Unspoken Tension
The next morning, the halls of Hogwarts buzzed with the usual morning routine—students chattering as they headed toward their first classes, robes fluttering and breakfast conversations echoing down the stone corridors. But for Irma, the constant noise was little more than background chatter.
She walked through the castle with a quiet confidence, her pace steady and unhurried. The Ravenclaws had tried to engage her over breakfast—curious questions about Durmstrang, her transfer, and what it was like being at Hogwarts. But Irma had answered in clipped responses, not out of rudeness but simply because the questions bored her.
“Did you learn a lot of Dark Magic at Durmstrang?” one of the younger Ravenclaws had whispered excitedly.
Irma had only smirked slightly in reply, her light grey eyes flickering with faint amusement. “More than you can imagine,” she’d said before leaving the table.
Now, as she made her way through the winding corridors, her thoughts drifted to the day ahead. Potions with Professor Snape was first on her schedule. A subject she had always excelled at—but what interested her more was observing how the Hogwarts students behaved. Her sharp eyes took in everything, from the way Gryffindors greeted each other with overly loud camaraderie to the Slytherins’ quieter, more calculating movements.
And then there was Draco Malfoy.
Her lips quirked in the slightest hint of a smile as she recalled their brief encounter last night. The arrogance was expected, but what had amused her most was the flicker of uncertainty she’d caught in his eyes when she hadn’t reacted the way he wanted. Draco was clearly used to being the center of attention, used to having people either fear or admire him. Irma had done neither, and that had unsettled him—just a little.
Good.
In Potions Class
The dungeon was cool, with the faint scent of herbs and smoke lingering in the air. Irma took a seat at one of the long tables near the middle of the room, her posture relaxed as she laid out her potions kit. Around her, students trickled in, taking their seats with hushed conversation. She could feel their eyes on her—curiosity, suspicion, maybe even a hint of envy—but she paid them no mind.
“Durmstrang, right?” a voice to her left interrupted her thoughts. Irma glanced over and found herself face to face with a tall, lanky boy from Ravenclaw. His tone was friendly, almost too much so.
“Yes,” she replied flatly, turning her gaze back to the empty cauldron in front of her.
“I’m Anthony,” the boy continued, seemingly undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm. “Potions is my favorite subject—hope you like it here. Hogwarts is a bit different from Durmstrang, I’m sure.”
Irma didn’t respond, instead fixing her attention on Professor Snape, who had just swept into the room, robes billowing behind him like a dark cloud. The sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere was palpable. Everyone fell silent under Snape’s cold gaze.
“We will be brewing a Draught of Living Death today,” Snape announced, his voice as sharp as a blade. “A delicate potion requiring precision and patience. Those who are... incompetent,” his gaze lingered briefly on Neville Longbottom, “are advised to take extreme care.”
As Snape gave his instructions, Irma caught a movement in the corner of her eye. Draco Malfoy had entered the room with his usual entourage—Crabbe and Goyle—and immediately took his place at the front of the class, offering a small nod to Snape, who seemed to favor him with an approving glance.
Draco didn’t spare Irma a look at first, but she noticed his stiff posture, the way his eyes flickered toward her table when he thought she wasn’t looking. He had been waiting to see how she handled herself in this class, whether she would blend in or stand out.
With a faint smile, Irma set to work.
As she began preparing her ingredients with smooth, practiced movements, she could feel the tension in the room subtly shift. The other students were watching her more closely now, perhaps wondering if the transfer from Durmstrang would live up to her reputation.
Draco was watching too. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her working efficiently, chopping ingredients with the same precision he prided himself on. Irritation bubbled up in him. She hadn’t even flinched under Snape’s piercing gaze, and now she moved through the brewing process as if she had done it a hundred times before. He didn’t like how unshaken she was—how nothing seemed to faze her.
When the potion was nearing completion, Snape swept through the room, inspecting the progress of each student. He stopped by Draco’s table first, casting a critical eye over his cauldron.
“Acceptable, Malfoy,” Snape said, though his tone hinted at mild approval.
Draco smirked, his eyes flickering toward Irma as if expecting to see her falter under Snape’s scrutiny.
But when Snape approached Irma’s table, he paused, his black eyes narrowing as he peered into her cauldron. The potion was a perfect shade of pale lavender—the sign that she had brewed it flawlessly.
“Impressive,” Snape murmured, his voice quieter now. “Not many achieve such accuracy on their first attempt.”
Irma didn’t so much as blink at the praise. “I’ve brewed it before,” she said simply, her voice low and even.
And then, without warning, she turned her head slightly and gave Draco a quick, playful wink.
Draco’s smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a scowl. He hadn’t expected that. The wink was subtle—quick enough that Snape didn’t notice—but Draco had caught it. She was playing with him, toying with his expectations. The quiet Durmstrang girl had more of an edge than he’d realized.
Snape’s eyes flickered with interest. “Indeed? Durmstrang’s standards must be... quite high.”
“They are,” she replied, her tone indifferent.
Snape moved on, leaving an odd silence in his wake. Irma returned to her work, as if nothing had happened. But Draco was seething inside. He had wanted her to slip up, to show that she wasn’t as calm and collected as she pretended to be.
Instead, she had thrived under Snape’s gaze—and then had the audacity to wink at him. That irked him more than he cared to admit.
Later in the Courtyard
The afternoon sun bathed the courtyard in soft light, a stark contrast to the chill air of the dungeons. Students gathered in small clusters, enjoying a brief respite between classes. Irma leaned against the cold stone of a pillar, watching the others from a distance.
Her light grey eyes, flecked with green and brown, scanned the crowd. Hogwarts was... different from Durmstrang, as everyone had been eager to point out. But to her, it felt mostly the same. Schools like these were all built on the same foundation—status, tradition, secrets—and she had already learned how to navigate those currents.
“Oi, Irma!”
She looked up just as Draco strolled into view, his hands tucked casually into his robe pockets. Crabbe and Goyle, of course, flanked him, looking as dull as ever. Draco’s smirk was back in place, but there was an edge to it now.
“Interesting potion work today,” he drawled, his voice dripping with insincerity. “I didn’t expect you to keep up with the best of us so quickly.”
Irma tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “I didn’t realize I had to keep up with anyone.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer, closing the gap between them, his gaze intense. “You think you’re different from everyone else, don’t you?”
Irma didn’t flinch. “No,” she said softly. “I think you think I’m different.”
For a brief moment, their eyes locked, and in that silence, there was an unspoken challenge. Neither was willing to back down, neither willing to give the other the satisfaction of a reaction.
Draco’s smirk faltered again, but before he could retort, the bell rang, signaling the start of their next class.
“See you around, Malfoy,” Irma said coolly, turning on her heel and heading toward the castle. Draco stood there, his expression unreadable as he watched her walk away.