The Great Hall was alive with chatter and the clatter of cutlery as students settled in for the sorting ceremony. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the starry sky above, casting an ethereal glow over the long tables. At the Slytherin table, Gilda Harrow leaned back slightly, her pale green eyes scanning the room. Caliban sat proudly on her shoulder, his tail swishing as he surveyed the feast laid out before them.
She plucked a licorice wand from a nearby platter and held it out to him. "Here," she said, her voice soft but amused.
Caliban wrapped the treat in his clawed wing and began to devour it, letting out a satisfied rasping sound that drew chuckles from Blaise and Theodore.
"Is that really good for him?" Pansy asked, wrinkling her nose as she watched Caliban snatch another candy from Gilda's hand.
"Not nutritionally," Gilda replied, smirking. "His stomach acid is strong enough to dissolve bones. Sweets barely affect him. It's meat that really stirs him up."
As if understanding her words, Caliban hopped down onto the table, his sharp talons clicking against the wood. He darted toward a platter of roasted turkey and snatched a large drumstick, retreating to Gilda's side as he tore into it with feral efficiency.
The Slytherins laughed, Blaise shaking his head in disbelief. "Your owl's got better table manners than Pansy."
"Oh, shut up," Pansy snapped, though her lips twitched as if she might laugh.
The Sorting Hat ceremony began, and the hall fell silent as first-years lined up nervously near the staff table. Gilda was grateful for the distraction, the attention of the room finally shifting away from her.
She clapped politely as the new Slytherins were sorted, though her gaze kept flicking toward the staff table. Professors Snape and McGonagall were deep in conversation, their eyes darting toward her occasionally.
Snape's face was unreadable, his posture relaxed yet precise, but McGonagall's expression betrayed her unease. Her sharp gaze lingered on Gilda more than once, and her lips were pressed into a tight line.
Eleanor leaned closer. "They keep looking over here."
"I noticed," Gilda murmured, her voice steady but edged with tension.
Finally, Snape stood from his seat and made his way toward the Slytherin table. The room seemed to hold its breath as his black robes swept through the aisle. He stopped beside Gilda, his dark eyes briefly flicking to Caliban with thinly veiled disdain.
"Miss Harrow," Snape said, his voice low but commanding. "A word. Bring your... creature."
Caliban let out a low, guttural murmur and climbed into Gilda's hood, tucking himself behind her neck as if refusing to be left behind. Gilda rose gracefully, adjusting her robes as she followed Snape toward the staff table.
He led her to a quiet corner, just far enough from prying ears.
"As the representative of Slytherin House," Snape began, his tone clipped, "it falls upon me to oversee the presentation of the Champion's Robes, enchanted with our house colors and crest, and to formally bestow them upon you."
Gilda's stomach twisted, but she kept her face impassive.
Snape continued, his gaze steady but cold. "Due to the… nature of your victory, I do not anticipate applause. Nor should you."
His words landed like a hammer, but Gilda remained composed, nodding slightly.
"It is customary," Snape went on, "for the champion to give a speech upon receiving their robes. You will prepare yourself for this task. I suggest brevity."
"Yes, Professor," Gilda said evenly, though her pulse quickened.
Snape regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Return to your seat. And do try to avoid any further... disturbances."
"Yes, sir."
Gilda turned and made her way back to the Slytherin table, her steps measured and deliberate. Caliban shifted slightly in her hood, his presence oddly comforting despite the tension coiling in her chest.
When she sat down, Eleanor immediately leaned closer. "What was that about?"
"I have to give a speech," Gilda said flatly, reaching for her goblet of water.
Eleanor's eyes widened. She opened her mouth as if to say something but stopped herself. She knew Gilda well enough to know that sympathy would only grate on her right now.
Instead, Eleanor nodded. "You'll manage."
Gilda didn't respond, her pale green eyes fixed on the Sorting Hat as it continued its work. Her mind raced, the thought of speaking in front of the entire school making her palms sweat. She clenched her hands into fists beneath the table, her outward calm betraying none of her inner turmoil.
Across the table, Blaise caught her eye and raised an eyebrow. "Everything all right?"
"Perfect," Gilda said, her tone icy.
Blaise smirked but didn't push further. The others exchanged glances but kept quiet, sensing the storm brewing just beneath Gilda's surface.
As the last student was sorted and applause filled the hall, Gilda allowed herself a deep breath. The weight of the impending ceremony settled heavily on her shoulders, but she forced herself to sit tall, her scar catching the flickering candlelight.
The final first-year student was sorted into Ravenclaw, their new house's table churning with polite applause, but the energy in the Great Hall was thick with anticipation. The usual buzz of excitement was absent, replaced by hushed murmurs and darting glances toward the Slytherin table. Everyone knew what was coming.
Professor Snape rose from his seat at the staff table, his black robes sweeping as he approached with deliberate steps. His expression was calm, almost impassive, but his piercing gaze commanded silence. The whispers faded as every eye in the room turned to him.
He stopped at the Slytherin table, his dark eyes locking onto Gilda Harrow. She met his gaze without flinching, her pale green eyes steady despite the tension in the air.
"Miss Harrow," he said softly, though his tone allowed no room for hesitation. "Join me."
Gilda rose with measured grace, smoothing her robes as she stood. She glanced briefly at Eleanor, whose face flickered with worry and curiosity, but Gilda gave no sign of her own apprehension. Caliban stirred in her hood, his red eyes glinting as he shifted against her neck. Without a word, Gilda stepped into the aisle and followed Snape toward the staff table, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. The hall's heavy silence was broken only by the distant crackle of candle flames above.
Snape turned to face the assembled students, his imposing presence casting a long shadow over the hall. In his hands, he held the deep red Harbinger Champion's Robe, its rich fabric shimmering faintly. He held it aloft, his voice sharp and deliberate.
"It is with great satisfaction," Snape began, his tone cutting through the air like a blade, "that I introduce to you Gilda Harrow, Slytherin's own, as the newest Harbinger Champion. Her victory in this tournament has once again secured this prestigious honor for our school."
The Slytherin table clapped enthusiastically, but the other houses remained silent, their expressions ranging from scorn to thinly veiled curiosity. The atmosphere was thick with tension as Snape allowed his words to settle. With a subtle flick of his wand, the crimson robe shifted, the color bleeding into a deep Slytherin green accented with silver trim. The transformation was seamless, and the house crest appeared prominently on the chest. A ripple of murmurs ran through the room, but Snape's icy glare quickly silenced them.
With practiced precision, Snape stepped behind Gilda and draped the robe over her shoulders. The weight of the fabric settled heavily against her, its symbolic significance undeniable. Snape adjusted the clasp near her collar, his movements deliberate and ceremonial. Then he stepped back, his voice smooth but commanding as he addressed the hall once more.
"Miss Harrow will now speak to you not only as Slytherin's Champion but as one of your prefects. Listen closely."
The hall was utterly still as Snape stepped aside, leaving Gilda alone in the center of the room. For a moment, she felt the weight of every gaze—judgment, curiosity, disdain—bearing down on her. Caliban shifted uneasily in her hood, murmuring softly as if sensing her unease. She took a steadying breath and stepped forward.
"Thank you, Professor Snape," she began, her voice calm but slightly softer than she intended. She forced herself to stand tall. "And thank you all for your attention."
The whispers began almost immediately, a low hum that spread like wildfire. Gilda's fists clenched beneath the robe, but she didn't let the noise distract her.
"My years as a student go beyond Hogwarts," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "Since I was old enough to read, I've been studying, learning. I've fought for every bit of knowledge, for every advantage I could find. Those efforts brought me here."
The murmurs grew louder, the scowls from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables more pronounced. Her voice trembled for a moment, but she pressed on.
"Even with all that preparation, proving myself to my family and my community was the hardest thing I've ever done," she said, her tone firm. "But the tournament taught me who I am."
The unrest was palpable. A few students at the Gryffindor table stood, their arms crossed in open defiance. Others glared, their whispers barely concealed. Gilda's hands itched with tension as she forced herself to meet their stares.
"Murderer!" Rhys Dawlish's voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a whip. His face was red with fury as he pointed at her from the Gryffindor table, his outburst sparking more shouts of protest from other students.
Gilda's chest tightened, but her eyes burned with determination. Snape and McGonagall both rose from the staff table, but before either could act, Gilda's voice erupted, her anger boiling over.
"Enough!" she screamed, her voice echoing across the hall.
The room froze, her rage silencing even the boldest voices. She stood tall, her scar catching the light as she glared at the students around her.
"I've earned my place here," she said, her voice sharp and unwavering. "No one—no one—is taking it from me. If another student shows me aggression, if I am cornered or threatened again, the consequences will not come from your professors." Her voice dropped, laced with venom. "They will come from me."
Her words hung in the air, heavy and menacing. Even the most defiant students faltered, their bravado wilting under her glare. Caliban, sensing her fury, let out a shrill, bone-chilling screech as he erupted from her hood. His wings flared wide, his talons gleaming as he landed on the staff table. His crimson eyes blazed as he unleashed another scream, a sound so resonant, so primal, it made students flinch and recoil in their seats.
McGonagall opened her mouth to speak, but Snape's calm voice cut through the tension. "Miss Harrow," he said, his tone smooth but unyielding, "return to your seat."
Gilda's chest heaved, but she nodded sharply. Caliban leapt back onto her shoulder, his feathers ruffling as he settled against her. She walked back to the Slytherin table with measured steps, ignoring the stares and the whispers that followed her.
At the staff table, McGonagall turned to Snape, her expression livid. "Are you going to address this?"
Snape leaned back slightly, his expression faintly smug. "There is nothing to address. Miss Harrow's position is clear."
McGonagall's jaw tightened, but she said no more, disapproval radiating from every line of her posture.
Gilda sat down, her hands trembling beneath the table. Eleanor leaned close. "You okay?"
She didn't respond, eyes fixed on her plate. The year had begun, and Gilda Harrow had made it clear she was here to stay—on her own terms.
The room was still tense when Professor Dumbledore stood from his seat at the head of the staff table. His presence immediately commanded attention, the whispers and murmurs dissipating as his calm yet powerful gaze swept across the hall.
"My dear students," he began, his voice soft but carrying effortlessly to every corner of the Great Hall. "This year begins under unusual circumstances. And it is precisely because of these circumstances that I feel compelled to remind each and every one of you of the importance of unity."
The students sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the headmaster. Even the most defiant among them seemed subdued in the face of Dumbledore's measured words.
"Hogwarts has always been a haven," he continued, his tone warm yet weighted. "A place where young witches and wizards from all walks of life come together to learn, grow, and face the challenges of our world. And though we may face those challenges differently, let us remember that it is our unity, our shared experiences, that make us stronger."
He paused, allowing his words to settle, before continuing. "Tonight, I also wish to take a moment to reflect on one of our own who is no longer with us. Winnick Goldstein was a bright and talented student whose passion, kindness, and courage left an indelible mark on this school. Her absence is felt keenly by all of us, and her memory will live on in the hearts of those who knew her."
The hall was somber, the usual chatter and shuffling stilled by the headmaster's words. Dumbledore's face was serene yet grave, his expression one of deep empathy.
But the silence didn't last.
"She wouldn't be gone if not for her!" Rhys Dawlish's voice rang out, raw and furious. He shot to his feet at the Gryffindor table, his face flushed with anger as he pointed a trembling finger at Gilda. "Why should we have to sit here and listen to this when her killer is sitting right across from us?"
Gasps and murmurs erupted across the hall. Gilda stiffened, her jaw tightening, but she kept her eyes locked on the table in front of her. Caliban shifted on her shoulder, his wings twitching restlessly.
"Rhys, sit down!" Hermione hissed, pulling at his sleeve. "You've already made your point! This isn't the time—"
"No!" Rhys shouted, yanking his arm away. "You don't understand, Hermione. None of you do! Winnick wasn't just some student. She was like a sister to me. A mentor. She was everything!" His voice cracked, and he turned his blazing gaze back to Gilda. "And now she's dead because of you."
"Dawlish, that's enough!" McGonagall snapped, standing abruptly. Her stern expression softened slightly as she glanced at him, her voice lowering. "I understand your grief, but this is neither the time nor the place."
But Rhys wasn't listening. "Murderer!" he shouted again, his voice trembling with emotion. "She's a murderer, and you're all pretending like it doesn't matter!"
The tension in the room was palpable. Students whispered and shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between Rhys and Gilda. Gilda's Slytherin companions were deathly quiet, their expressions a mix of unease and indignation.
Before McGonagall could speak again, Snape rose smoothly from his seat and crossed the hall with swift precision. His black robes billowed as he stepped in front of Rhys, his expression cold and commanding.
"Sit down, Dawlish," Snape said, his voice low and venomous. "Your emotional outburst is disrupting this entire hall. Control yourself, or I will do it for you."
Rhys stared up at him, his face contorted with rage. "She killed Winnick! How can you—"
"Silence!" Snape snapped, his voice sharp as a whip. He loomed over Rhys, his dark eyes glittering with anger. "Your grief does not grant you the right to make a spectacle of yourself. If you cannot conduct yourself with dignity, you will leave this hall immediately."
Rhys faltered, his lips trembling, but he didn't sit down. Snape grabbed his arm firmly and began guiding him toward the doors, ignoring the gasps and whispers that followed.
"Severus," McGonagall called sharply, following them.
Snape stopped, his hand still gripping Rhys's arm, as McGonagall stepped between them. Her voice was low, meant for Snape's ears alone. "His grief absolves him of this outburst, and you know it. Let me take him."
Snape's jaw tightened, but he relinquished his grip. "Then see to it that he doesn't return until he can behave appropriately."
McGonagall's eyes flashed, but she nodded tersely. "Come, Dawlish," she said, her voice softer now. "Let's go."
Rhys allowed himself to be led out of the hall, his shoulders slumped and his face pale. The doors shut behind them with a heavy thud, leaving a strained silence in their wake.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Luna exchanged uneasy glances as the hall began to settle into a tense quiet. The confrontation lingered in the air, thick with unspoken questions.
"Snape's definitely protecting her," Ron muttered, leaning closer to the others. "The way he shut Rhys down—he didn't even look at Gilda like she might've done anything wrong."
"He's not just protecting her," Hermione said quietly, her expression hard. "You heard what she said earlier. 'Nice to see you again so soon'? What does that even mean?"
"It means they've met," Harry said, his tone clipped. "Over the summer, probably. Somewhere outside Hogwarts."
"Doing what, though?" Ron whispered. "What could they possibly—" He stopped, realization dawning on his face. "Oh."
"They're meeting with people," Hermione said, her voice low but sharp. "Her parents are pureblood supremacists. You think they're not still connected to the old crowd? Death Eaters? Supporters of Voldemort?"
Harry's jaw tightened as he followed Hermione's gaze to the Slytherin table. Gilda sat with a regal calm, her scar stark against her pale complexion, Caliban perched on her shoulder like a sentinel. She looked untouchable, even after all that had just happened.
"They're planning something," Harry said darkly. "Snape's still connected to people like them, and Gilda's family is exactly the kind he'd ally with. Whatever she's been doing, it's bigger than just her winning some tournament."
"It's always bigger," Hermione said bitterly. "And her family is dangerous. She's dangerous. And if she and Snape are in contact with those kinds of people…" She trailed off, her mind clearly racing.
"Wouldn't put it past her to be making connections for when she leaves here," Ron said grimly. "With her family's reputation and Snape backing her, she'll be ready to step right into her parents' world."
"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Hermione said, her voice low but fierce. "Snape's history, her family, everything about her. She's not just a student. She's being groomed for something."
Luna, who had been quiet until now, tilted her head, her dreamy tone cutting through their tension. "It's not surprising, really. She's like a storm, isn't she? A force of nature everyone wants to control or wield. Maybe Snape sees the same thing her family does."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Harry said, his green eyes narrowing as they locked on Gilda. "Whatever they're planning, it's not going to stop here. This year's already complicated enough without her making things worse."
Hermione nodded, her expression resolute. "We'll have to keep an eye on her. If there's more to this, we need to figure it out."
Ron sighed heavily, his gaze lingering on the Slytherin table. "Bloody brilliant. Another year, another nightmare."
"Maybe," Luna added softly, her gaze distant. "But she's not as calm as she looks. Even storms break."
They exchanged uneasy glances, their attention flicking back to Gilda as the tension in the hall continued to simmer. The year had barely begun, and already, the lines were being drawn.