"…I've already memorized the class schedule. Peter, Gryffindor and Slytherin have quite a few lessons together. I really don't think the Sorting will matter much in the long run."
"Transfiguration is first this morning. Have you looked over the textbook yet? If not, I can lend you my notes. Or—if you'd rather—we could sit together?"
The Great Hall buzzed with the low murmur of early conversations. Breakfast had just been served across the long tables of the four Houses, and Hogwarts had outdone itself again.
To Peter, British cuisine generally felt uninspired. But breakfast? Breakfast was the one exception.
Beyond the usual sausages and crispy bacon, there were scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, and even little jars of ketchup for dipping. The bread selection alone could rival a bakery—fresh rolls, toasted slices, flaky croissants, and thick-cut brown loaves.
Peter sat comfortably at the Gryffindor table, completely at ease despite the silver snake of Slytherin gleaming on his chest. He calmly ate his fill while Hermione chattered beside him, her voice full of energy despite the early hour.
Every now and then, a Gryffindor student walking past would glance up in surprise. Their gaze flicked between Peter's robes and Hermione's face, as if trying to determine whether they were still asleep and dreaming. After a few seconds of hesitation, most shuffled away quickly, wearing strange and unsettled expressions.
At the Slytherin table, heads were turning too.
Word had spread like wildfire overnight.
Apparently, Peter had taken down a fifth-year prefect—twice. And not with some clumsy hex or prank, but with sharp, well-cast spells that left the older student unconscious and unmovable. No one had been able to break the enchantment, and the poor prefect had to be rushed to the hospital wing, frozen stiff like a statue.
By now, nearly every student in Slytherin had heard about it.
And they were looking at Peter very differently.
That was the Slytherin way. Bloodline and family name mattered, sure—but strength? That was what truly earned respect. Power meant survival, power meant prestige.
And Peter Weasley—red hair and all—had just claimed his place among them.
But still… why was he sitting at the Gryffindor table?
Was it just in the Weasley blood to be rebellious?
Across the Slytherin table, several first- and second-year students fidgeted in frustration. They had wanted to speak to Peter—maybe even offer a respectful greeting—but no one dared to approach him while he was flanked by Gryffindors. So they sat there, stewing silently, casting dagger-like stares across the hall.
The Gryffindors weren't much more welcoming.
They found it equally strange to see a green-trimmed Slytherin robe in their midst—especially one belonging to a Weasley—but with Peter being family, and with Percy, Fred, and George all nearby, no one wanted to make a scene. Instead, they returned the glares from the Slytherin table with stubborn frowns of their own.
What should have been an ordinary breakfast was beginning to feel like a silent standoff between two Houses.
Of course, this didn't go unnoticed.
The Ravenclaws picked up on the tension immediately. But, as always, they valued self-preservation over drama. They whispered among themselves, took a few mental notes, and returned to their toast and jam as if nothing was amiss.
The Hufflepuffs, on the other hand, looked around in confusion. Kind-hearted and even-tempered, they didn't understand why everyone looked so annoyed this early in the morning. But true to their nature, they didn't poke the hornet's nest.
And so, for a moment, the hall hovered on the edge of awkward silence.
Until the Weasley twins stormed in.
"Oi! Look at this, George!"
Fred pointed dramatically across the room, his voice carrying farther than it should have.
"The Weasley snake!" George gasped with mock horror. "He's infiltrated Gryffindor territory!"
Peter didn't even flinch. He calmly sliced into a sausage and popped it into his mouth, chewing leisurely while Hermione buried her face in her hands, mortified.
Fred marched over and slammed his hands on the table. "Are you lost, Peter? Common room that way." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"I know where it is," Peter said, deadpan.
George leaned in, eyes wide with exaggerated suspicion. "You weren't cursed into sitting here, were you? Blink twice if you need help."
Peter blinked once.
"Hmm," George muttered. "That's not a good sign."
Hermione sighed. "Can the two of you please stop causing a scene?"
Fred grinned. "No promises."
"Yes, Fred, you saw it right. It's horrible! This traitor has the nerve to show his face at our table again!"
The twins stood dramatically behind Peter, arms folded, one on either side like judgmental statues. They widened their eyes in unison, doing their best to radiate righteous fury and crushing disappointment.
Peter, entirely unfazed, calmly tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into his mushroom soup. He took a bite, chewed slowly, and finally looked up at them.
"Are you sure you want to start trouble with me?" he asked, voice quiet and casual.
He swallowed the bite and continued.
"Because—if I recall correctly—two red-haired pranksters spent the entire summer trying to win me over. Very persistent. Very sincere."
He paused just long enough to let the memory sting.
"I was planning to show my appreciation. Ten gold Galleons. Each. Tucked into your Halloween care packages, just to support the noble cause of youthful mischief."
Peter turned slightly to face them, expression completely sincere. "But now… I suppose they don't want it."
Fred's arms dropped first.
George followed a second later.
The twins exchanged a glance.
"Uh… Fred?"
"Yeah?"
"…Maybe we forgive him first?"
"But won't that make us look like we have no principles?"
"Ten Galleons."
"…Good point."
Fred clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Welcome back, little brother. Slytherin or not, you're still a Weasley."
George nodded solemnly. "The family budget supports all departments equally."
Peter gave them a thin smile. "Wise decision."
Hermione looked between them in disbelief. "You bribed your way out of a scolding?"
"Not bribed," Peter replied calmly. "Invested."
Fred leaned in with a grin. "This kid's going places."
"Percy said yesterday that no Weasley's ever been sorted into Slytherin," Fred muttered. "Someone's got to teach you a lesson, apparently."
The twins exchanged a look.
Then, at the exact same moment, they burst into laughter.
"Who cares what kind of nonsense Percy says!" George snorted.
"We're definitely not doing this for the Galleons," Fred added, turning serious with theatrical speed. "But how could we possibly disappoint a brother who's so supportive of our mission? Right, George?"
"Absolutely, Fred. So what if he's in Slytherin? He's still a student at Hogwarts, isn't he? Still one of us?"
"Ahem," Fred coughed. "I mean… yes, there are a fair number of slimy gits in Slytherin—"
"—but our brother is definitely not one of them!"
"That's right, George!"
Peter smirked, finally letting the teasing drop. "Is ten Galleons enough?"
The twins nodded in perfect unison, eyes sparkling.
"More than enough!"
"Crucial funding, Peter!"
Their spirits restored, they each grabbed a few pieces of toast, then trotted off in high spirits, already deep in whispered conversation about "product strategy" and "experimental fireworks."
As they disappeared from the hall, Peter caught one of them murmur under his breath:
"There's never been a Slytherin in the Weasley family…"
The other replied softly, but firmly, "What can we do? He's still our brother, Fred."
"Well…"
…
The twins have been dealt with.
Peter kept his expression calm, but inwardly, he exhaled in quiet relief. Everything had gone just as he'd hoped. No explosions, no pranks, no shouting match in the middle of the Great Hall.
Fred and George might be the most chaotic members of the Weasley clan, but they were also the closest to him in age. And despite their usual antics, they had always looked out for their younger brother.
He had written to Molly and Arthur the night before, explaining his choice. He hadn't mentioned the brain-blocking charm, of course, but he had told them that he'd spoken at length with the Sorting Hat—and that he believed Slytherin would give him the best opportunity to study potions under Professor Snape.
That should be enough to soothe them. Anything involving "education" and "Professor Snape" tended to earn automatic approval from their parents, even if it meant wearing green.
Peter sighed to himself.
If only I'd been this calm and strategic about relationships in my past life, he thought, maybe I wouldn't have ended up a nameless office worker with a lukewarm coffee machine and no paid overtime.
A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Actually… I don't think being in Slytherin means anything."
Peter turned. Hermione sat beside him, her hands clenched tightly around a goblet of pumpkin juice. Her cheeks were red, but her eyes were clear and steady.
"I mean it," she said earnestly. "I've read Hogwarts: A History, A History of Magic, and Modern Magical History. Not one of them says that Slytherin only produces bad wizards. In fact, in Modern Magical History, there's a whole chapter about a particularly dangerous Death Eater who was… from Gryffindor."
She looked slightly embarrassed, as if unsure whether she was defending him or just reciting facts.
Peter studied her for a moment.
Was this… comfort? Or was it just Hermione being Hermione—unable to resist quoting books, even in moments of emotional support?
Either way, he gave her a small smile.
"Thanks," he said simply.
Peter smiled and gently ruffled Hermione's hair.
"Thanks, Hermione."
He didn't really need comfort—but still, wasn't it nice to have a clever, thoughtful girl worrying about him?
The warmth from that small gesture stayed with him as they finished breakfast and left the Great Hall together, heading toward their first class of the day: Transfiguration.
The first class of the year. The official start of their Hogwarts journey.
When Peter and Hermione arrived, the room was still mostly empty. Only two or three students had come early. One of them was Draco Malfoy, who was busy smirking and whispering to his friends in the corner.
The other was Neville Longbottom, who was clearly the target of Malfoy's teasing. The poor boy looked like he wanted to vanish into the stone floor.
A tabby cat sat on the podium, its fur neat and its posture perfect. It watched the students with sharp, intelligent eyes.
The moment Peter stepped inside, Malfoy and his entourage stopped laughing.
They shrank back instinctively into their seats as if Peter's mere presence was a warning.
Neville blinked, then lit up.
He rushed over, eyes wide with gratitude. "Thank you, Peter! Only you can make Malfoy shut up. I heard you really gave it to him the other day—you're amazing!"
Peter's good mood evaporated.
Thanks, Neville, he thought with a forced smile. If only you could say less.
The tabby cat on the podium narrowed its eyes at the commotion, its whiskers twitching disapprovingly.
Peter sighed. So much for a quiet start.