Eleanor said nothing throughout dinner.
She picked listlessly at her shepherd's pie, not once glancing in the direction of the Gryffindor table. Her appetite had vanished entirely, and even the arrival of puddings—a veritable spread of treacle tart, spotted dick, and sticky toffee—didn't manage to coax a single spoonful past her lips.
Across the Slytherin table, the first years were crowded around Malcolm Baddock, whose wide eyes and pale face betrayed just how badly the Sorting had rattled him.
"But what do you mean, this is the bad house?" Malcolm was whispering to a fourth year, confusion etched plainly across his features.
Eleanor heard him, and her stomach gave a miserable twist.
George. How couldheof all people have done that? After everything they'd talked about last year—long conversations in the library, debates over House rivalry, the shared smirks when Peeves soaked the Ravenclaws—she had truly believed he was different. He'd admitted himself that Slytherin wasn't all Dark wizards and brooding ambition. And yet there he'd been, hissing with the rest of them as poor Malcolm was sent slinking to the green-and-silver table.
She stabbed a boiled potato, resting her chin gloomily on her fist.
Beside her, Berenice and Adrian chattered away about Quidditch, neither one fazed by Eleanor's sulky silence. They were used to her moods, and had long since learnt when to let her stew. Plates emptied and vanished, and the puddings were reduced to a few licked-clean spoons before either of them so much as glanced her way.
But before Berenice could ask what was eating her, a hush swept through the Great Hall.
Albus Dumbledore had risen to his feet.
The wind howled outside like a chorus of banshees, rain slashing against the enchanted ceiling in great diagonal streaks. The candles flickered, their flames dancing in response.
Eleanor was doing her best not to look at the Gryffindor table, but her resolve faltered. Her eyes slid over almost involuntarily—and met George Weasley's. His gaze caught hers across the sea of students, and for one brief, infuriating moment, their eyes locked. She flushed immediately and yanked her attention back to Dumbledore.
"… and so, I must remind you all that the Forbidden Forest remains, as ever, out of bounds to students," he was saying. "Hogsmeade is likewise restricted to third-years and above. Furthermore—" Dumbledore paused for effect "—I must regretfully inform you that there will be no Inter-House Quidditch Cup this year."
A gasp escaped Adrian, loud enough to draw heads from nearby.
"Merlin's pants," he muttered.
Montague and Bole, Slytherin's brutish Beaters, looked positively thunderstruck. Even Berenice, ever composed, had gone a little pale around the edges.
"This," Dumbledore went on, the usual twinkle in his eyes dimmed just a fraction, "is owing to a rather special event that will begin in October and continue throughout the year. One that I believe you will all find… most exhilarating. I am pleased to announce that Hogwarts will host—"
BANG.
The doors of the Great Hall flew open with a crash like a gunshot, and a gust of wind, drenched in rain, tore through the hall.
A hunched figure limped inside, wrapped in a sodden travelling cloak. Thunder rumbled overhead as he advanced towards the staff table, every footstep landing with a heavythunkcourtesy of his wooden leg.
"Mad-Eye Moody," Berenice muttered darkly.
The newcomer turned just as lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating a face that made several first-years recoil in horror.
Eleanor stiffened.
His skin looked like it had been carved from old leather—gouged and slashed by time and battle. A chunk of his nose was conspicuously absent. One eye was small and beady; the other impossibly large, bright blue, and spinning wildly in all directions.
Moody greeted Dumbledore with a curt nod, sniffed suspiciously at a sausage as though expecting it to leap up and bite him, and dropped heavily into the empty seat to the Headmaster's right.
"What's he doing here?" Berenice whispered, her eyes narrowed.
"There was only one vacancy, wasn't there?" Eleanor replied, her gaze flicking briefly to Draco Malfoy, who was watching Moody as though he'd been told he'd be sharing a dormitory with a banshee.
It had been Malfoy's doing that Professor Lupin, the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher they'd ever had, had been forced to resign. All because he was a werewolf. Eleanor clenched her jaw. Lupin had never hurt a soul.
From further down the table, Hestia Carrow was glaring daggers at Moody. Eleanor wasn't surprised—he'd personally sent a good portion of the Carrow family to Azkaban.
Dumbledore cleared his throat once more, as if nothing had happened.
"As I was saying," he resumed, "we are to be honoured this year by an event not seen for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you all that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts."
The hall erupted.
"You'rejoking!" shouted Fred Weasley.
Laughter followed, breaking the tension like the pop of a soap bubble. Eleanor's eyes flicked to the twins—both looked thoroughly gobsmacked.
"Didn't his dad work at the Ministry?" Montague whispered to Adrian.
"Not everyone in the Ministry knows what the Minister eats for breakfast," Adrian replied dryly.
"I am not joking, Mr Weasley," said Dumbledore, though his eyes twinkled now. "Although, now that you mention it, I did hear a splendid one over the summer involving a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all walked into a bar—"
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat with the subtlety of a stampeding centaur.
Dumbledore quickly moved on to explain the nature of the Tournament, much to the benefit of the Muggleborn students. The hall was abuzz with whispers, and at the Slytherin table, Eleanor could already hear Warrington boasting about how he'd win the whole thing.
She groaned. "Please nothim."
Berenice nodded gravely.
"And in consultation with the Ministry," Dumbledore continued, "an age restriction will be in place. No student under the age of seventeen may enter."
Gasps of outrage echoed around the room. Roger Davies looked like someone had slapped him; he'd be seventeen in November.
The Weasley twins, on the other hand, looked like they were already plotting.
"This is a necessary precaution," said Dumbledore firmly. "The tasks ahead are dangerous, and not to be taken lightly. I shall personally ensure that no underage student fools the impartial judge."
Eleanor's eyes found George again. His expression was mutinous. She shook her head with a wry smile. Ofcoursehe'd try to outwit Dumbledore.
"… and I ask you all to extend a warm welcome to the students of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, who will arrive at the end of October."
"Do you reckon we stand a chance?" Berenice asked as they rose from the table.
"Possibly," Adrian replied, hands shoved in his pockets as they descended the stone steps. "But I doubt something like an Aging Potion will be enough to fool the judge."
"Would you enter?" Eleanor asked, torchlight flickering against the walls.
"Let me sleep on it," Adrian said with a grin, before whispering the password to the wall: "Praemonitus praemunitus."
The stones slid aside, revealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room.
Warmth engulfed them. The dungeon walls glimmered with the eerie green light cast by the lake beyond. Students lounged on black and emerald sofas, some gathering around chessboards, others sprawled with books.
The tapestries on the walls told tales of Slytherin heroes long gone. The crackle of the fireplace mingled with the distant sound of water swishing overhead. In this hidden corner of the castle, the storm didn't matter. This was home.
"I'm knackered," Berenice said, stifling a yawn. "See you in the morning, Pucey."
Eleanor rolled her shoulders and followed her upstairs.
Their dormitory was just as she remembered—spacious, stately, with heavy velvet curtains and stained glass windows.
"Hello, Lucy," Eleanor said, nodding at their quiet dormmate. "Good summer?"
Lucy Vane looked up from unpacking her trunk. "Oh, yes. We visited some cousins in Germany. How about you?"
Berenice flopped onto her bed. "We went to the World Cup with my family."
Lucy's eyes widened. "Really? I wanted to go, but Mum said the tickets were a rip-off."
"We had excellent seats," Eleanor said, tugging off her boots. "Right by the pitch."
"Is Darren O'Hare really that handsome in person?" Lucy asked breathlessly.
"Oh, he'sdivine," Berenice sighed. "Shoulders like a troll but with the face of a fallen angel…"
Eleanor half-listened, half-dreamed.
She curled up on her four-poster, Nemea purring in her arms, and let her thoughts wander to a certain Gryffindor boy. Those light brown eyes. That lopsided grin. She hated how easily her stomach flipped at the memory.
Still, there was a strange sense of loyalty swelling in her chest as she thought of Malcolm and the rest of the first-years. Slytherins looked after their own. They might bicker, they might sneer, but outside these walls, they stood united.
She was proud of that.
Berenice and Lucy changed into their pyjamas, still murmuring about the Tournament and who might be brave—or daft—enough to enter.
Eleanor pulled the covers around herself, Nemea snuggled close, and closed her eyes.
The last image in her mind was George Weasley's smile, radiant under the Quidditch stadium lights.
And then she slept.