Please consider supporting my writing at buymeacoffee.com/VoiceOfUnknown.
The station was a storm of noise and motion, every inch of platform nine and three-quarters alive with sound. Steam from the scarlet engine rolled thick through the air, curling around the iron beams and glass roof, catching the light so that the platform seemed to shimmer in a haze. Children tugged at parents, owls hooted indignantly from wicker cages, cats mewled beneath trolleys stacked high with trunks. For most, the chaos was joyous, filled with shouts of farewell and laughter.
For Cassian, it was nothing but a stage where the Malfoys performed.
Lucius Malfoy moved like a blade through the crowd, tall and severe, his cane clicking sharply against the stone floor. Mothers pulled children out of the way instinctively, eyes flicking from his pale face to the crest stitched onto Narcissa's cloak. She glided beside him, robes pristine, her chin high enough to seem untouchable. But it was Draco who drew the eyes of the younger students—Draco and what perched proudly upon his arm.
An eagle owl.
Its feathers gleamed silver-gray in the station's half-light, its amber eyes unblinking and full of disdain, as though the creature had inherited its master's temperament. Draco puffed his chest as he walked, letting the owl's wings stretch once, wide enough to make a group of first-years stumble back with startled gasps. A cruel smirk tugged at his mouth.
"Magnificent, isn't he?" Draco said loudly, his voice carrying over the din. He stroked the owl's chest feathers with deliberate care, letting the onlookers see how calmly it obeyed him. "Father insisted nothing less than an eagle owl would do. They're rarer than common barn owls or those scruffy tawny things everyone else drags along."
Lucius's thin smile showed approval, Narcissa's silence its own endorsement.
Cassian followed several paces behind, plain satchel slung over his shoulder, as always the shadow trailing the brightness of their display. He kept his head low, but he could feel the stares. Parents leaned toward one another, whispering about the Malfoys. Their children gazed at Draco with envy, admiration, or awe. And then their eyes slipped toward Cassian, their expressions shifting into puzzlement, then dismissive curiosity.
Draco twisted, his pale hair catching the light as he glanced back. His smirk deepened.
"Oh, what did you bring, Cassian?" he asked loudly, ensuring those around them heard. His gray eyes glittered with malice. "A rat? A toad, perhaps? No—nothing at all? Figures."
The words cracked like a whip. A few children nearby laughed—nervous, uncertain, but laughter all the same. Cassian's face burned, though he did not answer. His satchel pressed heavily against his ribs, the serpent-etched box hidden inside as though it alone knew the weight of the humiliation.
Lucius did not rebuke his son. Narcissa's lips twitched faintly, an almost smile.
Cassian forced his grip tighter on the strap, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Draco turned back to his audience without missing a step. "He's the finest owl Ollivander has seen in years," Draco bragged. "The shopkeeper said his wingspan was unmatched—perfect for long-distance. Everyone else will be begging to borrow him by Christmas."
The words carried into the train as they boarded, and by the time Draco claimed a compartment near the center, the owl's reputation had already spread among the cluster of pure-blood families. Pansy Parkinson squealed with delight when she saw it, pressing close to admire the sheen of its feathers. Crabbe and Goyle sat dumb and awestruck, nodding furiously at every boast. Even a few older students, leaning into the doorway, gave grudging approval.
Cassian lingered at the edge of the compartment, unacknowledged. Draco never invited him to sit, and no one else did either. He could feel the invisible wall between them, thicker than glass, sharper than a knife. He backed away wordlessly, letting the door slide shut on their laughter.
He wandered the corridor, compartments already filling with voices and faces. Students leaned out to wave at friends, some already changing into robes, others sharing sweets or trading stories. No one called for him. He passed one compartment where two second-years glanced at him, muttered something under their breath, and snickered. He kept walking.
Finally, he found an empty compartment at the far end. He slid the door shut, the sound strangely final, and lowered himself onto the seat. The satchel remained in his lap. He loosened the flap just enough to press his hand against the box. The silver serpent seemed warmer than before, faintly thrumming beneath his palm, as though it stirred in answer to his anger.
Draco's laughter rang faintly down the corridor, muffled but relentless.
Cassian shut his eyes. The rhythm of the train began to build, the wheels clattering against the tracks as steam whistled through the carriages. Conversation, laughter, shouts—all of it washed around him, but inside the compartment was a silence broken only by the steady, unnerving pulse of the box.
It was as though it disliked Draco's flaunting as much as Cassian did.
Hours later, the train screeched into Hogsmeade station. Darkness had fallen, clouds spilling across the sky, rain threatening in the air. The carriages jolted as students spilled onto the platform, their voices sharp against the night.
"Firs' years! Firs' years this way!" boomed a voice so loud it seemed to swallow the chaos.
Cassian turned. At the edge of the crowd stood a giant of a man, lantern raised high, his beard a wild tangle that caught the glow. His black eyes swept the swarm of children with warmth, settling the first-years like a shepherd gathering his flock.
Cassian joined the cluster moving toward him, shoulder brushing strangers, his satchel thumping against his hip. The serpent box pulsed once more, faintly, as if alert.
Draco strutted just ahead, the eagle owl perched in its cage atop the trolley. Its wings shifted, feathers rustling, commanding even in its confinement. The giant's gaze fell on it as they passed.
"Fine owl yeh got there," Hagrid rumbled, his deep voice carrying easily. "Don' see many like him. Strong bird, tha' one'll be."
Draco glowed under the praise, chin tilting higher. "Father said only the best would do."
Cassian heard every word. His chest tightened. The sting was sharper than Draco's taunts, because it came not from cruelty, but from recognition. Even this stranger—this man who knew nothing of their lives—saw the owl, not him.
The serpent box thrummed again, harder this time, as though it bristled at the sound. Cassian's hand pressed against the satchel unconsciously, steadying it. The pulse eased, but his jaw remained clenched.
"Boats this way!" Hagrid called, leading them down toward the black water.
The lake spread before them like a sheet of ink, stars breaking faintly across its surface. The castle loomed in the distance, its towers and battlements glowing golden against the dark, a vision so immense it seemed almost unreal. Students gasped aloud, craning necks to see.
Cassian stared too, but not with awe. The sight twisted his stomach. Hogwarts was magnificent, yes, but it was also the place where the divide would deepen. Where Draco would shine in his owl-fueled glory, and where he—Cassian—would stand on the outside, always a shadow.
They climbed into the boats. Draco seized one at the front, Pansy and two others crowding around him. Crabbe and Goyle squeezed into the next. Cassian slipped silently into the rear vessel, with strangers who neither looked at nor spoke to him.
The boats glided forward, silent but for the water's ripple. The castle loomed closer, its windows flickering with light like a thousand watching eyes.
At last, they reached the far bank. The first-years stumbled out, led in a tight cluster up the stone steps, through the heavy wooden doors, and into the vast Entrance Hall. Torches flared against the walls, casting warm light across the polished floor. The air smelled faintly of wax and stone.
A tall witch with stern features and square glasses waited at the front. Her tartan robes fell in crisp lines, her expression measured, eyes sharp as they swept across the group.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, voice cool, clipped, yet carrying authority that silenced even the loudest whispers. "I am Professor McGonagall. In a moment, you will be led into the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony, where you will be assigned to your Houses. Your House will be like your family while you are here."
Her gaze passed over Draco, pausing briefly at the owl's cage, then continued without faltering. It lingered on Cassian for half a second longer than most—he could not tell if it was curiosity or calculation—before moving on.
Cassian's stomach tightened. His satchel seemed heavier, the serpent box inside faintly alive.
"Form a line," McGonagall instructed. "Follow me."
The doors at the end of the hall loomed tall and carved, voices echoing faintly from beyond. The air hummed with anticipation as the students shuffled into order.
Cassian found himself near the middle, Draco striding proudly ahead, owl's cage still in hand. The hum of the Great Hall's chatter grew louder as the doors began to open.
And then they stepped forward—into the Sorting.
The heavy doors swung wide, and the Great Hall revealed itself in a rush of torchlight and sound. Hundreds of voices filled the vast chamber, rolling like waves against the enchanted ceiling that shimmered high above with a night sky studded in stars. The four long House tables stretched the length of the floor, golden plates gleaming, goblets flickering with candlelight from the thousands of floating flames that drifted overhead.
The first-years stopped as one, their small line bunching together under the sudden weight of so many eyes. Cassian felt them on his skin like cold rain—rows upon rows of older students turning, whispering, judging. The hum of anticipation thickened the air. He tightened his grip on the satchel strap. The serpent box throbbed once against his side, as if alive with awareness of the crowd.
Professor McGonagall led them forward, her tartan robes sweeping crisply across the stone floor. At the head of the hall, a tall stool had been placed in front of the staff table, upon which sat the Sorting Hat: battered, patched, and ancient, its folds gathered into a crooked mouth.
When McGonagall set the scroll in her hand upon the stool, the Hat opened its mouth and began to sing. Its voice was rich, old, echoing across the chamber: a song of the Houses, of Gryffindor's daring, Hufflepuff's loyalty, Ravenclaw's wit, and Slytherin's ambition.
Cassian listened, but only half-heard the words. His gaze lingered on the tables. The Gryffindors cheered loudest at their mention, clapping each other on the shoulders, their voices full of unrestrained pride. The Slytherins, cool and composed, offered only sharp smirks, as though they already knew which House mattered most.
And at that table, Cassian's eyes found Lucius Malfoy.
The elder Malfoy sat among the governors, pale and severe, his hand resting lightly on his cane. His gaze swept over the line of first-years and came to rest on Draco. Lucius's lips curved faintly—approval prepared, expectation already certain. Narcissa, beside him, was composed perfection, though her pale eyes glimmered when they fell on her son.
Cassian looked away quickly, heat flooding his face.
"Abbott, Hannah!" McGonagall called.
A small, nervous-looking girl shuffled forward and perched on the stool. The Sorting Hat slipped over her head, engulfing it. Moments later: "HUFFLEPUFF!"
The table to the left erupted in cheers.
One by one, names were called. The hat declared, tables cheered, the Great Hall filled with a rhythm of expectation and fulfillment. Cassian watched each child move with a strange hollow in his chest, each Sorting drawing his turn closer.
"Malfoy, Draco!"
The name rang sharp, slicing through the hall.
Draco strutted forward, owl's cage in hand, smirk already carved into his face. He sat with an air of inevitability, as though the ceremony was mere formality. The Hat had scarcely touched his head before it shouted, "SLYTHERIN!"
The Slytherin table erupted in applause. Lucius's hand lifted, the faintest of gestures, but Draco's smirk widened all the same. He joined his new House with triumphant grace, his owl's cage gleaming under the candlelight.
Cassian's stomach knotted.
The names went on. Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Millicent Bulstrode. Then—
"Potter, Harry!"
The hall buzzed. Whispers swirled like sparks catching dry straw: The Boy Who Lived… is it really him? Heads craned, voices rose. Cassian leaned forward despite himself, catching sight of the boy with untidy black hair and round glasses. Harry walked hesitantly toward the stool, all eyes upon him.
The Hat deliberated longer here. Cassian couldn't hear its words, but he could see the boy's expression flicker: doubt, fear, resistance. And then the shout: "GRYFFINDOR!"
The hall exploded. The Gryffindor table thundered with cheers, clapping so loud the enchanted candles trembled. Harry stumbled to join them, red-faced but smiling faintly, swallowed by their triumphant roar.
Cassian's heart clenched in a strange mix of envy and bitterness. This boy—barely older than him, equally small, equally lost—was already adored, celebrated. Where Cassian walked in silence, unseen, Harry Potter walked into legend.
Names dwindled. Only a few remained. McGonagall's voice cut once more across the hall.
"Thorne, Cassian."
The name struck like a thrown stone. For a heartbeat, silence held. Then, from the Slytherin line, Draco's laugh split it apart — sharp, cruel, and deliberate.
"Thorne?" He smirked openly. "Not even a proper family crest to his name. Pathetic."
A ripple of chuckles ran down the table, pure-blood faces turning to smirk. Even some Gryffindors craned their necks, whispering. The name rolled through the Hall again, no longer just his own — it was Draco's weapon now, hammered into mockery.
Cassian froze mid-step, the box in his satchel pulsing faintly against his side. His throat worked, but he said nothing, forcing his legs forward toward the stool.
"Silence, Mr. Malfoy!" McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip. But the echo of laughter had already left its mark.
Draco only leaned back, smug and unrepentant, eyes glittering with triumph.
Cassian climbed onto the stool, the Sorting Hat descending toward his head as the jeers faded into whispers.
"Well, well," a voice murmured instantly inside his mind. Dry, thoughtful, ancient. "Now here is something unusual."
Cassian's throat tightened.
"I feel ambition," the Hat mused. "A hunger to prove yourself, sharp as any serpent's fang. A desire not merely to survive, but to rise above those who look down on you. That would serve you well in Slytherin…"
Cassian's stomach turned. Draco's face flashed unbidden in his mind: smirking, owl gleaming, Lucius watching with pride.
"No," he thought fiercely.
The Hat chuckled. "Not so quick to dismiss it. You could do well there, boy. Cleverness, resourcefulness, a will forged sharp by hardship—these are Slytherin's gifts. You would make a name for yourself."
Cassian pressed back against its voice. "I will not sit at Draco's table. I will not serve his shadow forever."
The Hat hummed thoughtfully. "Then Gryffindor, perhaps? Yes… I see bravery here, though it is not loud or showy. Yours is a quieter flame—endurance, the courage to stand though all forces would see you fall. It would not be easy for you, there. You would be tested. Constantly."
"I don't care," Cassian thought. "I'd rather fight every day than sit silent while they sneer."
The Hat's voice deepened, amused. "Defiance. Yes… you would clash, not only with them, but with yourself. Very well, if you are so certain. You wish to face the fire? Then fire it shall be."
The Hat bellowed aloud: "GRYFFINDOR!"
The cheer that erupted was loud, but Cassian barely heard it. His chest thudded with relief, with fear, with something else—something sharp and unfamiliar. Victory? Perhaps only a fragment.
He slid off the stool, removing the Hat. His eyes flicked briefly toward the Slytherin table. Draco's expression froze, shock quickly melting into disgust. Lucius's face tightened, the smallest of cracks in his composure. Narcissa's lips pressed thin.
Cassian turned away. For once, he walked not behind, but toward a table of his own.
The Gryffindors clapped, some with genuine warmth, others with the easy enthusiasm of House loyalty. He slid into a seat near the end of the bench, across from Harry Potter himself. Their eyes met briefly. Harry gave him a small, uncertain nod—acknowledgment, nothing more. Cassian returned it faintly, his satchel pressed to his side.
The Sorting continued. The last names were called, cheers rose and fell, until at last McGonagall rolled up her scroll.
The Headmaster rose.
Albus Dumbledore stood tall and thin, his long silver beard gleaming in the candlelight. His half-moon spectacles twinkled as his gaze swept the hall. "Welcome!" he said warmly, his voice filling every corner. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Let the feast begin!"
Food appeared upon the golden plates in an instant—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, puddings, pies. Students gasped and laughed, reaching hungrily for dishes. Conversation swelled into a tide of sound.
Cassian sat still for a moment. The serpent box thrummed faintly in his satchel, as though aware of his new seat. He laid a hand against the leather, steadying it. Then, cautiously, he reached for food.
Draco's laughter rang across the hall, but for the first time, Cassian did not flinch. He had crossed the divide. He was no longer Malfoy's shadow.
He was Gryffindor.