𝓟rologue
Sometimes, I feel as though my luck had been jinxed ten times over.
Here's the thing: I was in a house I never wanted to be in.
Some might have called me ungrateful. After all, Slytherin is the house of ambition, of pride, of pure-blooded cunning. Most witches and wizards would wear the green and silver like armor, hold their heads high and smirk at the rest. They were proud to be sorted there—expected to be. But I couldn't understand it. I couldn't find the logic in how a hat so ancient and supposedly wise could place me in a house so venomous, so driven by hierarchy and bloodlines.
They didn't just want to win—they needed to rule. They clung to the belief that they were superior, more refined, more deserving. They believed in legacy and in power, and they fought for it with sharp words and colder eyes.
Everyone else wanted to rule the world. I just wanted to be good at Potions.
Good enough to stop fumbling every brewing session, to stop burning through cauldrons and patience alike. Good enough to stop feeling like I was stumbling through shadows left behind by people I never chose to follow.
Maybe it was karma, running deep through my bloodline—punishment for everything my family had done. Or maybe I simply wasn't as talented as I hoped. Maybe I didn't belong at all. Some days, I half-suspected I'd been adopted, a stray tucked into cursed lineage by accident.
Still, I tried.
Tried to be good at something.
Tried to be known for more than my name.
Tried to be more than the quiet girl with the Rosier legacy stitched into her back like a second spine.
But no one ever really saw me. Not the way I wanted them to. I wasn't living up to the Rosier name—not its glamour, not its darkness, not its burden. They expected shadows and sharpness. I gave them books and silence.
And somehow, that caught his attention.
The boy with silver-blond hair and storm-grey eyes.
He noticed me—not in the way people notice others in passing, but in the way a storm notices the silence before it. He looked too closely. Asked too many questions. And now, he's the second worst thing currently happening in my life.
The first?
That I noticed him back.
The first time he heard of me, our eyes met by the lake—and I just knew. He was going to be the bane of my existence.
He strolled over like he owned the sunlit grounds, walking as though he'd left two shadowy minions behind mid-sentence (which, judging by the confused looks on Crabbe and Goyle's faces in the distance, he had). His strides were long, almost theatrical, arms swinging arrogantly. His pale hair caught the light, but his expression was anything but angelic—brows furrowed in permanent judgment, lips pressed like I'd already offended him just by breathing.
He stopped in front of me, blocking the sun entirely with his annoyingly tall frame.
"I heard about you," he said flatly.
No hello, no I'm Draco and I will ruin your life. Just that.
I stared at him, confused. "...And?"
His lips curled into the kind of smirk that made me want to throw something—possibly myself into the lake. Of course. He wasn't different from the others: the ones who welcomed me with polite venom, thin smiles, and unspoken expectations. The ones who looked at my name and saw the past dripping from my sleeves. The Rosiers were never forgiven, nor left alone—not really. Even when we tried to keep our heads down.
He lifted a hand, expectantly. "It's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. And you are?"
His tone was smug and formal, like this was some kind of interview and not an ambush. I stared at his outstretched hand like it was a snake about to bite me.
But I took it anyway. Because I'm stupid. And because if I didn't, I'd look like weak, defenseless, or worse—weird. As if word hasn't already gotten around.
"El," I said, clasping his hand briefly. Not wanting to say my entire name if it meant making him go away.
His brows furrowed even deeper than before, so deep I wondered if his skull would collapse inward.
"El? That's a stupid nickname—"
"Malfoy, look out!"
It happened fast. A blur of something—possibly enchanted, definitely ill-tempered—came rocketing toward us from the trees. Someone had clearly botched a charm. The object whizzed past us like a rogue Bludger. Draco didn't let go of my hand. Instead, he did the most Draco Malfoy thing possible: yanked me with him as he bolted toward the lake like a purebred stallion afraid of getting scuffed.
We didn't stop. We didn't slow.
And then—splash.
We hit the water face-first, right into the black sheen of the lake that swallowed us in one freezing gulp.
A tentacle surfaced somewhere disturbingly close. I couldn't even scream properly. My hair was plastered across my eyes. My lungs were yelling. And Draco was still clutching my hand like I was a hostage in his idiotic escape plan.
By the time we came up gasping, the object had long disappeared, probably still spiraling through the sky, and we were soaked, humiliated, and dripping lakeweed.
He glared at me, breathing hard. "What—was that?"
I blinked water from my lashes and glared right back, pulling my hand away from his like he's a damn plague, though he probably really was. "One of my worst nightmares, thank you."
In conclusion: I drowned the day I met Draco Malfoy. And that was only the beginning of the most insufferable, mildly traumatizing, nearly obnoxious days with the worst Slytherin I'd ever met.
And I say that with the full knowledge that I am a Slytherin (very much against my will).
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