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Heavy trunks settled on the compartment floor with quiet thuds. With his hands now free, Leandre Arnoult reached to fix his hair. Just as he did, his older brother’s hands appeared to straighten his collar. The crisp, slightly uncomfortable dress shirt underneath folded just so, then the robes smoothed over it.

“It was particularly windy,” Leandre chirped, smiling wide enough to show a gap in his lower set of teeth.

Octave Arnoult grimaced at the sight, waving his hand in a downward motion. A silent ‘don’t smile like that,’ then he sighed, leaning back to recline in the compartment seat.

“It was,” he agreed, “but it was calling for storms. Hardly surprising. I’m grateful we merely were not drenched.”

Leandre hummed happily, taking the seat across from him. His hands bunched at his knees, looking out the window. A shrill whistle from Hogwarts Express blared overhead, stifling student conversation. Just as Leandre shifted to get comfortable, the door opened and he smiled again. Bartemius Crouch slid in with a huff.

“Hi, Barty!” Leandre greeted enthusiastically. Truly the Crouch genes left very little room for disguise. He was looking more and more like Uncle Bartholomew with his dirty blonde hair and dark eyes.

Bartemius let his eyes drift to his younger cousin, nodding once in acknowledgment at first, letting himself sit in the space next to Octave before properly addressing him, “Hello, Leandre,” before the name even finished, Barty was already looking over to the older Arnoult boy. Leandre wasn’t surprised; they always sat next to each other at functions, murmuring amongst each other.

Mother insisted it was simply because they were so close in age, but Leandre fully believed it had more to do with their personalities. They both always were so stiff, talking about futures in the Ministry. It didn’t surprise him with Barty; Uncle Bartholomew worked in the Auror Office, so it felt natural that he would find a similar career. Octave seemed on the same path, though. The two traded Ministry secrets and plans like other boys traded chocolate frog cards.

Leandre had just leaned forward to hear what they were saying about Lady Yaxley when the door slid open again. Leandre’s brown eyes immediately lit up, another smile pulling at his mouth, “Abraxas!” he all but squealed, already scooting to make room for the Malfoy heir to sit next to him.

Octave cringed at the noise, narrowing his eyes at his younger brother, shaking his head in unspoken reprimand, but the younger boy was hardly swayed.

Abraxas Malfoy allowed a faint, fond smirk at the familiar enthusiasm, “Hello Leandre,” he hummed, elegantly taking the indicated spot Leandre had eagerly patted. Leandre could only watch in awe. He let the older boy settle in before scooting closer, leaving not an inch of space between them.

“Hello Octave,” Abraxas hummed, “and Bartemius.”

“Malfoy,” Barty murmured, hardly interested.

“Abraxas,” Octave greeted though he stared hard at his brother, like he already caught on to something and was waiting for Leandre to realize it too. The patience ran thinly very quickly though.

“Leandre,” he said, firm and measured, “do you recall our conversation about personal space?”

Leandre didn’t get time to react before an arm snaked around him, “No worries here, Octave,” Abraxas assured, “I would say I’m well accustomed to Leandre’s clinging nature by now. By comparison to you, it seems, I find it endearing.”

Octave narrowed his eyes without heat behind them. A heavy sigh heaving from his chest, “You’re indulging him, Abraxas..”

“He’s fine, Octave,” Abraxas dismissed again, “tell me, how did you find Professor Binns’ summer assignment?”

Leandre felt a wave of reverence wash over him at how easily Abraxas navigated the conversation. Octave sighed again, just as heavy, but followed the new subject change. Leandre was sure there was a flutter in his stomach, head falling to rest on Abraxas’s arm, right below his shoulder as the older boys’ talk drifted above his head like sophisticated smoke.

Classes that he wasn’t permitted to take yet, assignments older students mentioned that occurred every year, names of other boys he’d yet to meet. Without thinking about it, Leandre’s hand latched onto Abraxas’s sleeve, rubbing the almost silken fabric between his fingers. There was a delightful surge in his chest every time Abraxas spoke, embracing the vibrations against his own smaller body. Once there was a break in the conversation, Leandre immediately sought to fill it with his voice.

“Abraxas, I lost my bottom molar last week; mother says I’ve nearly gotten all my adult teeth! It felt proper too, since I’m now in Hogwarts with you lot! Adelaide isn’t looking forward to attending next year though. She says she doesn’t want to be surrounded by even more immature boys, but- “

“Leandre,” the younger boy jolted as Octave’s voice cut through his own, interrupting the barrage of words. He blinked, looking startled at his older brother, waiting for the chastisement he knew was coming.

“Breathe between your words and not so much at once. You sound too eager, and thereby ridiculous.”

Leandre furrowed his brows but looked up to Abraxas for confirmation. The platinum blonde boy offered an amused smile and put his finger to his mouth, a far gentler ‘shush’ than Octave had offered. Quite content with the difference, Leandre quieted down again, allowing the older boys’ conversation to resume.

___________________________________

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was crowded. Headmaster Dippet had explained how the Sorting ceremony would go for first years. Leandre felt his stomach knot up. Because of his last name, it wouldn’t take long for him to be called up.

“Leandre Arnoult!” Dippet announced; the room felt suffocating, overwhelming. His legs trembled as he made his way up to the front. He was helped up onto a stool. There was warmth on his forehead as the large Sorting Hat was placed atop. He stiffened on instinct, then a voice heard by only him reverberated in his mind; it drowning out anything from the outside world.

“Let's see... let's see... I see a certain Crouch brilliance, but not as a central position....” Leandre was quiet, but he knew exactly what it meant. Before his mother, the Crouch family had come from a long line of Ravenclaw students. Uncle Barthalomew and Ignatius were Ravenclaw, but his mother was placed in Slytherin, just like his father. Just like Octave. If Ravenclaw wasn’t being considered anymore, that left three other houses.

“I see an abundance of loyalty in your heart... but an ambitious desire to be near those of power... Hufflepuff would suit you nicely... you’d fit right in.... but your thoughts tell me you don’t want that house.... how interesting....”

Leandre blinked but supposed the hat wasn’t wrong. He didn’t want Hufflepuff. Not because he feared being cast out, but because his entire heart rested in Slytherin. He couldn’t picture himself sitting anywhere that Octave and Abraxas weren’t. Without them meaning to, the thoughts ran through his mind, as if his word alone could sway the decision, ‘Please pick Slytherin.... please... I want Slytherin....’

“You want Slytherin, do you...? It won’t be easy. A loyal heart surrounded by resourceful people....”

‘Please...’ Leandre found himself thinking again.

There was silence, Leandre wasn’t sure how long. Sometime midway through, his eyes squeezed shut, as if he could will the house he wanted through sheer hope. Finally, the hat rumbled, loud and clear that it almost seemed to echo off the walls, “Let's call it, Slytherin!!”

Leandre released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His cheeks flushed naturally with pure relief. Headmaster Dippet helped him down, patting his shoulder, “Congratulations, young man.”

“Thank you, sir,” he beamed. He moved toward the Slytherin table. He saw Abraxas’s smile and Octave’s contemplative look.

“There’s our little serpent,” Abraxas praised, shifting over slightly to pat the spot next to him in invitation. The action alone took a weight off Leandre’s shoulders. He settled next to the older boy, sighing heavily, eyes drooping as though the anticipation had been enough to drain him, head falling to naturally rest on his shoulder, just as it had on the train ride. Abraxas hummed, smoothing down Leandre’s bangs. The younger boy’s half-lidded gaze drifted up to Octave. His older brother was watching him, but not in the way he normally did. Octave looked conflicted, confused. The abnormally of it all was enough to make Leandre furrow his brows. He waited, just a moment, for the usual scolding. The telling of him to stop leaning against Abraxas, but this time the silence reined far longer than it normally would’ve. It was almost unsettling.

“Octave...?” he eventually murmured, “Are you... proud?”

Octave blinked as if pulled from a spell, yet he still didn’t answer right away. He watched his little brother. The emotional, open-hearted Leandre, and couldn’t help but wonder if Slytherin was really the best fit for him. Eventually, Octave nodded, slowly, firmly, “Yes... Slytherin is acceptable...”

Leandre eased, contented to feel Abraxas and Octave’s praise in the choice. Over his head, the two older boys traded silent looks.

‘Please, help me look out for him here.’

The train did not smell like home. It was both unsettling and fascinating. Home smelled of mother’s perfume, of cassoulet the house-elves made, of the shoe polish father put on his shoes every evening just before retiring.

The compartment, however, smelled of coal, smoke, sugary sweets being passed by uniformed attendants, of unfamiliar black robes identical to his own. A standard uniform, apparently. He could hear the shuffles and chatter of passing children, footsteps never quite receding as new ones overlapped and replaced just as the old faded. The noises were welcome. The estate bought purely for this move was extremely quiet, not yet taught how to make sound.

Henri Arnoult sat atop a stiff cushion, a trunk stuffed with clothes, books, and other belongings he may need for the school term was tucked neatly beneath his feet. He occasionally watched how the lights caught the bronze plate fixed to the trunk when the train shifted. His name flashing and fading with each change of light from the window, but truly, there were many things that were more interesting to watch.

Platform 9 ¾ had felt especially lonely, seeing other children being sent off by their parents, watching the exchanges of instructions and embraces, of shoulder pats and murmured corrections and assurances. He, by contrast, only had the house-elf over his new British estate, Bixbly, by his side to see him off. The small creature’s arms firmly tucked behind his back.

He had to wonder what his own parents were doing as he embarked on this new journey.

He looked around for a clock, if he knew the time, he would know exactly what they were doing. The British skies were hardly reliable and left much to the imagination. Time felt less structured in Britain. Still, the images of home danced through his mind easily.

Mother in her art room that reeked of expensive paints, they never smelled nice but they made beautiful pictures. Father in his study, writing letters to subordinates under his authority in the Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France. Anaïs in her playroom, still too young for her placement in Switzerland.

He had to wonder if this was how Lucien, Mikhail, and Alessandra felt in their placements. Lonely. Out of place. His thoughts weren’t permitted to linger long, though, as the compartment door opened for the first time since he’d settled in this seat.

“Finally,” huffed a boy who looked to be roughly his age.

Blonde. Fair-skinned. Hazel eyes that caught the light and flickered almost gold. He did not ask whether the seat was taken, merely dropping into the space opposite Henri with casual confidence.

“Finding a spot was brutal,” he added, though Henri had not asked.

Henri felt his shoulders tense, unsure whether a reply was expected or if the statement required none.

The boy’s gaze dipped toward the trunk at Henri’s feet.

“Arnoult,” he said, as if testing the weight of it.

Henri blinked once, then inclined his head. His brown eyes searched for a name in return. They landed upon the other boy’s trunk. His brows knit slightly.

“Roze-air?” he attempted, his accent thickening the syllables despite himself.

The boy blinked, clearly not expecting it.

“Rosier,” he corrected smoothly, without offense. Henri could feel a slight creeping sensation of heat prickling his neck at the correction. His shoulders stiffened more as Rosier narrowed his eyes calculatingly, “From France then?”

Henri hesitated a moment before his head nodded once, twice, thrice, quickly, unsure if that was a problem or not, “Y-yes,” he stammered. It was his first conversation in English beyond his tutors, but they hardly counted.

Much to his wary relief, Rosier grinned, seemingly delighted, “Oh brilliant,” he eyed Henri up and down, appraisingly, “they’ll love you then.”

“….Ah, them?” Henri asked, brows furrowing tighter, hands instinctively curling into the fabric dangling just past his knees as a wave of unease crept through him, settling low in his stomach.

Rosier nodded, “The other students,” he explained, “you’ll make a remarkable curiosity. Say something in French.”

“What would you like me to say?”

“Anything!” Rosier grinned.

Henri paused, considering what might be appropriate, “Bonjour, je m'appelle Henri. Je suis impatient d'aller à l'école avec vous.”

A burst of laughter left Rosier, though Henri couldn’t figure out why. He hadn’t said anything amusing, not intentionally at least, “Oh yes. You’ll be a smashing success,” Rosier decided, “you’re pure-blood I assume?” he added as an afterthought.

Henri nodded, causing Rosier's grin to widen, “Excellent. Though I imagine you’ll be as novel as our less traditional admissions. The Ministry has grown... accommodating.”

Henri tilted his head slightly. He had assumed the pure blood status was something that wouldn’t need clarification. It was the assumed answer at home, not something so blatantly asked out loud, “Is that... a problem here?”

Rosier arched a brow in return, confusion settling into the air between them.

“Problem?” Rosier finally repeated, mouth twitching almost in restrained disgust, “Is that to imply it would not be one?”

Henri shook his head rapidly, “No, no, I mean-“

“Good,” Rosier said, sighing with exaggerated relief, rolling his eyes as if Henri had been the cause of the fuss, “one prefers clarity here,” he finally stated.

Henri nodded slowly, the need to defend his question settling heavy on the tip of his tongue, but it never left his mouth. It was needless to rock the boat further. Rosier, with the matter settled, seemed content to move the conversation along.

“So, all the way from France, why here? I would’ve thought Beauxbatons.”

Henri blinked then shook his head, “My parents deemed it negligent to leave Britain unattended.”

“Unattended?” Rosier echoed, tilting his head, “…How do you mean?”

Henri hummed softly, “My eldest sister, Éloise, holds France. She attended there,” he started.

“My older brother, Lucien, attends Durmstrang in Germany. My other brother, Mikhail, attends Koldovstoretz in Russia. My other sister, Alessandra studies in Italy. I was entrusted Britain with Hogwarts, and my younger sister, Anaïs will attend Galdrabrev when she’s of age.”

Rosier stared a moment like he was processing, gradually it gained a sense of intrigue. Fascinated understanding shined in his eyes, “You aren’t just a family. You’re an infrastructure in all of Europe. Impressive idea…” he paused, “I think we’ll get along well you and I. Just stick by me and I’ll show you the ropes.”