in his wake | t.r [ongoing]

Chapter 5 - Lorcan Avery

Chapter 5 - Lorcan Avery

By November, the chill of winter had begun to seep into the castle, sharpening the air and darkening the corners of the Slytherin common room.

Lorcan Avery reclined in one of the leather chairs closest to the fire, his posture casual but not slouched. He was the quiet one in the group, a steady presence amid Malfoy's sharp arrogance and Lestrange's feral humour. Quiet, but never unnoticed. It wasn't in his nature to fill the room with words, but when he spoke, the others listened.

Hogwarts had become his home quickly—almost too quickly. From the moment Lorcan and the others had stepped off the train, their names had preceded them like a herald's trumpet. Malfoy, Lestrange, Rosier, Mulciber, Avery, Nott. Names that were etched into the school's very foundation, whispered with reverence or resentment, depending on the company. It didn't matter that they were first-years; in the hierarchy of Hogwarts, they were already unreachable.

Older students often gave way when they passed, not out of respect for their skill but for their lineage. Prefects turned blind eyes to their indiscretions, and professors, even those who prided themselves on fairness, often hesitated before scolding them too harshly. It was a privilege Lorcan wore easily, though he was keenly aware of the subtle differences between himself and his companions.

Malfoy sat at the centre of their circle, as always. His pale hair caught the firelight, gleaming like a crown as he leaned back in his chair with the languid ease of someone born to lead. Lestrange sprawled beside him, his grin sharp and feral, while Rosier perched on the armrest, tossing a walnut into the air and catching it idly. Mulciber, ever restless, was fiddling with his wand, muttering under his breath as he practised a spell while Nott was starting to drift off in front of the fire.

Lorcan observed them with a quiet amusement that bordered on detachment. He was one of them, of course—he had the bloodline, the connections, the instincts—but he lacked the bravado that came so naturally to the others. Where Malfoy thrived on attention and Lestrange on intimidation, Lorcan preferred the background, where he could watch and think without distraction.

"Do you remember that summer at the Manor?" Malfoy asked, leaning back in his chair. "When we found that old broom in the attic?"

Lestrange's grin widened. "The one that could barely stay in the air? How could I forget? Rosier flew straight into the garden wall."

"It wasn't my fault," Rosier protested, throwing a walnut into his mouth. "The thing was cursed."

Malfoy snickered. "It wasn't cursed. You just don't know how to steer."

"And you do?" Rosier shot back, his eyes narrowing. "As I recall, you refused to even try it."

Malfoy shrugged, his smirk growing. "Because I know better than to embarrass myself."

The laughter that followed was easy, unforced. It was a reminder of how seamlessly they had slipped into their roles here at Hogwarts, carrying with them the bonds and feuds formed long before the Sorting Hat had placed them in Slytherin.

The heavy oak door creaked open, and Viola Carrow, one of the Slytherin prefects, strode in, her entrance punctuated by the sharp click of her heels against the stone. Her presence alone was enough to draw attention; conversation stilled, heads turned, and even the fire seemed to dim under her imperious gaze.

"Listen closely," Carrow said, her prefect badge glinting in the firelight. "The duelling club is now open to first-years. The first session will be held tomorrow evening in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Prefects will supervise, and the usual rules apply: first-years duel only first-years, no spells beyond Grade 1 are to be used, and nothing that would cause permanent injuries. Consider this your chance to prove yourselves."