The tables in the Great Hall were nearly cleared when Dumbledore rose once more. Dessert plates shimmered with remnants of treacle tart and chocolate pudding, and the air was warm with candlelight. The Headmaster's eyes twinkled as he spread his hands.
"Well, now that we are all full—" he paused, smiling faintly, "—or at least I hope so. If not, I expect you will find a way into the kitchens before long. And since I know some of you will… I shan't worry too much."
Laughter rippled through the hall. Professor McGonagall, however, gave Dumbledore one of her pointed looks, her lips pressed tightly together. Dumbledore returned her glare with the air of a kindly grandfather who had just told a joke, terrible or otherwise.
He went on cheerfully, "Now that you are all welcomed back to Hogwarts, I must remind you of a few simple rules. The Forbidden Forest is, as ever, forbidden. Any student caught venturing within will be given detention."
From the Gryffindor table, a bold voice rang out:
"Then we'll just make sure we don't get caught, sir!"
The hall erupted in laughter. McGonagall's eyes narrowed at once—particularly as it had come from her own House—and she gave a long-suffering sigh. Dumbledore merely chuckled, his beard trembling.
"Well," he said, "I'm afraid that sort of logic tends to unravel rather quickly when it meets the creatures of the forest. In any case, rules are rules. Now—off to bed with you. Lessons begin tomorrow."
Benches scraped back and chatter filled the air again as students began rising and streaming toward the doors, called to order by their prefects. At the Slytherin table, Gemma Farley—tall, sharp-eyed, and confident—stood.
"First years! New students!" she called firmly, her voice cutting through the noise. "This way, please. Follow me."
The youngest Slytherins gathered quickly, some nervous, some wide-eyed. Eira rose as well, gliding into step with the crowd. She had barely taken a few steps when a voice at her side spoke.
"It's good to see you here, Eira. Especially in Slytherin."
She turned her head, slightly amused. Draco Malfoy was walking beside her, a crooked smile tugging at his pale face. For the first time, he had abandoned the stiff and practiced "Miss White" that usually slipped so carefully from his tongue. Instead, he had called her simply by her name. The informality caught her off guard. In all their previous encounters, he had kept a deliberate distance, speaking as though she were some porcelain figure he had to handle with care. Now, however, his words sounded easier, almost casual.
Eira inclined her head politely, a faint smile playing at her lips.
"It is good to see you too, Draco. Most of my family's line has walked the same path—Slytherin, generation after generation. So it seems only fitting that I was judged to follow them."
Draco's smile grew smug. "Of course. It's fitting. Imagine if you had ended up in Gryffindor—reckless fools, all of them—or worse, in Hufflepuff, with the Muggle-lovers. That would have been a shame."
Eira kept her gaze steady, unfazed by any of the usual barbs aimed at other houses as they walked through the torchlit corridors. "How is your mother doing, Draco? I heard she hasn't been feeling well recently. Is she all right?"
Draco blinked, his smugness faltering. "Who said that? My mother is perfectly fine."
"Are you sure?" Eira asked softly.
"Yes," Draco said quickly. "Why would she be sick—?" He broke off abruptly, his eyes widening as though something unpleasant had just occurred to him. His expression stiffened, and after a short pause, he muttered, "I… I need to speak with Professor Snape."
And without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away, vanishing down a side passage.
Eira's lips curved into the faintest smirk. She knew very well why Draco had reacted so. The boy had clearly forgotten the panic at the Quidditch World Cup final—and the St. Mungo's healers at Malfoy Manor that night. In his fluster, he had almost let something slip. Eira thought of that night briefly, of the injuries she implicated on those attackers, and concluded with quiet amusement that Lucius Malfoy had been clever—or lucky—enough to escape. And now, judging by Draco's reaction, it's certain that he had been among them as well.
Her musings were interrupted as Gemma Farley's firm voice cut through the air.
"Here we are—the entrance to the Slytherin common room. The password changes weekly. Tonight's is purity."
She spoke the word clearly, and the bare stretch of dungeon wall slid aside to reveal the entrance. Students pressed forward eagerly.
Eira stepped inside. The common room stretched long and low, with a ceiling that arched like the underside of a cave. A faint greenish glow illuminated the stone, filtering through windows that opened onto the depths of the Black Lake. Shadows of fish darted past, and once, the enormous shape of something far larger drifted lazily by, casting the room in moving darkness.
Green lamps flickered along the walls, casting watery light over the heavy, carved furniture. Silver and green banners draped here and there, and a vast fireplace blazed at the far end, its warmth battling the damp chill of the dungeons. Gothic details adorned the room—skulls, serpents, and silver trim.
Gemma Farley raised a hand, halting the new students. "Now, all of you, step aside. The Dean wishes to speak with us."
As she spoke, the double doors at the far end of the hall swung open once more. From the shadowed archway, a tall, black-clad figure glided in, moving with the quiet, deliberate precision of someone entirely in control. His greasy black hair fell in strands around his pale, sharp-featured face, framing cold, dark eyes that scanned the room like a predator assessing its surroundings. His long robes whispered against the floor, immaculate yet severe, and his posture was unnervingly straight, as though any slouch would betray weakness.
The students, sensing the weight of his presence, fell into a tense silence. Every step he took seemed measured, deliberate. When he finally reached the front, he stopped, his eyes sweeping across the room with a detached intensity, pausing just long enough to make each student feel the scrutiny.
Professor Severus Snape.
"You are fortunate," Snape said in his low, silky voice, "to have been sorted into Slytherin. Do not disgrace it."
He let the words hang in the silence, his black eyes sweeping across the room.
"Slytherins work hard. Slytherins prove themselves. I will not have this house shamed by unruly behavior or mediocrity. You are students of Hogwarts, not lords and ladies of some pretentious family line. Here, you are equals. Here, you are to rise on your own merits."
His gaze lingered, just for a moment, on Eira. Then he continued coldly:
"And no politics. Not within these walls. You are here to learn, not to posture. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Professor," the students murmured.
Snape gave a final sweep of his gaze, then turned. "Prefects—see the new students to their dormitories." With a billow of robes, he disappeared through a side passage, leaving silence in his wake.
"Right," Gemma said briskly, her voice cutting the tension. "First years, this way. New fourth-year, Lady White—this way, please."
She led Eira down a branching corridor lined with the same green-glass lamps and the occasional glimpse of the lake outside. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and salt water. At last they reached a large doorway.
"This is your dormitory," Gemma said, inclining her head slightly. "You'll be sharing with the fourth-year girls. I trust you'll find it comfortable. Good evening, Lady White."
"Thank you," Eira replied evenly.
Inside, the dormitory was richly furnished in Slytherin's dark style. Four beds stood in the corners, each with heavy green privacy curtains and polished wardrobes beside them. Silver serpent emblems gleamed on the posts, and the whole room glowed with the same eerie, lake-lit hue.
Eira found her name neatly tagged on one bed. She raised her wand and murmured a quick charm, cleaning the space thoroughly before setting about arranging her belongings. From her enchanted pouch, she drew clothes, books, and a thick blanket of her own, placing each item with careful precision. Within an hour, the space bore her mark: orderly, simple, but unmistakably hers.
Satisfied, she took a towel and her shampoo, slipping into the private girls' bath beyond the corridor. The steam and warmth chased away the chill of the dungeons, and when she returned, her white hair damp and loose over her shoulders, she found that she was no longer alone.
Three girls were in the dormitory now, chatting animatedly with one another. They looked up as she entered.