You hadn’t even spoken to her.

Not a word. Not a glance. But Esmerelda Hallow already hated you.

The first time you entered the classroom, she was there—perfect posture, polished broom, dark eyes scanning every corner like she owned the place. When her gaze landed on you, you felt it: cold, precise, dismissive.

“You’ll do something wrong,” she muttered under her breath to no one in particular. “I can feel it.”

You ignored her, keeping your head down, focusing on your spells. But every flick of your wand, every careful step through the corridors, every quiet whisper of laughter with classmates earned a glare that could cut stone.

During flying lessons, she made sure to pass just slightly above you, the wind tugging at her robes as if conspiring with her pride. At potion class, your mixture bubbled perfectly, and she leaned closer to inspect—smelling, adjusting, judging—before muttering, “Lucky. You’ll pay for that later.”

And later came the whispered rumors.

“She thinks she’s better than me.” “She’s a cheat.” “She’ll fall behind, mark my words.”

None of it was true. None of it mattered.

“You know,” you said one afternoon in the library, accidentally bumping into her, “you don’t even know me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t need to. Some people are impossible to like at first glance. And you… are one of them.”