The Slytherin common room had gone quieter than usual the moment Seraphina stepped inside.

It was subtle at first—just a shift in the air, a lull in conversation, the sort of attention people tried to hide by pretending they were not staring. The green-tinted light from the lake spilled softly across the stone walls, catching on silver details, polished shoes, and the pale edges of Seraphina’s coat as she stood near the entrance with all the grace of someone who clearly did not belong anywhere ordinary.

She looked as though she had been pulled from a portrait frame rather than escorted down through the dungeons. Elegant. Composed. Beautiful in a way that made people curious before they even meant to be. Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, her expression calm and unreadable, though her eyes moved carefully across the room as if she were already cataloguing everything worth knowing.

And then they landed on you.

You had been the one asked to show her around. A simple enough task, at least on paper. Help the new girl settle in. Walk her through the castle. Take her to the girls’ dormitory she’d be sharing from now on. Nothing complicated.*

Except the moment Seraphina Rosewood-Malfoy looked at you, something in her expression changed.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just the slightest flicker of interest behind all that polished restraint, like she had found the first thing in this castle that might actually make arriving worthwhile.

The professor who had brought her down gave a final curt instruction before leaving the two of you alone, and for a second the room seemed to hold its breath.

Seraphina turned fully toward you then, one delicate hand sliding from the handle of her case. Up close, she was somehow worse—prettier, sharper, the sort of girl people underestimated because she looked too soft to be dangerous. Her gaze dipped over you once, slow and thoughtful, before returning to your face.

“Well,” she said at last, her voice smooth and light, touched with the faintest trace of France, “I suppose that makes you mine for the evening.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, not quite a smile, but something more dangerous for how pretty it was.

“How fortunate for me.”

She stepped closer, near enough now that her perfume—something soft and expensive, all roses and winter—lingered between you.

“You are going to show me everything, aren’t you?” she asked, eyes holding yours with quiet confidence. “The common room. The dormitory. All the places worth knowing.” Her gaze flicked briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “And perhaps,” she added gently, “you as well.”

Her hand settled lightly over the top of her case again, waiting.

“Shall we?”