Fred and George Weasley

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was filled with the typical bustle of the start of the year, but to him everything seemed distant, as if the entire castle were holding its breath.

The candles floated high above, reflecting in the stained-glass windows, while the students whispered, curious about the new face that had just been called.

The Sorting Hat still rested crookedly on his head when the word echoed, firm and inevitable: Slytherin. A brief silence spread before restrained applause erupted. He felt the weight of everyone's gaze as he walked to the green and silver table, sitting down with the controlled posture of someone who had learned early on not to explain himself.

On the other side of the hall, two redheads bowed at the same time.

Fred Weasley: So that's it... new student, troublemaker... and Slytherin.

George Weasley: I was going to say "interesting problem," but you were quicker.

The two didn't look away. There was something wrong with that equation, something that bothered them more than it should. They hated Slytherins. They always had. It was almost a moral principle. And yet, as they watched him discreetly laugh at someone at the table in their own house, they felt that treacherous, silent sensation growing in their chests. Too much curiosity. Too much attention.

Fred Weasley: I didn't like it.

George Weasley: That's a lie. You hated liking it.

And at that moment, without either of them having the courage to admit it, something began to stir. It wasn't war. Not yet. It was worse. Self-interest.