? But his parents had torn it up? But they had forbidden him from speaking about magic in their house? But he was a freak, an embarrassment, something to be hidden away?
Ardley had looked at him for a long moment, something shifting in her expression, but then another student had needed her attention, and the moment had passed. She had sent him to change, and he had barely managed to figure out how to put on the robes before being rushed into the Great Hall with the other first years.
The Sorting Hat had barely touched his head before it spoke. “Difficult,” it had murmured, its voice for Chan alone. “Very difficult. Courage, yes, I see courage here. More than you know. But also ambition. A desperate need to prove yourself, to survive. Cunningness born of necessity. Yes, yes… SLYTHERIN!”
The word had rung through the Great Hall.
Silence.
Complete, suffocating silence from three of the four tables. Even the staff table had seemed to pause, professors exchanging glances. But from the small table in the corner, draped in green and silver, came a roar of approval, not even forty students on their feet, cheering, clapping, welcoming him.
Chan had walked to the Slytherin table in a daze, hardly hearing the next name called. A sixth year, Nana, she introduced herself, had made room for him, and Nayoung, across the table, had smiled at him with something that might have been approval.
“Welcome,” Ren had said simply, and that had been that.
That night, Chan had learned just how few Slytherins there were. In all of Hogwarts, nearly eight hundred students, only forty wore green and silver including him. Only forty had been willing to face the stigma, the prejudice, the way the rest of the school looked at them like they were Dark wizards waiting to come to fruition.
The post-war revelation that students could choose their houses, that the Sorting Hat would take their choice into account, had gutted Slytherin. Why would anyone choose to be hated? Why would anyone choose to be associated with Voldemort?
Only those who had no choice came to Slytherin now. Those whose families had been Slytherin for generations, pure-bloods with a family pride to uphold.
And, for some reason, Chan. The muggleborn who the Hat had decided belonged with the snakes.
“Callahan, Sarah!” Professor Ardley called out in the present, and Chan watched as a tiny girl with braided red hair approached the stool. The Hat deliberated for nearly a minute before calling out “RAVENCLAW!” The blue and bronze table erupted in applause.
Three more students left.
“Okoye, Amara!” A moment’s pause. “GRYFFINDOR!”
“Peterson, Daniel!” Longer this time. “RAVENCLAW!”
“Sullivan, Thomas!” Almost immediately: “HUFFLEPUFF!”
No Slytherins. At least Chan’s year had one: himself. The house was dying, and everyone knew it.
When the last first year, a nervous boy who practically ran to the Hufflepuff table after being Sorted, took his seat, Ardley removed the Hat and stool. Headmistress McGonagall stood, her dark robes sweeping the floor as she spread her arms in welcome.
“Welcome,” she said, her voice warm despite the formality, “to another year at Hogwarts.”
Chan sat down, trying to ignore the way students at the other tables kept glancing over the Slytherins, whispering. Trying to ignore the weight of being seen.
Nana, at the far end of the table, caught his eye and nodded. The gesture was small, but Chan felt something loosen in his chest. At least here, at this table, he was not completely alone.
Even if he was the only one like him.
Chan learned within the first week that second year would be no easier than first.
Potions class was on a Tuesday morning, double period in the dungeons with the Hufflepuffs. Professor Wexler, a thin man with a permanent sneer, made no secret of his disdain for Slytherins in general and Chan in particular.
“Mr. Lee,” Wexler said, circling Chan’s cauldron like a vulture. “Tell me, what is the third step in brewing a Cure for Boils?”
Chan’s mind went blank. He had read the chapter last night, had even practiced the wand movements, but under Wexler’s sharp gaze, everything fled. “Add the… the porcupine quills?”
“After removing the cauldron from the flame, Mr. Lee. A fact that any properly prepared student would know. Ten points from Slytherin.” Wexler moved on without waiting for a response, leaving Chan staring at his notes where the instruction was clearly written.
He had known. He had just panicked.
At the Hufflepuff table beside him, a boy snickered. “Can’t even do basic potions,” he muttered, just loud enough for Chan to hear. “Typical mudblood.”
Chan’s hand tightened on his wand, but he forced himself to breathe, to focus on his potion. Adding the quills at the wrong time could cause an explosion. He needed to concentrate.
The rest of the class passed in tense silence. Chan managed to complete his potion, it was the wrong color, more orange than blue, but at least it did not explode, and bottled it with shaking hands. As students filed out, Wexler called him back.
“Mr. Lee, a word.”
Chan approached the desk, trying to ignore the weight of eyes on his back as the last Hufflepuffs left.
“You’re falling behind,” Wexler said, not looking up from the papers he was grading. “Your work is consistently subpar. If you cannot manage second-year material, perhaps you should consider whether you truly belong at this school.”
“I’m trying—”
“Trying isn’t enough. Magic requires natural aptitude, Mr. Lee. Not everyone has it.” Now Wexler did look up, his pale eyes cold. “Some of us are simply born to it. Others… well. The Sorting Hat makes mistakes occasionally.”
Chan left the classroom with his throat tight and his eyes burning. He did not cry, he had learned years ago that crying just made things worse, but the humiliation sat hot and heavy in his chest.
History of Magic was no better. Professor Binns, the ghost who had taught the class for over a century, droned through a lecture on Goblin Rebellions while most of the class dozed off. Chan tried to take notes, but his second-hand quill kept sputtering, leaving ink blots across his parchment. When he raised his hand to ask a question, he genuinely did not understand the significance of the Treaty of 1612, Binns simply floated through him to reach the blackboard, as if Chan did not exist at all.
A Ravenclaw girl in the front row turned around and rolled her eyes at her friend, making a talking gesture with her hand. They both giggled.
Lunch was the worst. The Great Hall was always loud, always crowded, and the Slytherin table was isolated in the side like a quarantine zone. Chan sat alone at the end, the older Slytherins tended to cluster together, and while they were not unkind to him, he did not quite fit with them either. They talked about their summers at family estates, about trips to France and Italy, about the latest racing brooms their parents had bought them.
Chan had spent his summer trying to stay out of his parents’ way and practicing spells under the covers of his bed after dark.
He was halfway through a sandwich when someone bumped into him from behind, hard enough that his pumpkin juice spilled across the table, soaking his notes from History of Magic.
“Oh, sorry,” a voice said, dripping with false sweetness. A Ravenclaw third-year girl, flanked by two friends. “Didn’t see you there.”
Chan grabbed his notes, trying to salvage them, but the ink was already running. A day of work, ruined.
“Maybe you should watch where you’re sitting,” one of the friends added. “Snakes should know to stay in their pit.”
They walked away laughing. Chan stared at his ruined parchment, then at the rest of the Hall. He gathered his things and left, his appetite gone.
Defense Against the Dark Arts should have been his favorite class. Professor Thorne was new this year, a stern but apparently fair woman who had fought in the war against Voldemort. She was an actual Auror, which made half the students idolize her and the other half terrified of her.
Chan just wanted to learn. Defense was practical. Something that might help him protect himself, might make him feel less powerless.
But even here, in a class about defending yourself, he could not escape.
They were practicing Shield Charms, working in pairs. “Pairing” at Hogwarts always meant the same thing, Slytherins partnered with each other, everyone else avoided them like they carried dragon pox. Since Chan was the only Slytherin second-year, he ended up with a Hufflepuff boy named Martin who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Protego,” Martin said confidently, and his shield shimmered into existence. When Chan sent a mild Stunning Spell his way, it bounced off harmlessly.
“Good. Your turn, Lee,” Professor Thorne called.
Chan raised his wand, focusing. He had practiced this, visualized the shield forming, strong and solid.
“Protego.”
The shield flickered into existence, weak, translucent, barely there, and when Martin’s Stunning Spell hit it, the shield shattered like glass. The spell caught Chan in the chest, and he stumbled backward, his limbs going rigid before the magic faded.
Laughter rippled through the class. Not from everyone, some students looked uncomfortable, but enough. More than enough.
“Pathetic,” someone muttered.
Professor Thorne’s wand flicked, and Chan felt the residual magic fade, his muscles relaxing. “Again,” she said, not unkindly but not gently either. “Focus, Lee. Intent is everything.”
They tried again. And again. By the fourth attempt, Chan’s shield lasted almost three full seconds before shattering. Progress, but not enough. Never enough.
“We’ll continue next lesson,” Professor Thorne finally said, dismissing the class. As everyone else filed out, chattering about their weekend plans, she called Chan back.
Not again, Chan thought, but he approached her desk anyway.
“You’re improving,” Thorne said, which surprised him. “But you’re thinking too hard. Magic isn’t just about knowledge, it’s about instinct. You need to trust yourself.”
“I’m trying,” Chan said, the words automatic now. Any more would be an excuse, and he knows from experience professors hate excuses.
Thorne studied him for a moment, her dark eyes sharp. “Are you being treated fairly here, Mr. Lee?”
The question caught him off-guard. He opened his mouth, closed it. What could he say? That students tormented him daily? That professors took points from him for breathing wrong? That he spent every night wondering if coming to Hogwarts had been a terrible mistake?
“Everyone’s… adjusting,” he finally said. “After the war. I understand.”
“Understanding isn’t the same as acceptance.” Thorne tapped her fingers on her desk. “If you experience any problems, you’re to report them. To me or to your Head of House.”
Professor Carrow, Chan thought. The Slytherin Head of House, a man who Chan had spoken to exactly twice and who had looked through him both times like he was furniture.
“Yes, Professor,” Chan said, knowing he never would.
Thorne dismissed him, but Chan felt her eyes on his back as he left.
That evening, after dinner, Chan was heading back to the Slytherin common room when it happened.
The corridor was empty, or so he thought. He was reviewing his Transfiguration homework in his head, so focused that he did not hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late.
Something hit him from behind, a Tripping Jinx, he thought, and he went down hard, his bag spilling across the floor. Before he could recover, hands grabbed him, shoving him against the wall.
Two Gryffindor boys from earlier. The ones from the train.
“Thought we made it clear,” the first one said. “Your kind isn’t wanted here.”
“I haven’t done anything—”
A fist hit his stomach, driving the air from his lungs. Chan doubled over, gasping.
“You exist,” the second boy hissed. “That’s enough. Slytherins are all the same, Dark wizards, Death Eaters. You’re probably just waiting for your chance.”
“I’m not—”
That made it worse. The second boy grabbed his collar, slamming him back against the wall. “A mudblood in Slytherin. That’s even more disgusting. You’re a traitor to your own kind.”
Another hit, this time to his ribs. Chan tried to reach for his wand, but one of them grabbed his wrist, twisting it until Chan cried out and dropped it. The wand clattered across the stone floor, rolling out of reach.
“Stop—please—”
“Go back where you came from,” the first boy said. “Go back to the muggles. Magic isn’t for people like you.”
They left him there, crumpled on the floor, his ribs screaming and his wrist throbbing. Chan lay still until he was sure they were gone, then slowly, painfully, pushed himself to his knees. His wand was three feet away. He crawled to it, his fingers closing around the familiar wood.
Around him, his scattered belongings seemed to mock him. Books, parchment, his Transfiguration homework, torn.
Chan gathered everything with shaking hands, stuffed it back into his bag. His ribs hurt with every breath, but he did not think anything was broken. Just bruised. He could work with bruised.
The common room was quiet when he finally reached it, most of the older students were in the library or their dormitories. Chan slipped past the few who were there, ignoring their curious glances, and made it to his room.
Empty. Last year, they took pity on him and placed him with the seventh years. It was an awkward living experience but not painful at least. His roommates from last year had graduated, and with no new first years, he had the space to himself.
Small mercies.
Chan dropped his bag, pulled out his wand, and stared at his reflection in the small mirror above the dresser. A fresh bruise was already forming along his cheekbone. His lip was split. His robes were dirty from the corridor floor.
He should report this. That is what Professor Thorne had said. What anyone would say.
But who would believe him? Who would care?
He was a Slytherin. A muggleborn Slytherin. Nobody’s responsibility.
Chan whispered the words to a Healing Charm and felt the magic knit his split lip back together, dull the ache in his ribs. Not perfect, but good enough.
Good enough was all he ever was.
He laid down on his bed, still in his robes, and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere above him, in the towers and the upper floors, hundreds of students were laughing and studying and living. Making friends, making memories.
And down here, in the smallest house, Chan was alone. Like always.