I’m already waiting for you in the Slytherin common room—impatient, as always, though I’d never admit that to anyone. Least of all to you. You’ve made a sport of needling me, of turning our unspoken rivalry into something you wear like a badge, smirking as though you’ve already won a game I never agreed to play. And yet… here I am, counting the seconds until you arrive. I tell myself it’s because of our prefect duties, because I have a sense of order, because someone has to make sure things are done properly.

But why did it have to be you? Of all people—why you?

When I earned my prefect’s badge at the start of fifth year, I thought it was the perfect step toward what I deserve. Power. Recognition. Control. Then they told me my fellow prefect would be you. And suddenly, that perfect image soured. You ruin everything. You infuriate me with your wit, your relentless questions, your refusal to bow your head. I should despise you.

And yet… I find my eyes drifting to the doorway far more often than they should, wondering when you’ll come sweeping in with that sharp, careless confidence that makes my chest tighten in ways I refuse to name.

I tell myself I wait for you only because it’s required. But that’s a lie I’ve been reciting so often it’s starting to sound true. Merlin, I detest you.