The Hogwarts Express was a cacophony of noise, steam, and the smell of pumpkin pasties, but inside the Malfoy compartment, it was a fortress of curated silence. Darla sat by the window, her dark blue eyes tracking the blurred green of the countryside. Opposite her, Draco was mid-sentence, flanked by the hulking, silent forms of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.
"Father says the school hasn't been the same since Dumbledore took over," Draco drawled, leaning back with a smirk that didn't quite hide his nerves. "Too many 'Muggle-lovers' in the staff room. Isn't that right, Darla?"
Darla didn't look away from the window. "Father says a lot of things, Draco. Most of them are for the benefit of whoever is listening."
Draco frowned, sensing the subtle jab. Before he could retort, the compartment door slid open. A girl with a pug-like face and a rigid posture stepped in.
"Is it true?" Pansy Parkinson asked, her eyes darting between the siblings. "They're saying Harry Potter is on the train."
The name hung in the air like a localized thunderstorm. Darla felt a sharp, sudden prickle at the back of her mind a Legilimetic flash of a dark cupboard, a cold green light, and a pair of broken glasses. She blinked the vision away, her long eyelashes brushing her cheek.
"Potter?" Draco sat up straighter, his eyes gleaming. "Well, we ought to go and see if he's as famous as the books say."
"You go," Darla said, finally turning her gaze to the group. Her voice was cool, possessing that "vivacious" edge that made people stop and listen even when she was dismissing them. "I'd rather not start my first year trailing behind you like a shadow, Draco. I have my own introductions to make."
The Great Hall was more magnificent than any vision Darla had conjured. The enchanted ceiling reflected a stormy violet sky, and thousands of candles hovered in the air. As the first-years filed in, Darla walked with her head held high, her frame was small but her presence commanding.
She felt the eyes of the older students. She heard the whispers: "Another Malfoy," and "Look at that hair definitely a Black."
She ignored them, her focus narrowed on the stool at the front of the hall. One by one, names were called.
"Malfoy, Draco!"
The Hat barely touched his head before it shrieked: "SLYTHERIN!"
Draco swaggered to the green-and-silver table, looking relieved. Darla felt a pang of sympathy; she knew the terror behind that swagger.
"Malfoy, Darla!"
The Hall went quiet. The "older" Malfoy. The daughter.
Darla sat on the stool and felt the heavy, patched fabric drop over her eyes. Darkness reclaimed her.
"Aha," a tiny, dry voice whispered in her ear. "Another one. But wait… not quite the same. There is a wall here, isn't there? A natural Legilimens at eleven? Very rare. Very dangerous."
I am who I need to be, Darla thought fiercely, clenching her hands on the edge of the stool.
"Are you? You have a sharp mind, girl. You could out-think half the Ravenclaws before breakfast. And there is a spark of something… moral? A sense of right that your brother lacks. You could be a hero in Gryffindor, if you had the stomach for the noise."
My family is in Slytherin, Darla countered. My loyalty is to my blood.
"Loyalty," the Hat mused. "A noble trait, or a cage. You have the ambition to lead, the talent to soar, and the cunning to survive the storm you're about to walk into. Better be…"
"SLYTHERIN!"
The green table erupted. Darla stood up, smoothed her robes, and walked toward her House. As she sat down next to a beaming Draco, her eyes drifted toward the Gryffindor table. There, a small boy with messy black hair and bright green eyes, in sliver round rimmed glasses he was watching her with a look of quiet curiosity.
Darla didn't smirk. She didn't sneer. She simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the boy who lived, before turning to accept the congratulations of her housemates.
Her life in the dungeons had begun, but as she looked at the silver serpents on the walls, Darla knew one thing: she would be the one holding the leash, not the other way around.