Chapter 4
The Hogwarts Express finally came to a halt with a long, hissing breath of steam. All around them, the sound of shuffling trunks, chattering voices, and hurried footsteps filled the air as students began preparing to disembark.
Felicia stepped out of the compartment with the others, her wand tucked safely away and Redscale curled snugly beneath her collar. Just as she reached the corridor, she bumped into someone—lightly, shoulder to shoulder.
It was the same boy she'd nearly collided with in Diagon Alley. The one with the lightning bolt scar.
Harry Potter.
She hadn't realized he'd be starting this year as well. But of course—it made sense now. He was the center of every whispered conversation, the subject of so many wide-eyed stares. And yet here he was, just a boy like the rest of them.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" came a booming voice from the platform.
Felicia turned toward the source of the call. The voice belonged to a towering man with a shaggy beard that nearly reached his belt, holding a lantern that looked more like a full-sized streetlamp in his massive hand. His presence was both commanding and oddly comforting.
Hagrid.
The first years were ushered away from the main flow of students, gathering near him as the older years continued on toward the carriages. Some children looked up at the half-giant with wide, wary eyes. Others beamed with excitement.
Felicia noticed Harry again—he moved toward Hagrid as if drawn by some invisible force, completely at ease in his presence.
"Well," Dedalus muttered, adjusting his robes as he regarded the man. "He's impossible to miss."
Penelope, on the other hand, looked absolutely delighted.
"Whoa! He's huge!" she whispered, eyes sparkling. "Do you think he's ever fought a troll? Or wrestled a dragon? I bet he has!"
Felicia chuckled softly, shaking her head as Penelope practically bounced beside her.
Then Hagrid's voice boomed again across the platform.
"Come along now! This way to the boats!"
Felicia felt her breath hitch, just for a moment. The boats.
Felicia hesitated—just for a moment. No one else would have noticed.
She moved with the crowd as they made their way down the worn path toward the edge of the Black Lake, the air thick with anticipation and the faint chill of night. The soft crunch of footsteps over gravel and grass echoed around her, but with every step, Felicia's feet grew heavier—like lead sinking into earth.
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called out, waving his lantern as they reached the water's edge.
Felicia's stomach twisted.
It wasn't the boats. It wasn't even the lake itself.
It was the mermaids.
The fear clung to her like mist on her skin. When she was just five years old, she had wandered too close to the lake near her home—unaware that it was mating season for the merfolk. During that time, they swam closer to the surface, their behavior far more territorial, even violent.
Her parents had only taken their eyes off her for a moment.
One moment she was walking, the next she was in the water—and a mermaid had grabbed her, tried to pull her under. Tried to drown her.
The memory still lingered in her bones.
She hadn't feared all water after that. Just the kind that ran deep. Just the kind that could hide something beneath its surface.
Like the Black Lake.
Her turn came. She stood before the small wooden boat, staring at it a moment too long.
No one else noticed. They assumed she was simply being careful not to misstep and fall in.
But someone did see.
Draco, standing a short distance away, had caught the flicker of hesitation in her expression. No one else would have remembered—but he did. He remembered how rattled everyone had been after the incident. When he finally saw her again as a child, she'd been skittish near water, reluctant to even step near the edge.
She had grown out of it—or so it seemed. Now she simply avoided bodies of water where mermaids might dwell.
Like this one.
The pause felt like an eternity, but in truth, it was only a breath.
Felicia stepped into the boat, her face composed, her posture calm. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself.
Draco's eyes lingered a moment longer before Crabbe and Goyle pulled at his attention. Goyle was droning on about something inconsequential, and Draco responded with a distracted nod, only half-listening—his thoughts still on Felicia.
Penelope, blissfully unaware of any tension, practically hopped into the boat with the enthusiasm of a child unwrapping a gift. The vessel barely wobbled beneath her, and she blinked in surprise.
"Ooh… these are sturdy," she said, clearly impressed. "I wonder what enchantments are on them?"
She leaned over the edge, peering into the dark water below—though little could be seen beneath the shadowed surface of the lake under the evening sky.
"You think we'll get attacked by a kelpie?" she asked cheerfully.
Dedalus let out a long-suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Now why would you say that out loud?"
At the front of the procession, Hagrid was helping the last few first years into their boats. He chuckled, clearly having overheard the comment.
"Nothin' to worry about!" he called over his shoulder. "Smooth ride, you'll see!"
Draco, still pretending to listen to Goyle mumble on about some nonsense, glanced sideways toward Felicia. He maintained his usual look of casual disinterest, but his eyes lingered just a beat too long. He couldn't help himself—he had to make sure she was all right.
Felicia, meanwhile, watched Penelope lean precariously over the side of the boat and reached out to pull her back by the collar of her robes.
"Let's not make history by being the first group to flip an enchanted boat," she said dryly.
Redscale stirred lightly on her shoulder but remained relaxed—his calm demeanor a reliable sign to Felicia that there was nothing lurking nearby.
Penelope huffed, but grinned. "Alright, alright, I'll sit still. No promises if we hit a wave, though."
Dedalus, sitting with his back straight and robes neatly arranged, gave her a sidelong glance.
"It's a lake, Wittle. There are no waves."
The boat rocked slightly as Hagrid gave them a final look over before moving to the next group.
By the time all were settled, the sun had fully dipped beneath the horizon, casting the lake into deep twilight. The lanterns at the front of each boat flickered to life, bathing the water and passengers in a soft, golden glow. The lake surface shimmered like black glass, reflecting the lights as the boats began to drift forward in near-perfect unison—silent, smooth, and entirely magical.
Felicia caught Draco's glance just as he turned away. He stiffened slightly, scoffed under his breath, and leaned back in his seat with an air of practiced indifference. His gaze shifted pointedly toward the castle ahead.
Felicia gave a soft, knowing smile.
She wasn't fooled.
Her attention drifted then, landing on Harry Potter. He sat near the front of another boat, staring out at the dark water and towering cliffs ahead, his eyes wide with awe. He seemed captivated by everything—the lanterns, the stillness of the lake, the looming silhouette of the castle.
Felicia recalled what she'd heard: that Harry hadn't grown up in the wizarding world. Though not Muggle-born, he had been raised like one—cut off from all of this until only recently.
It must be overwhelming, she thought. To discover magic not just as a possibility, but as reality… all at once.
She couldn't quite imagine it.
The boats began to glide across the water, smooth as silk, leaving barely a ripple in their wake. The hush that fell over the first years was almost reverent. As they drifted closer, the full view of the castle came into sight—its towers stretching impossibly high, windows aglow with warm light, and ancient stone walls cloaked in ivy and shadow.
Hogwarts.
Felicia had seen pictures before, read descriptions in books, but nothing had prepared her for the sheer scale—or the presence—of the place. It wasn't just grand. It was alive, timeless, enchanted in a way that pulsed in the very air around it.
And it was waiting for them.
The first years were led up from the lakeside and through the winding stone paths toward the castle. Waiting for them near a grand archway was an older witch, standing tall in fine emerald robes with a pointed hat perched firmly atop her head. Her sharp eyes swept across the group with swift precision, and though she didn't raise her voice, her presence alone commanded silence.
"First years, follow me," she said, her tone brisk and clipped.
It wasn't loud like Hagrid's booming call, but it didn't need to be. The authority in her voice snapped the group to attention without a word more.
She led them through a side entrance—different from the main entrance of the Great Hall—reserved specifically for the Sorting. The corridor echoed with the soft shuffle of shoes and nervous breaths, lit by flickering torches that cast long shadows on the ancient stone walls.
At last, they arrived at a set of tall double doors. The witch turned, her expression unreadable but firm.
"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she said. "I am Professor McGonagall. In a few moments, once the rest of the student body is seated, you will be brought into the Great Hall to be Sorted into your houses. This house will be your home while you are here, and your behavior will reflect upon it."
Her gaze passed over them with hawk-like precision.
"Now, please remain here quietly while I prepare the Sorting Hat. Keep your voices low and conduct yourselves appropriately."
With that, Professor McGonagall turned and slipped through the double doors, the soft click of the closing echoing behind her.
The group was left standing in a semi-nervous cluster, whispering in hushed tones. Some fidgeted. Others stared straight ahead, faces pale and wide-eyed.
Draco stood slightly apart, arms crossed, posture straight. He carried himself with practiced ease, but his silver eyes narrowed as they flicked toward Harry Potter.
He hadn't forgotten their first meeting—back in Madam Malkin's, when he'd offered a hand and the boy had rejected it. Now, Potter stood there with the same tousled hair and unassuming presence, chatting quietly with Ron Weasley of all people.
Draco sneered faintly, more to himself than anyone else.
Typical.
"Harry Potter, at Hogwarts," Draco said, voice laced with bored amusement, as though the name were already a tiresome trend. "The whole train couldn't stop talking about you."
He tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a smug half-smile.
"I did warn you, Potter—some wizarding families are better than others."
Crabbe and Goyle chuckled behind him, more like echoing shadows than actual participants, standing like heavy-lidded bookends at his sides.
Felicia rolled her eyes, though she held her tongue. She wasn't going to step in—yet. Harry might as well get used to how Draco operated. Still, she cast a sideways glance at him, knowing full well he could feel her judgment even if he refused to meet her gaze.
Draco ignored it. He had to. If he looked at her now, he knew he'd feel that familiar twist in his gut.
He stepped forward and offered his hand to Harry once more, voice smooth and practiced.
"I can help you avoid making friends with the wrong sort."
Ron's ears went beet red as he bristled beside Harry.
"Hey!" he snapped, glaring at Draco with clenched fists.
Harry glanced down at the offered hand, then looked back up at Draco—steady, unimpressed.
"I think I can figure out who the wrong sort are on my own," he said coolly. "Thanks, but I'm good."
Felicia's golden eyes flicked to Harry, a spark of interest lighting behind them.
So he wasn't just a tabloid darling after all.
He had a spine.
Draco's smirk faltered. His pale features tightened, just slightly. He lowered his hand, fingers twitching—as if barely resisting the urge to lash out. But he caught himself quickly, gave a sharp sniff, and turned away with practiced indifference.
"Suit yourself, Potter," he muttered, as if it meant nothing.
Felicia, however, could tell. It did bother him—more than he'd ever admit.
As the tension settled, Felicia stepped forward from the other end of the group and offered Harry a small, polite smile.
"New to the wizarding world, then?" she asked, her tone warm but measured. "Honestly… I sort of envy that. I've grown up around magic my whole life, but to see it all as if it's brand new? That must feel a little like stepping into a storybook."
Harry turned to her, recognition flickering in his expression.
"You… I saw you in Diagon Alley," he said, quietly, the memory surfacing.
Felicia nodded. "Ah, yes. I remember." She offered her hand this time, her voice smooth and clear. "I'm Felicia. Felicia Forester."
There was a ripple of surprise through the group—small gasps and widened eyes.
The Forester name had that effect.
"Wait—you're Forester's kid?" Ron blinked, staring at her as realization struck. He'd heard the name from his brother Charlie, who spoke often of Galdur Forester's research. Charlie might be more hands-on with dragons, but Galdur's reputation was undeniable.
Felicia turned to him, letting her gaze flick briefly to his hair before settling on his face with a faint smirk.
"Another Weasley," she said with teasing familiarity. "Honestly, you lot could form a small army. I'm guessing Charlie's your brother?"
Ron looked like he was about to get defensive at the glance she gave his hair, but the teasing tone in Felicia's voice gave him pause. There was no malice—just mild amusement and maybe even a hint of admiration at how many of his family seemed to be scattered across Hogwarts history.
His cheeks colored slightly, and he gave a small huff.
"Yeah… Charlie's my brother. Don't see him much these days—he's still out in Romania."
Harry, who had been casting Draco a lingering glance of distaste, turned his attention back to Felicia.
"All of this," he said quietly, "is a lot to take in. I didn't even know this world existed until a few weeks ago."
Ron looked over at him, his expression softening with sympathy.
"Mental, isn't it?" he said. "Can't imagine finding out like that."
Felicia blinked, then studied Harry with new consideration.
"Only a few weeks?" she echoed, brows lifting. "That's hardly enough time to get your bearings, let alone prepare for all this. I'd say you've handled it remarkably well, then."
Before Harry could respond, a sharp voice cut clean through the low hum of conversation.
"Form a line," Professor McGonagall commanded as she returned, her tone crisp and unwavering.
The whispers died immediately.
She gave the first years a sweeping glance, her eyes just as sharp as before, and then turned on her heel with effortless precision.
"Follow me."
The grand double doors creaked open, revealing the Great Hall in all its splendor. The first years stepped inside, their shoes echoing on the polished stone floor. Above them, the enchanted ceiling shimmered with the night sky—stars twinkling over floating candles that cast a warm, golden glow across the room.
At the front of the hall, set atop a low platform, stood a solitary stool with the Sorting Hat perched atop it, old and patched, its brim sagging like it had too many secrets to hold.
Felicia's gaze drifted first to the long, curved table where the professors sat. It reminded her faintly of the Ministry hearing chambers—semi-circular, authoritative—but more grounded, less distant.
At the center, unmistakable even at a glance, sat Albus Dumbledore. You'd have to live under a rock not to recognize him in the wizarding world. His presence alone seemed to hum with quiet power.
To his side was another familiar face: Severus Snape.
Felicia had never met him, but her mother had spoken of him before—usually with a note of rare approval. Selene Forester wasn't often impressed, especially not when it came to potions. Being the top potion master in the Ministry, she had high standards, and Snape was one of the few she ever acknowledged as a peer in the field.
The other professors were unfamiliar for now. Felicia knew she'd learn more about them soon enough—once she sat in their classrooms.
Her attention shifted to the long tables running the length of the hall, each dressed in house colors. It didn't take much to distinguish them. Gryffindor, predictably, already had a sizable gathering of red-headed Weasleys. She spotted the twins—the same ones she'd seen in Zonko's back in Diagon Alley. One of them caught her eye and, with a crooked grin, winked.
Felicia's shoulders tensed as her face twisted into an unimpressed scoff. The nerve.
The Sorting began.
Names were called in alphabetical order. One by one, students stepped forward, placed the hat on their heads, and waited breathlessly for the decision.
"Bell, Dedalus."
He stepped forward with perfect posture, calm as ever. The hat barely grazed his head before shouting, "RAVENCLAW!"
Not a surprise.
More names followed.
"Forester, Felicia."
The name echoed through the Great Hall, and the murmurs came instantly—like a ripple across still water.
"A Forester's starting this year too?"
"Quite a year for names, isn't it?"
"Think she'll live up to the legacy?"
Professor McGonagall gave a pointed glance toward the student body, and the whispers died in an instant. She extended a hand toward the stool.
Felicia stepped forward with measured grace, passing Draco on the way. Her lips curved into a subtle, teasing smirk—just enough to make her point. She knew being called before him would gnaw at him, and the slight tension in his jaw confirmed it. He didn't speak, but his spine straightened and his eyes narrowed in quiet irritation.
She didn't need words to know she'd struck a nerve.
Draco's fingers twitched at his side, a minute betrayal of composure. He wasn't used to trailing behind someone who might actually match him.
Crabbe and Goyle remained oblivious, chuckling to themselves over something long forgotten. But Pansy Parkinson, who had been shadowing Draco since the train ride, arched a brow in interest. She said nothing, but her smirk said enough—she was entertained.
Felicia ascended the platform and sat on the stool, her posture perfect. Still, beneath the surface of calm, her heart beat a little faster. Professor McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat gently onto her head.
The world around her quieted, and then she heard the voice.
Ah… a Forester, the Hat whispered, smooth and deep, like wind through ancient stone. How rich your mind is… ambition brimming beneath control, cleverness sharpened by restraint. Such potential… deep magic, untapped…
Felicia held her breath as the Hat continued.
Brave, too… quite brave. You could do well in Gryffindor. Or perhaps Ravenclaw—your mind is keen, too keen. But Slytherin… yes, you would thrive there. You are different from the rest, but still… yes…
"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat announced.
The moment the Sorting Hat called out "Slytherin!" the long table draped in green and silver erupted into applause. Older students clapped with varying degrees of enthusiasm—some with nods of recognition at the Forester name, others casting curious glances, clearly unsure what to make of her yet.
The hat was lifted from her head, and Felicia rose smoothly, thanking Professor McGonagall with quiet politeness before descending the platform.
As she made her way to the Slytherin table, she caught Draco's gaze. It held something rare—approval. Not smugness, not competition. Just brief, unspoken recognition. A rarity, especially with others watching.
She slipped into a seat near the middle of the table. A few nearby students glanced her way with interest, but no one questioned her placement. The Sorting had made that clear.
One older Slytherin boy, likely a fourth or fifth year, nodded toward her.
"I had no doubt you'd be one of us," he said with a tone of expectation and mild pride. She recognized his face—he was someone notable's son—but the name didn't come to her in the moment. She returned the nod, polite but reserved, and he turned his attention back to the front.
More names were called. Then, inevitably:
"Draco Malfoy."
Another wave of murmurs swept the hall.
Professor McGonagall's sharp glance cut them off immediately. No nonsense. Not on her watch.
Draco stepped forward with his usual elegance, but Felicia—watching closely—noticed the faintest hesitation in his stride. The flicker of nerves in his eyes. The grip of tension in his shoulders.
No one else would see it.
But she did.
She knew what haunted his mind in that moment: the impossible thought of not being sorted into Slytherin. Of hearing anything else called out. Gryffindor, even. The disgrace. The fallout. The look on his father's face.
Felicia simply gave a small shake of her head. He had nothing to worry about. Draco Malfoy was practically the blueprint of a Slytherin.
The Sorting Hat was barely on his head before it spoke.
Ah… a Malfoy. I remember this blood. So much pride. So much ambition. A sharp mind—and that need to prove yourself… but not just to them, is it? No… there's more. Something deeper. Something even you don't like to admit…
There was a pause—just long enough to stretch Draco's breath.
But still… there's no doubt.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Draco's fingers twitched slightly at first, but the moment of uncertainty passed—washed away in a practiced rush of confidence. His signature smirk slid back into place as he strode toward the Slytherin table.
He noticed, of course, that Felicia had made room for him.
He wouldn't have sat beside her—at least, not just because he wanted to—but now that they shared a house, the distinction didn't matter.
He took the seat beside her and dropped into it smoothly, casting a sidelong glance in her direction. It wasn't smug so much as affirming—as if to say, See? Right where I belong.
Not long after, Pansy Parkinson joined the table as well. She, too, came from a recognized family, though her parents were more known for their connections than accomplishments. Pansy made up for that with an endless stream of brags—usually about her wardrobe, her holidays, or her proximity to power. Felicia had heard her drone on at a Malfoy banquet several months ago.
They were acquainted.
But friends? No.
Pansy's eyes immediately clocked Draco seated beside Felicia, and her expression shifted ever so slightly. She studied the scene like she was trying to decode some deeper meaning.
Felicia didn't give her the satisfaction of acknowledgment.
There was nothing to respond to.
They were not in the same league—and Felicia never needed to flaunt anything to make that clear.
Draco noticed the non-exchange. His gaze flicked between the two girls, and the faintest flicker of amusement sparked in his eyes. Pansy, he realized, thought she was making a statement simply by watching.
But Felicia had already dismissed her without saying a word.
The Sorting continued, name after name echoing across the Great Hall, until—
"Potter, Harry."
A hush fell, followed immediately by a fresh wave of excited murmuring that rippled through the student body. Heads craned. Eyes widened.
The Boy Who Lived.
Felicia watched him step forward, his face taut with unease beneath the weight of a hundred stares. The pressure on him—far heavier than anything she or even Draco bore—was almost palpable. The world expected greatness, legend, heroism.
But in the end, he was just a boy. A boy who had only recently learned he was a wizard.
Felicia frowned slightly. It felt deeply unfair, that kind of expectation.
As the Sorting Hat was placed on his head, Felicia could almost feel the tension around the room tighten. The Hat seemed to hesitate, deliberating longer than it had for most others.
She could guess why.
He likely fit Slytherin. She could see it—the cunning, the quiet bravery. But Draco's little display earlier had probably sealed that house's fate for Harry. That door was closed the moment he turned down the handshake.
Still, Felicia found herself glancing toward the Gryffindor table, wondering…
She hated to admit it, but what if—
"GRYFFINDOR!" the Sorting Hat roared.
Felicia's head snapped back to Harry just as the red-and-gold table burst into cheers. Applause rang through the hall, wild and enthusiastic.
Around her, the Slytherin table responded with a few groans, some muttered curses, and slow, disappointed claps. Another famous name, lost to Gryffindor.
Felicia shook her head and let out a quiet laugh under her breath.
Of course.
The Sorting continued without incident, and as Felicia had suspected, Penelope was sorted into Hufflepuff. The table welcomed her with bright smiles and enthusiastic applause—exactly the kind of environment Penelope's charming chaos would thrive in.
Felicia smiled, relieved. That house would be good for her.
"Felicia Forester," came a voice from her own table.
She turned—and her eyes widened in recognition.
Adrien Queensbury.
He was a fourth year, and his family had long been acquainted with hers. Charismatic, charming, and reckless in equal measure, he was hard to miss—especially on a broomstick. He played Beater for the Slytherin Quidditch team and was famously on the receiving end of more Bludgers than anyone else in recent memory.
"Adrien," she greeted, her smile blooming. "Glad to see you still have your head."
He chuckled low in his throat, running a hand through his dark, tousled hair. "Barely. Took more than a Bludger to the skull to knock me out—but Montague wasn't so lucky. Poor bloke was unconscious for hours."
He dropped into the open seat on her other side without ceremony. Across the table, Draco raised a brow, subtle interest flickering in his expression. Queensbury wasn't just any upperclassman—he was well-established in Slytherin's inner circles. That he was paying attention to Felicia wasn't going unnoticed.
Adrien leaned in slightly, resting one arm on the table as he gave Felicia an amused once-over.
"It's about time you showed up," he said, voice low and easy. "Though I half-expected you to be off doing something more dramatic. Still…" He smirked. "I'm looking forward to watching you turn this place on its head."
He reached for his goblet and took a casual sip of pumpkin juice, as if he hadn't just dropped a loaded comment into the middle of the table. Then, flashing her another lazy grin:
"So… how long do you think it'll take before you start dueling people?"
Felicia's shoulders tensed ever so slightly—Adrien had figured her out far quicker than she'd hoped. She glanced at him, her amber eyes wide for half a second before narrowing.
His smirk only widened.
She scoffed, recovering quickly, brushing off his remark with mock offense. "I'm here for an education, like everyone else—not to be a menace."
As if on cue, Redscale poked his ruby-scaled head out from beneath her hair and let out a sharp, curious chirp. Felicia sighed, reached for a piece of roasted chicken, and offered it to him wordlessly.
Adrien blinked at the small dragon, then turned his amused gaze back to her.
"Right," he drawled, clearly enjoying himself. "Just here for your education. And bringing a miniature dragon to the feast is completely normal, of course."
Across the table, Draco—who had been listening in silence—gave a soft, dry scoff as he lazily swirled his goblet of pumpkin juice.
"She's always been like this," he muttered. "Thinks she's above the usual nonsense."
Adrien arched a brow, his eyes flicking between the two of them, noting the familiarity in Draco's tone. His grin deepened, lazy and amused.
"Above some nonsense, maybe," he said. "But I've got a feeling Hogwarts is going to get a lot more interesting with you around."
Adrien reached for a roll, clearly amused, while Pansy—still watching with barely concealed disdain—tilted her head.
"I highly doubt Forester will do anything truly interesting," she said, her tone syrupy with sarcasm. "If anything, she'll get herself into trouble with that thing. She's notorious for ruining banquets with her asinine ideas."
Adrien smirked, but said nothing—his gaze drifting lazily toward Felicia, expectant. Draco raised an eyebrow, glancing from Pansy to Felicia with mild curiosity, silently waiting for the inevitable comeback.
Felicia didn't disappoint.
"Are you referring to the time you claimed your father bought you an enchanted gown that was supposed to repel fire?" she asked coolly, not even bothering to fully turn toward Pansy. "All I did was demonstrate that he was ripped off."
Her tone was light, unbothered—as if recounting the weather.
She had simply set the edge of Pansy's dress aflame. It wasn't supposed to catch—not if the enchantment had worked. But it had burst into full blaze, and it took several adults drawing their wands to extinguish it. Pansy had cried, of course, and Felicia had been scolded—briefly. But once she calmly explained the situation, Mr. Parkinson realized he'd been swindled, got his money refunded, and the shop responsible was swiftly shut down.
Felicia had also pointed out that if the flaw had shown itself somewhere more dangerous, the outcome could've been far worse. At least here, she reasoned, there were skilled witches and wizards all around.
Galdur, for his part, had been far too impressed to be angry. He had very nearly laughed aloud.
Pansy scoffed at the memory, her lips tightening—but she wisely said nothing more.
Adrien chuckled quietly, tearing a piece of his roll as he watched the exchange like it was a private performance.
Felicia glanced sideways at him, one brow arched.
"Try not to get your brain rattled this year," she said smoothly.
"I'll do my best," Adrien said lightly. "Can't have Slytherin losing its best Beater to another concussion."
Draco, watching the exchange with quiet intensity, let out a short huff and turned his attention back to his plate. Still, a slight furrow formed between his brows.
He wasn't sure what annoyed him more—the way Queensbury had taken an interest in Felicia, or the fact that Felicia was already establishing herself… and the term hadn't even officially begun.
Around them, the feast carried on—voices rising in laughter, plates clinking, and magic dancing through the candlelit air as the new first years began to settle into the strange, exhilarating rhythm of their new lives.
After Dumbledore's welcome speech and the feast concluded, the first years were led out of the Great Hall by the Head Boy and Girl, each directed toward their respective house common rooms.
The path to Slytherin felt different—more secretive, winding deeper beneath the castle than Felicia had expected. The air grew cooler as they descended, and the flickering torches lining the stone walls cast long, serpentine shadows.
They passed a statue of a kelpie with a rider astride its back—its wild, snarling features rendered in exquisite detail. Felicia blinked at it, surprised. She hadn't realized kelpies could be ridden. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if mermaids were afraid of them.
When they reached the hidden entrance, the prefect gave them the password.
Felicia's eyes widened slightly as the stone wall began to shift. A sculpted serpent emerged, its body bending and coiling as it rose, forming an archway. The stone parted with a low grind, revealing a darkened entry beyond.
Even Felicia had to admit—it was impressive.
The Slytherin common room was breathtaking.
Dark oak paneling and high-backed chairs filled the space, accented with rich emerald greens and silver details. The lighting was low, casting a warm, ambient glow that felt both sophisticated and mysterious. Everything about the room whispered elegance and pride.
Her breath hitched only once—when her gaze drifted toward the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows. They revealed the murky depths of the Black Lake, its shadowy waters shifting just beyond the glass. Flickering shapes passed by—fish, tendrils of lakeweed… and one of those blasted mermaid statues, perched in full view with a smug expression carved into its stony face.
Felicia narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She didn't like the windows, but she couldn't deny the effect. It fit the room perfectly.
Most students had already retired to their dormitories—it was late, and the first day of classes loomed ahead. But Felicia found herself too restless to sleep just yet. After making sure her things were unpacked and arranged to her liking, she returned to the common area.
Draco was there, seated on the emerald velvet couch near the hearth, slowly swirling the tip of his wand against the armrest in an idle spiral.
Without a word, Felicia approached and motioned to sit beside him.
"Still brooding over the fact that Potter didn't agree to be your underling?" Felicia asked, her smirk knowing, almost amused.
Draco shot her a flat look. "Oh, please," he drawled, leaning back against the plush green cushions. "As if I care what Potter thinks."
His words were airy, dismissive—but Felicia wasn't fooled. It had bothered him. Not just Potter's rejection, but the way the entire room had witnessed it. How public it had been.
He scoffed and turned toward the great underwater window, where the lake's gloom pressed against the glass in slow, shifting currents.
"He'll regret it soon enough," Draco muttered, more to himself than to her. "He has no idea what he's doing. No idea what this place is really like."
Then his eyes flicked back to Felicia, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
"But I suppose you think it's funny, don't you?" His voice was light, but there was a challenge woven into it—a dare in the arch of his brow.
Felicia tilted her head, her smirk intact, though her gaze softened just slightly.
"Well… telling him he was making poor choices in friends probably wasn't your strongest opening line," she said evenly. "And yes. It's a little funny."
Draco groaned, throwing his head back against the couch with dramatic flair. "Yes, thank you, Forester. Brilliant analysis," he muttered, though there was no true venom in it.
He drummed his fingers along the armrest, still quietly stewing.
"It doesn't matter anyway," he said after a pause, his tone slipping back into that familiar drawl of assured superiority. "Potter'll figure it out. He made a mistake."
His smirk returned—this time more practiced than genuine.
"Besides," he added, casting her a sidelong glance, the flicker of amusement back in his silver eyes, "why waste time worrying about him when we both know we're the ones to watch?"
That glint of competition sharpened in his gaze.
"Unless, of course, you're planning on letting me take all the glory this year?"
Felicia raised an eyebrow and let out a scoff. "Please. With your half-baked flying skills? And tell me—did you even glance at the potions curriculum for this year?"
She leaned back slightly, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "You've got some catching up to do, Malfoy. Though I do wonder… are there any other first years worth competing against?"
Draco sat up straighter, clearly offended. His brow furrowed. "Half-baked? You've clearly not seen me fly lately," he shot back.
Felicia stifled a laugh—and he realized too late that she'd baited him.
He scoffed. "I'm a Malfoy. Flying comes naturally to me."
"Apparently, so do short tempers," she added breezily.
He ignored that.
"I'll be fine," he said with a huff. "Besides, Snape's our Head of House. He won't let a Slytherin fail. Not on his watch."
Felicia tilted her head, her smirk widening. "So… are you saying you would fail otherwise?"
Draco blinked, caught. "No! I was just—ugh, I hate it when you do that," he muttered, scowling as she snickered.
She was about to respond when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye—Crabbe and Goyle rounding the corner. Her smirk faded into something more calculating. She knew better than to linger; Draco's demeanor would shift the moment his entourage arrived.
Rising smoothly, she turned to leave.
Crabbe and Goyle moved to block her path, looming like they thought it would make a difference.
Felicia's wand was already in hand.
With a flick and a whispered "Lorum Ligo," their shoelaces snapped together, knotting tight.
They toppled to the floor in perfect unison, hitting the stone with a satisfying thud.
She didn't even glance back as she walked past, her stride unbothered.
Nearby, a few older Slytherins burst into snickers and quiet laughter.
Draco blinked, having only just registered her exit. He looked at Crabbe and Goyle tangled on the floor… and couldn't help the smirk that pulled at his lips.
The older Slytherins were still chuckling as Crabbe and Goyle groaned on the floor, clumsily trying to untangle themselves.
Draco, still lounging, let out a sharp breath through his nose—a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a failed attempt to suppress one.
With a lazy stretch, he rose to his feet and stepped over the two of them without so much as a pause, his expression one of absolute indifference.
"Honestly," he muttered as he passed, "try watching where you're going."
Hands in his pockets, he strolled off toward the dormitories, already thinking—perhaps with a trace more excitement than he'd admit—that this year might be far more interesting than he'd anticipated.