SOLSTICE

054

The Great Hall hummed with the chaos of a new day, its enchanted ceiling casting a pale dawn glow, soft blues and golds streaked with wispy clouds. The air was thick with the scent of warm bread, sizzling sausages, and the sweet tang of pumpkin juice, undercut by the clatter of cutlery and the overlapping voices of hundreds of students.

Asher Bianchi lingered at the entrance, his small frame half-swallowed by the shadow of a towering stone archway. His Hufflepuff robes, still stiff with newness, hung loose on his slight shoulders, the yellow stripes a stark reminder of his unpleasant Sorting he has yet to come in terms with. His dark curls fell into his eyes, shielding them from the overwhelming bustle, but his fingers betrayed his nerves twisting the hem of his sleeve into tight knots. The noise was a tidal wave;  laughter exploding from the Gryffindor table, the sharp clink of goblets, the drone of sleepy chatter. It pressed against his chest, making his breaths shallow, his heart a frantic drumbeat. Too much. Too loud. Too everything.

His eyes darted across the hall, searching for the one constant he could cling to. Vir. His eyes found him sitting at the Slytherin table like a king, surrounded by his fellows. Theo Nott lounged to his right, his dark hair falling artfully over his forehead, his posture deceptively relaxed. Blaise Zabini leaned back with a lazy smirk, twirling a spoon with the ease of someone who owned every room he entered. Daphne Greengrass traced the rim of her goblet, her blonde hair catching the light like spun silk. Eva chatted animatedly, her hands gesturing with every word, while Draco Malfoy sat with his usual haughty tilt, picking at a piece of toast. And there was another boy tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar across his knuckles. Asher found him quite intimidating.

Asher’s stomach twisted, not just from hunger but from the weight of indecision. The Hufflepuff table was just across the hall, its students already digging into breakfast. He could sit there, blend in, be the good first-year who followed the rules. But the thought of facing those strangers alone made his throat tighten. Or he could cross to Slytherin, to Vir, where he felt safe but out of place, a yellow-robed intruder in a sea of green. His feet refused to move, rooted by doubt.

Then Cyril’s gaze flicked up, catching Asher’s like a lifeline. Those piercing eyes softened, just a fraction. Cyril raised a hand and pointed to the empty space beside him. The gesture was both invitation and comma cutting through Asher’s hesitation like a spell.

Isabella let out a soft squeal, her hands clasped under her chin. “Oh, Merlin’s soggy socks, look at that poor lamb! He’s practically trembling. I need to knit that boy a scarf.”

Regulus, seated a few rows away with the Slytherins, didn’t look up from the book he was pretending to read. His eyes roamed aimlessly over the page as his fingers tightened. "Why is she so bloody cute?" he muttered, voice barely audible over the hall’s din. Only Barty Crouch Jr., lounging beside him with a biscuit in hand, caught the words.

Barty opened his mouth, definitely to taint but instead popped the biscuit into his mouth. 

Sirius leaned forward, elbows on the table, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, Moony, looks like your future self’s got competition. Cyril’s playing mother hen, and I’m here for it.”

Remus’s lips twitched, but his eyes stayed on Asher, noting the boy’s hunched shoulders, the way his fingers fidgeted. “He’s… sensitive,” Remus murmured, his voice low, thoughtful. “More than most.”

Asher’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he shuffled forward, weaving through the crowd with his head bowed to avoid curious stares. The Hufflepuff table blurred past, a few first-years glancing up, their smiles hesitant but kind. He kept his focus on Cyril, each step easing the knot in his chest. When he reached the Slytherin table, Cyril shifted slightly, making space, and Asher slid onto the bench beside him, his small frame dwarfed by the older students’ presence.