The Slytherin table felt smaller than the one in the Great Hall of her childhood. Draconia sat upright, her back a straight line against the hard wood of the bench, while the enchanted candles overhead cast a flickering, gold light over the silver platters. She watched the way the green-tinted light hit the surface of the pumpkin juice, making the liquid look thick and heavy. Pansy sat to her right, leaning in close to whisper about a Hufflepuff girl who had tripped near the entrance. Draconia listened to the cadence of the gossip, but her mind stayed on the way the hall had reacted to the arrival of Harry Potter. The silence of the school had been replaced by a roar of recognition, a collective gasp that had vibrated through the floorboards.
"He looks much more disheveled than the Prophet suggested," Pansy said, her voice cutting through the din of the hall. She plucked a small, green grape from a bowl and ate it with a deliberate, slow motion. "I thought he might look more... formidable. He looks like he has been living in a cupboard."
Draconia tilted her head, keeping her expression neutral as she watched the Gryffindor table. "Formidability is not a requirement for notoriety, Pansy."
"He is a magnet for attention, is that not the point?" Pansy asked, her eyes darting toward the center of the room. "Everyone is staring at him as if he is a museum exhibit."
"They are staring because they are bored," Draconia replied, picking up her silver fork to move a piece of toast. "He is a distraction from the actual hierarchy of the school."
Pansy grinned, a sharp, clever expression that reached her eyes. "You always did have a way of making things sound so dreadfully important. Are you going to pretend you didn't look at him when he walked in?"
Draconia felt a small prick of heat in her cheeks, but she did not let her posture slip. "Looking is not the same as seeing."
"I saw you," Pansy whispered, her voice dropping an octave to ensure the surrounding students did not overhear. "You looked like you wanted to demand an explanation for his existence."
The conversation shifted as a group of older Slytherins moved past, their heavy silk robes brushing against the edge of the table. Draconia focused on the texture of her napkin, feeling the way the fabric felt beneath her fingers. The politics of the table were already in motion, a subtle dance of eye contact and pointed comments. She saw the way the older boys leaned toward the girls who had the most influential brothers. It was a game of positioning, a way to signal where one belonged before the first week had even concluded.
The next morning arrived with a pale, grey light that seeped through the high windows of the Slytherin common room. Draconia sat in the breakfast nook, her fingers curled around a warm cup of tea. The steam rose in a thin, straight line before dissipating into the air. The hall was quieter than the night before, filled with the clinking of cutlery and the low murmur of students waking to the reality of the term. Her mother had sent a letter via owl, and it sat on the table before her, the parchment crisp and expensive.
"You are staring at it as if it might bite you," a voice said from across the table.
Draconia looked up to see a boy named Selwyn, a tall, lean-faced boy who had spent most of the previous night trying to catch her eye. He was a sensible choice for a companion, possessing a pedigree that matched her own without being quite as intimidating.
"It is a letter from my father," Draconia said, her voice calm. "It is rarely a pleasant surprise."
"Is he checking up on your progress?" Selwyn asked, leaning back in his seat.
"He is checking on my conduct," Draconia corrected, her thumb tracing the edge of the envelope. "There is a distinction."
"A distinction that usually involves a great deal of pressure," Selwyn remarked, his tone sympathetic yet cautious.
Draconia did not answer, instead breaking the seal of the wax with a practiced, elegant motion. The ink was dark and the handwriting was precise, every letter a testament to Lucius's rigid discipline. She read the lines carefully, her eyes scanning the words that had been chosen with a heavy sense of expectation. The letter was short, a command wrapped in a suggestion, intended to guide her hand in the social circles of the school.
"What does it say?" Pansy asked, sliding into the seat beside her. Pansy had been watching her since she sat down, her curiosity as sharp as a blade.
Draconia did not reveal the contents immediately, letting the silence stretch for a few seconds. She took a sip of her tea, the warmth spreading through her chest, before she finally spoke.
"It is a reminder," Draconia said, her voice steady.
"A reminder of what?" Pansy pressed, her eyes dancing with a need to know the family secrets.
"That one must be careful with one's associations," Draconia said, her gaze flickering toward the middle of the hall. "He wants me to make the right friends."
"The right friends are the ones who can do something for you," Pansy said, her tone becoming businesslike. "Is he talking about the Selwyn boy, or is he talking about the girl you gave the password to?"
Draconia felt a sudden, sharp tension in her neck. She thought of the half-blood girl, the one who had seemed so vastly different from the polished surfaces of her own life. The girl had asked for a way to navigate the corridors, and Draconia had given her a way in, a secret piece of information that felt like a betrayal of her own training.
"He is always talking about what is right," Draconia said, her voice dropping a notch.
"But which one is he talking about now?" Pansy asked, leaning closer so their shoulders almost touched.
Draconia looked down at her empty cup, the porcelain cool against her skin. The letter was a command that felt both specific and maddeningly vague. The instruction was a weight she had to carry through the halls, a standard of excellence that felt increasingly difficult to maintain. She wondered if the letter was a warning against the chaos of the Gryffindors, or a directive to embrace the people who actually possessed something to offer.
"He expects me to be observant," Draconia said, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Observant of what?" Pansy asked, her voice filled with a playful impatience.
"Of the people who actually matter," Draconia replied, the words feeling heavy in her mouth.
The table erupted into a sudden burst of laughter as a joke was made by a sixth-year, breaking the tension of their conversation. Draconia watched the way the light hit the silver spoons, the way the students moved with a practiced ease that she was still trying to master. The letter was a fixed point in a changing landscape, a set of instructions that felt both old and entirely new. She knew she had to decide which path to take, whether to follow the rules of the house or to find something of her own.
"The letter says *make the right friends*, and she can't tell whether it means the Selwyn boy or the half-blood she gave a password to."