Harry Potter: The Last Potter

The feast that followed the Sorting was nothing short of overwhelming. As Harry took his seat at the long Slytherin table, he marveled at the spread laid out before him. The table groaned under the weight of every conceivable type of food—roast meats, shimmering fruits, fluffy mashed potatoes, pies of all flavors, and vegetables that seemed impossibly fresh. The air was filled with the savory scents of a meal fit for royalty, and Harry couldn't help but dig in, his hunger from the long journey finally catching up to him. But just as soon as he took something, two or three more dishes would appear in its place—roasted chickens, golden pastries, and what seemed to be an endless supply of pumpkin pasties.

Each bite was delicious, far beyond anything he had ever tasted, and Harry found himself eating more than he intended, his stomach satisfying a hunger he hadn't even realized he had. The food felt almost magical in its abundance and taste. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath and looking around at the other students.

However, his moment of satisfaction was short-lived as his eyes caught a few glances from his fellow Slytherins. Some students were staring at him, their heads tilted slightly as they whispered among themselves in hushed tones. The way they looked at him made him feel… out of place, as if he were under a microscope. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wondering what was being said about him. Their whispers were quiet enough to be indecipherable, but Harry could see them pointing at him subtly. Some eyes widened, others narrowed, but none of them seemed welcoming, not in the way he had hoped.

It wasn't just the whispers. It was the way they spoke when they did address him—polite but distant, almost as if they were trying to make him feel like he didn't belong. There was no warmth, no real attempt to include him. Harry noticed that several of the older students, dressed in their elegant green and silver robes, would nod in acknowledgment when Pansy introduced him, but that was the extent of it. No one went out of their way to make him feel comfortable, to offer him a seat by their side or to ask about his life before Hogwarts. It was as though Harry's presence was simply accepted out of necessity, as if they were marking a box on a list but not actually welcoming him.

Pansy, however, seemed completely unfazed by the coldness around them. She leaned toward Harry with a sly grin and gestured with a lazy hand toward the other notable families at the table. "See that one?" she said, pointing to a tall, thin boy with an aristocratic nose and an air of superiority, "That's Adrian Montague, part of the Montague family. Very old money. They've been in Slytherin for generations." She continued to point out others, all of whom nodded politely in her direction when she mentioned their names, their eyes quickly turning away as if they had better things to do.

There was a certain coldness to the way the students acknowledged Harry, a silent acknowledgment that he wasn't truly one of them yet. It wasn't outright hostility, but it was the kind of coldness that made Harry feel like an outsider, as if he had to prove his worthiness before he could join their ranks. Even Pansy's enthusiasm, her attempts to include him in their world, felt… performative, as though she was trying to show him off rather than truly welcome him into her circle.

"And that's Blaise Zabini," Pansy continued, her tone almost too casual as she pointed to a tall, dark-skinned boy with a sharp jawline and eyes that glimmered with the same disinterest as the others. "You'll notice him if you ever step out of line. His family doesn't take kindly to weakness." Pansy's tone shifted slightly when she mentioned Zabini's family, a sharp edge to her voice. "But he's loyal—well, to those he deems worthy. He doesn't play the political game like some others."

Harry gave a small nod, his curiosity piqued. But it didn't take long for the conversation to turn back to quieter whispers, Pansy now turning to the students around them with ease, effortlessly playing the role of the charming, confident Slytherin. She pointed to others, many of whom Harry had never seen before, each of them seeming to fit a certain mold: wealthy, well-spoken, and powerful, but none of them offering more than polite smiles. Harry had learned quickly that in Slytherin, power and bloodlines spoke louder than personal connections or kindness.

As he chewed another mouthful of food, his mind began to wander. Was this what it was going to be like for him at Hogwarts? Being the new kid in Slytherin, constantly on the outside looking in? He had always expected a certain degree of distance, but this—this felt like something else. It was more than just the normal separation between students from different houses. It was a cold, calculating distance, one that felt more like a test than an opportunity for connection.

Ron, who had been sitting across the hall with the Gryffindors, glanced over at him and caught his eye. Harry could see the concern in his friend's gaze, and for a brief moment, he felt a twinge of longing to be back with his old friend, even though he knew it wasn't possible. Not here. Not anymore.

He turned back to the table, his thoughts swirling. Pansy was still talking, still acting as if everything was normal, as though this was just another dinner, just another part of life. But Harry couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on around him than he was being told. The hushed whispers, the calculating stares—he was beginning to feel like he was being watched, evaluated, and perhaps even tested. His presence in Slytherin wasn't just a coincidence. It was a challenge.

And the challenge, Harry realized with a growing unease, wasn't just about fitting in. It was about surviving the game that was Slytherin.

As the last of the desserts vanished from the gleaming golden plates, the hall fell silent. The colorful robed man who had been seated at the center of the staff table rose to address the students. His beard was long and silver, his half-moon spectacles glinting under the soft light of the enchanted ceiling. His presence commanded attention, though Harry noticed that Pansy, seated beside him, barely glanced in his direction. Instead, she let out a quiet sigh and rolled her eyes dramatically, as though the mere act of listening to the man was beneath her.

"Who's that?" Harry asked, leaning closer to Pansy.

She gave him a sidelong glance, clearly annoyed that he hadn't figured it out on his own. "That's the headmaster, Dumbledore," she said, her voice dripping with a mix of exasperation and disdain. "Albus Dumbledore. One of the most powerful wizards alive. At least, that's what everyone says."

Harry blinked, confused by her tone. "He doesn't seem that bad," he replied cautiously, though he didn't really know what to make of the man himself.

Pansy snorted, a bitter smile curling at her lips. "Oh, he's powerful, no doubt about that. But don't let that grandfatherly look fool you, Harry. He's not some benevolent saint. He lies. He manipulates. He uses his power to get his way more often than not, and half the time, it's for some grand scheme only he understands." Her voice grew quieter, almost conspiratorial. "Don't trust him too much. Slytherins learn that the hard way."

Harry frowned, unsure how to respond. Dumbledore didn't look like the sort of man Pansy was describing, but then again, Harry was beginning to realize that appearances could be deceiving, especially in the world of wizards and witches. As Dumbledore began his speech, welcoming the students to another year at Hogwarts and reminding them of a few school rules—such as the ban on entering the Forbidden Forest—Harry couldn't help but glance at Pansy out of the corner of his eye. Her words stuck with him, and he wondered if she was speaking from personal experience or simply parroting the opinions of others.

When the speech was over, the hall erupted in applause, though Pansy clapped as little as possible, her hands barely making any noise. Harry noticed she wasn't the only Slytherin who seemed unimpressed. A few of the older students exchanged knowing smirks and whispered to one another as they rose from their seats.

"Come on," Pansy said, tugging Harry's sleeve as the Slytherins began to gather near a tall, thin man with an imposing presence. His oily black hair framed a sallow face, his hooked nose casting sharp shadows under the dim candlelight. The man's cold, black eyes scanned the group with a look of quiet disdain, as though he found even his own students a tiresome chore.

"That's Professor Snape," Pansy whispered. "Our Head of House. He's brilliant with potions and fiercely loyal to Slytherin. You'll want to stay on his good side, Harry. Trust me."

Harry nodded, though Snape's stern expression didn't inspire much confidence. The professor waited until the Slytherins had assembled before speaking, his voice low and smooth, yet carrying an unmistakable authority.

"Follow me," Snape said curtly, turning on his heel without waiting for a response.

The Slytherins filed out of the Great Hall and into the dimly lit corridors of the castle. Harry noticed that the further they went, the colder and darker the surroundings became. The stone walls were rough and damp, their surfaces glistening faintly in the torchlight. The air grew heavier, carrying a faint, earthy smell that reminded Harry of his uncle's basement at Privet Drive, though this place felt much more foreboding.

The group descended a long, spiraling staircase that seemed to twist deeper and deeper into the belly of the castle. Harry couldn't help but shiver slightly, though whether it was from the cold or the unsettling atmosphere, he couldn't say. Pansy, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease, her steps confident as she kept close to Harry's side.

At last, they reached a pair of heavy wooden doors, carved with intricate serpentine designs that seemed to writhe and twist in the flickering light. Snape pushed the doors open with a sweep of his arm, revealing the Slytherin common room.

The room was as Harry had imagined it—dark and elegant, with a sinister beauty that was impossible to ignore. Green and silver tapestries hung from the walls, their designs depicting snakes coiled around wands and ancient Slytherin crests. The room was lit by a series of greenish lamps that cast an eerie glow over the polished stone floor and the dark leather furniture. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, its flames crackling softly, though they gave off little warmth. The ceiling was low and arched, giving the room a cavernous feel that made Harry think of an underwater grotto.

"This," Snape said, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness, "is your common room. You will find your dormitories through the doors to the left and right. Girls to the left, boys to the right. I expect you to treat this space with respect and to uphold the reputation of Slytherin House at all times. Remember, you represent the cunning and ambition of Salazar Slytherin himself."

Snape's eyes swept over the group, lingering on Harry for a fraction of a second longer than anyone else. Harry felt a slight chill, as though Snape could see straight through him, reading every thought in his head. Then, without another word, Snape turned and left, the doors closing softly behind him.

The Slytherins began to scatter, some heading straight to their dormitories while others lingered in the common room to talk. Pansy grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him toward a plush armchair near the fireplace.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked, a sly smile playing at her lips as she gestured around the room.

"It's… different," Harry said honestly, still taking it all in. "Not exactly what I expected."

"Different good or different bad?" Pansy pressed, raising an eyebrow.

Harry hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Different good."

Pansy smirked. "I knew you'd come around. Welcome to Slytherin, Potter. It's not all bad… just most of it."

He talked to Pansy for a while longer, enjoying her chatter about the Slytherin families and how the house worked, until a dark-haired girl he didn't recognize called her over. Pansy waved him off, promising to be back soon, and left Harry standing awkwardly in the middle of the common room. He looked around, unsure what to do. Most of the other students had acknowledged him with polite nods when they heard his name, but it was clear that without Pansy, very few were eager to strike up a conversation. Harry shifted uneasily, trying not to look too out of place.

"So, you're the last Potter," came a voice from behind him.

Harry turned to see a boy with pale blond hair slicked neatly back, his sharp features framed by an expression of practiced arrogance. His posture radiated an effortless sense of superiority, and his robes were immaculate, as though he had been born to wear them. Flanking him were two large boys who looked like they could have been brothers, each holding what appeared to be the world's largest cupcakes in their massive hands. They seemed more interested in their snacks than the conversation.

"I thought you'd be taller," the blond boy continued, his tone light but edged with something just shy of a sneer. "Did your… family not feed you properly?"

Harry raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the comment but unwilling to let himself be rattled. "I'm pretty sure I've been fed just fine," he said evenly. "And you are?"

The blond boy seemed almost amused by the question. "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," he said, as though the name itself was an answer. "I suppose you've heard of the Malfoys."

"Can't say I have," Harry replied, folding his arms. He hadn't, but he suspected that this wasn't the sort of thing Malfoy was used to hearing.

Draco's expression faltered for the briefest moment before he recovered, his smirk widening. "Well, you have now. The Malfoys are one of the oldest and most respected families in the wizarding world. You'd do well to remember that." He glanced at Harry's robes and added, "It's good you're in Slytherin. At least you won't embarrass the Potter name further by being sorted into some lesser house."

Harry felt his jaw tighten but forced himself to keep calm. There was a sharpness to Malfoy's words, but there wasn't outright hostility—at least, not yet. "I didn't know my name needed defending," Harry said coolly. "But thanks for the concern."

Draco studied him for a moment, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. "Hmm. Not bad. Most people wouldn't dare talk back to me on their first night here." He nodded, almost as if granting Harry some sort of grudging approval. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

Harry wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a compliment, but he decided to take it as one. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, matching Malfoy's even tone.

Draco smirked again, though this time it seemed a little less calculated. "Well, Potter, stick with the right sort, and you might just make it through this place in one piece." He turned slightly, motioning to the two boys beside him. "These are Crabbe and Goyle, by the way. Not much for conversation, but they're loyal enough."

Crabbe and Goyle gave Harry identical, cupcake-filled grins, and Harry nodded politely, though he wasn't quite sure what to make of them.

Before Draco could say anything else, Pansy reappeared, sliding between them as if she'd sensed the tension from across the room. "Oh, there you are, Harry! I see you've met Draco," she said brightly, though her eyes flicked between the two boys as if gauging the atmosphere. "Draco, don't scare him off. He's new."

Draco raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just having a friendly chat, Pansy. Nothing to worry about."

"Good," Pansy said firmly, linking her arm with Harry's. "Because I've decided Harry's sitting with me at breakfast tomorrow, and I don't want him thinking all Slytherins are stuck-up snobs."

Draco chuckled softly. "I'll try not to ruin his impression, then." He gave Harry one last appraising look before turning to leave, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering after him.

As the three of them disappeared into the crowd, Harry exhaled slowly. "Is he always like that?" he asked Pansy.

Pansy grinned. "Draco? Oh, you'll get used to him. He's not as bad as he seems—most of the time." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Just don't let him think he can walk all over you. He respects strength, even if he won't admit it."

Harry nodded, filing the advice away. It was shaping up to be an interesting first year.

Once everyone had finished talking and settling into their places in the Slytherin common room, the sound of a throat clearing drew the attention of the first years. Standing near the fireplace was an older boy, tall and broad-shouldered, with a prefect badge pinned prominently to his robes. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his expression carried an air of authority that brooked no argument. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and clear, cutting through the low murmur of the room like a whip.

"Alright, first years, listen up," he began, his eyes scanning the group of newcomers. "Boys, you'll follow me to your dormitories. Girls, you're with her." He gestured toward a tall girl with dark hair tied back in a severe bun. Her expression was no less commanding, and she inclined her head curtly, already beckoning the girls to line up behind her.

Harry hesitated, watching as Pansy gave him a fleeting glance over her shoulder. She offered a quick, reassuring smile, though it did little to ease the knot forming in his stomach. He wasn't sure why, but he felt an odd sense of unease. Part of it was the unfamiliarity of his surroundings—the cold, green-tinged light of the common room, the low hum of hushed conversations—but there was something else. Something unspoken hung in the air, a weight he couldn't quite name.

Before he could follow the other boys, he felt a sharp tug on the sleeve of his robe. Startled, he turned to see Draco Malfoy standing beside him, his pale features alight with faint amusement. The boy's gray eyes sparkled with something that wasn't quite friendliness, and his lips curled into a smirk that seemed permanently etched onto his face.

"Relax, Potter," Draco said, his tone dripping with casual condescension. "You'll see your fiancée soon enough."

Harry froze mid-step, his heart skipping a beat. "My what?" he blurted out, staring at Draco in wide-eyed disbelief.

Draco's smirk widened, clearly enjoying the reaction. "Oh, come now, Potter," he drawled, rolling his eyes as though Harry's surprise were somehow a personal inconvenience. "Don't tell me you didn't know. Really, didn't anyone bother to explain your family's... connections? Or are you so far removed from the old wizarding traditions that none of this was passed down?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but his words caught in his throat. "What are you talking about?" he managed finally, his voice quiet but tinged with confusion. He glanced around to see if anyone else was paying attention, but the other first years were too preoccupied with organizing themselves to notice the exchange.

Draco let out an exaggerated sigh, as if explaining something painfully obvious to a slow learner. "Honestly, Potter, I expected better. You're supposed to be the famous Boy Who Lived, yet you don't even know your own family history." He crossed his arms, clearly relishing the moment. "Fine, I'll enlighten you. Pansy Parkinson, your charming little shadow over there—" he gestured lazily toward the girls lining up behind the tall prefect, "—comes from one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain. And guess what? So do you."

Harry frowned, his confusion only deepening. "I know that much," he said carefully. "But what does that have to do with... what you just said?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, as if Harry had just asked the most foolish question imaginable. "It has everything to do with it," he said, his voice lowering slightly, as though letting Harry in on a particularly juicy secret. "The Potters might have built their reputation on being Gryffindor's golden saints, all noble and self-sacrificing, but even your family wasn't above making alliances when it suited them. And that's where the Parkinsons come in. Your great-grandparents arranged a marriage contract decades ago to secure ties between the two families."

Harry's jaw dropped. "A marriage contract?" he repeated, the words tasting foreign and strange on his tongue. "That's ridiculous. My parents never said anything about that."

Draco shrugged, clearly unbothered by Harry's incredulity. "Well, they wouldn't have, would they? From what I hear, your parents went out of their way to reject a lot of the old traditions. But just because they didn't care about things like that doesn't mean the rest of the wizarding world forgot. And apparently, neither did the Parkinsons."

Harry stared at him, trying to process what he was hearing. It didn't make sense—none of it did. How could there be a marriage contract involving him that he'd never been told about? Why had Pansy never mentioned it? For that matter, why had no one else said anything about it until now?

"Pansy's mother mentioned it to mine over tea last year," Draco continued, his tone growing more smug with every word. "She was absolutely thrilled when she found out the contract still held. Apparently, that's why Pansy knew to get her robes fitted early. She's known about this for months." He chuckled softly, as though the entire situation were some grand joke. "Honestly, Potter, I expected you to be better informed. It's not every day someone like you ends up tied to someone like her."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides, his emotions a swirling mess of confusion, frustration, and disbelief. "I don't believe you," he said finally, his voice firmer now. "If this is some kind of joke—"

"It's not," Draco interrupted, his smirk fading slightly. "Believe me, Potter, I'd love nothing more than to see you flounder in your ignorance, but this? This is real. Ask Pansy if you don't believe me."

Before Harry could respond, the prefect called out again, this time instructing the boys to follow him toward the dormitories. Draco stepped back, his smirk returning as he gave Harry a parting glance. "Good luck, Potter," he said, his tone mockingly cheerful. "Looks like you're going to need it."

Harry watched him walk away, his mind racing with questions. As he followed the other boys down the dimly lit corridor, he couldn't help but wonder if Draco was telling the truth—and what it might mean if he was.

It didn't take long for Harry to realize he was standing in a long, dimly lit hallway, its atmosphere heavy with a sense of age and mystery. Polished wooden doors stretched down both sides, their dark surfaces gleaming faintly in the greenish glow cast by the enchanted torches mounted on the walls. The light flickered slightly, creating shadows that seemed to move and shift like underwater creatures. The air smelled faintly of old wood and dust, as though the place hadn't been disturbed in centuries. Harry couldn't help but feel out of place in this forgotten corridor, as though he were intruding on something ancient and secret. The boys ahead of him had already started to filter into the rooms assigned to them, their muffled voices a faint echo behind the thick oak doors.

Harry shifted from foot to foot, still uncertain of what was expected of him. He was about to follow the others when the sound of footsteps approached from behind. The older boy with the prefect badge—clearly in charge of the group—stepped forward with a brisk, authoritative air. His eyes were sharp, almost predatory, and his voice rang out in the stillness of the hallway, cutting through the soft murmur of the other first years. "Hold up," he said, raising a hand to stop Harry.

Harry turned, meeting the prefect's gaze. The boy's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked Harry up and down, as though sizing him up. "You're the Potter kid, right?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, his mind momentarily blank. He'd been hearing that more often than he liked lately. "Yeah, that's me," he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

The prefect let out an exaggerated sigh, his tone dripping with annoyance and a hint of condescension. "Figures. As the head of a Most Ancient and Noble House, you don't get to share a dormitory with the commoners." He waved a dismissive hand toward the boys entering the rooms ahead. "Your room's up there. You're too important for this lot."

Harry blinked, unsure of what to make of the comment. His gaze followed the prefect's outstretched finger, pointing to a narrow, spiraling staircase at the far end of the hall. He hadn't noticed it before, hidden in the shadows. The staircase wound upward into a dark expanse, the steps seeming to vanish into the blackness above. Harry could barely make out where it led, but the faint sense of foreboding that rippled through him only deepened as he took in the sight.

He turned back to the prefect, frowning. "What's wrong with this hallway? I mean... why can't I stay here?" Harry's voice wavered just a little, as if he could already sense something was off.

The prefect looked at him like he'd just asked the most absurd question. "You're a Potter," he said, his voice sharp with impatience. "Surely you know what that means. You're not a regular first-year. You don't belong in a dorm with all these plebeians." He sneered as he said the word, as if the idea of being among common students was somehow beneath him. "You get your own quarters, because that's what family privilege buys you. All heads of house do."

Harry's frown deepened, the weight of the words sinking in. He'd spent the last couple of weeks coming to terms with being famous for something he barely remembered—being "the Boy Who Lived" was one thing, but this was different. The idea that his bloodline somehow made him different from the others, as if he had some special right to be treated differently, unsettled him. "I'm not a head of house," he said, a little too quickly, as if trying to convince himself as much as the prefect. "I'm just a first-year."

The prefect snorted, an almost derisive sound. "That's not how it works, Potter. You're the last of your line, which makes you head of your house by default. Don't pretend like you don't know that. And unless you want to sleep in the hallway tonight, I suggest you stop whining and start acting like you belong."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but the prefect cut him off, a sharp gesture of his hand stopping him in his tracks. "And that ring," the prefect said, pointing to the Potter crest etched into the silver band Harry had started wearing after his visit to Gringotts. "You do know how to use it, don't you?"

Harry's stomach dropped. "Use it?" he repeated, the question falling from his lips like a whisper. "No… why?"

The prefect groaned, rubbing his temples as if Harry's ignorance were some kind of personal affront. "Merlin's beard, Potter, how do you not know this already? What did the goblins even do when they handed it to you? Didn't they explain anything?"

"Uh, no," Harry admitted, his voice growing more defensive by the second. "They just gave me the ring and said it was important, that's all."

The prefect muttered something under his breath that sounded like "typical goblins," and Harry could tell he was losing patience. "Of course they didn't tell you," he said with an exaggerated eye roll, as though this were all so painfully obvious. "Fine, whatever. I'll show you. But don't say I didn't warn you if you muck this up."

The prefect stepped aside and gestured for Harry to follow him up the spiral staircase. Harry hesitated for a moment, then nodded, his curiosity growing despite the unease still gnawing at him. The stairs creaked beneath their feet as they ascended, the air growing colder and thicker the higher they climbed. The darkness at the top seemed to press in on them, as if the very air was charged with something ancient. Harry felt a chill settle deep in his bones, but he kept his eyes focused ahead, determined to find out what this was all about.

They finally reached a landing, and the prefect stopped in front of a large wooden door. The wood was dark, almost black, and intricately carved with swirling, unrecognizable patterns. In the center of the door was an ornate lock, unlike anything Harry had ever seen before. It had 28 places for rings to be inserted, each one glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Can't say a Potter head has needed to use this door much," the prefect muttered, clearly frustrated by the whole situation. "All you need to do is push your ring into one of the slots and turn it clockwise until it clicks. After that, just pull it open. I trust you can at least manage that, Potter." His tone was skeptical, as if he doubted Harry would be able to perform such a simple task.

Harry's hand instinctively went to the ring on his finger, and he studied the lock with growing apprehension. It seemed impossible that something so simple could unlock such an elaborate door, but the prefect's tone left little room for doubt. With a deep breath, Harry moved forward, pushing the ring into the lock and turning it. To his surprise, it clicked easily, and the door swung open, revealing the room beyond.

The prefect didn't say anything further, simply gesturing for Harry to step inside. Harry hesitated one last time before crossing the threshold, his mind racing with the implications of what had just happened. The world inside this mysterious door—his family's legacy, his place in it—was something he was only beginning to understand, and already, it was beginning to feel far more complicated than he ever could have imagined.

Just before the prefect made to leave, he pointed at the two statues of knights flanking the door. "Those are your bodyguards," he explained, his tone carrying a hint of finality. "Should anyone try to force their way inside or attack you while you're inside, they will... deal with them. I trust you understand what I mean." He looked at Harry for a moment, as if expecting some sign of comprehension.

Harry nodded, not entirely sure what to make of the cryptic warning but sensing it was better to just acknowledge it.

"Good," the prefect said, his voice now softening just a little. "Then I'll take my leave. Oh, one last thing—if you should ever need anything, just ring that bell." He gestured to a small, ornate silver bell mounted on the wall near the door. "A Hogwarts elf will see to you, unless, of course, you have an elf from your own holdings who you wish to tend to your needs."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "My own elf?"

The prefect gave a short, impatient wave, as though it were a given. "You're a Potter. Of course you do. I'll leave you to figure it out. Good night, Potter."

With that, the prefect turned on his heel and walked back down the spiraling stairs, his footsteps fading into the distance. Harry stood there, unsure whether to feel more curious or uneasy. The weight of the ring on his finger seemed heavier now, its significance suddenly much clearer.

The knights stood silent and unmoving, statuesque guardians in the dim light, their swords poised in defensive stances. Harry glanced at the bell again, then back at the door, its ornate lock gleaming in the flickering torchlight. The entire space felt distant, as though this room—and the privileges that came with it—were part of a world that Harry hadn't even begun to understand.

After a moment of hesitation, Harry took a deep breath and moved toward the door, his hand instinctively going to the ring as the prefect had instructed.