The Entrance Hall of Hogwarts buzzed with nervous excitement. Torches flickered along the stone walls, casting warm light over the wide staircase and the sea of first-years gathered beneath it. Harry stood among them, trying to keep up with everything his eyes landed on. Every stone, every sound, every draft of magic in the air felt new and overwhelming. Ron Weasley nudged him, pointing at the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall visible through the large open doors. Harry nodded faintly, barely breathing. The castle felt impossibly vast after a lifetime spent in a cupboard.
He shifted his weight uneasily. For a moment he felt as if someone were staring straight at him. When he turned, he noticed a pale boy examining him with a cool, almost calculating expression.
Draco Malfoy had noticed Harry the moment he entered the hall. He had heard stories about Harry Potter all his life, but none of them included the image of a boy this small, this wide-eyed, this undeniably real. Draco had to take a second look, then a third, just to be sure. The famous boy who lived looked nothing like he had imagined. Draco told himself that was why he walked over, but the truth sat quietly somewhere deeper. He wanted to be the first to speak to Harry, not the last.
Pansy Parkinson trailed behind Draco, watching with interest, while Crabbe and Goyle followed like silent shadows. Draco straightened his shoulders and approached Harry and Ron with the confidence he had practiced for years. His steps were smooth, precise, even elegant. He stopped in front of Harry and gave a small, almost polite nod.
"Is it true?" Draco asked quietly. "They are saying all sorts of things, but I did not believe it until now. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts."
Harry blinked, unsure what to say. Ron leaned slightly forward, protective already.
Draco ignored Ron for the moment. His eyes remained fixed on Harry. "My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
Ron let out a snort before Harry could respond. It was not loud, but it was enough.
Draco turned his head sharply toward Ron, his expression tightening. "Think my name is funny, do you? There is no need to ask yours. Red hair, a hand-me-down robe, freckles. You must be a Weasley."
Harry felt Ron stiffen beside him. Draco returned his attention to Harry, his posture slipping back into practiced elegance.
"You will soon find that some wizarding families are much better than others," Draco said calmly. "You do not want to go making friends with the wrong sort."
He offered his hand. His expression was smooth, but there was an unmistakable glint of expectation in his eyes. As if Harry should be grateful. As if this was a gift.
Harry stared at the pale hand hanging in the air between them. He thought of Dudley, of the boys who used to laugh while they chased him around the playground. Something about Draco's confidence felt too familiar, too polished, too dangerous.
"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks."
The words came out sharper than he meant them to, but he did not take them back. Draco's hand froze. For a brief, flickering moment, a crack appeared in his expression. Surprise, irritation, and something like disbelief passed over his face before he concealed it again.
"I see," Draco said quietly. The calmness returned, but it was colder now, colder in a way that made the air shift.
He stepped back, chin lifted. "You will regret it."
Harry held his gaze, heartbeat loud in his ears, but he did not look away. A strange tension settled between them, almost electric, almost alive.
Before anything more could be said, Professor McGonagall swept back into the hall. Her stern voice cut through the chatter. "The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin. Please form a line."
The students shuffled nervously, the crowd dividing into a thin, uncertain row. Harry and Ron hurried forward. Draco turned to join the other Slytherin-bound students, but as he walked, he glanced back at Harry twice. Harry felt each glance land on him like a tug.
Draco's irritation did not fade. It settled into something heavier, something uncomfortably close to curiosity. He tried to brush it off as pride. No one turned down a Malfoy. But the sting in his chest remained, sharp and unwelcome.
Inside the Great Hall, four long tables stretched under the enchanted ceiling. Thousands of candles floated in midair. Harry felt awe wash over him, raw and childlike. Ron whispered a dozen comments, but Harry heard none of them fully. His mind drifted back to Draco's expression when Harry refused his hand.
Students were sorted one by one. When Harry's name echoed across the hall, everyone turned to look. Harry walked forward, palms damp, stomach tight. Draco watched from across the room, eyes sharp, unblinking. He had never cared about the Sorting Ceremony, yet suddenly he needed to know where Potter would end up.
As the Sorting Hat slipped down over Harry's eyes, Draco felt a strange feeling in his chest. He ignored it quickly..
Harry sat on the stool, heart thudding loud enough that he was sure the whole hall could hear it. The Sorting Hat slipped down over his eyes, its brim falling past his eyebrows until the world disappeared into darkness.
Almost at once, a low voice whispered inside his head.
"Hmm. Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. Talent… oh yes… and a thirst to prove yourself."
Harry froze. He had not opened his mouth; the Hat was speaking straight into his thoughts. It felt both ancient and strangely amused, as if flipping through pages of his mind like a book.
The Hat pressed on, soft and coaxing. "So where shall I put you? You could be great, you know. Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness."
Harry's stomach dropped. Slytherin. His first thought was Draco's smirk from earlier, that cold drawl about 'the wrong sort.' The idea of sitting at that table made something twist uncomfortably inside him.
He whispered the only words he could manage. "Not Slytherin."
The Hat sounded almost entertained. "Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You're full of potential, and Slytherin could bring it out."
Harry repeated it, harder this time, desperate. "Not Slytherin. Please… not Slytherin."
The Hat paused, as if leaning back in thought, then sighed.
"Well, if you're sure. Better be… Gryffindor."
The Hat shouted the last word aloud, and the darkness lifted. Harry blinked at the explosion of cheers from the 'Gryffindor' table, applause erupted. His whole body unclenched as he walked toward them, relief washing over him in a warm, dizzy wave. For the first time in his life, he belonged somewhere.
From the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy watched him with narrowed eyes, expression unreadable under the torchlight.
He watched the Gryffindor table cheer. Something sour and inexplicable tightened inside him. He tried to replace it with pride in his own house, but the feeling lingered stubbornly.
Then his own name was called. Draco walked up to the stool with confidence restored. The Sorting Hat placed him in 'Slytherin' almost immediately. The table roared with approval. He slid into his seat, shoulders straight, but he could not stop himself from glancing at Harry again.
Harry sat with Ron and a group of Gryffindors, laughing softly, but Draco's thoughts returned again and again to the moment in the Entrance Hall. "I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks."
Deaco had expected Harry Potter to be impressed, intimidated, or at least polite. Instead, he had been defiant. He told himself he would forget the moment soon. But deep down, he already knew he would not.
And although neither of the boys understood it then, their story had already begun.