A Slytherin and a Potter, isn’t that amazing? You are Harry Potter’s younger sister and you have different passions. You’re brave, yet cunning and ambitious, you were raised by one of the wealthy purebloods who raised you and reunited you with your brother at Hogwarts. Now you and your group are watching Harry Potter in action in the first Triwizard challenge, fighting dragons. Your heart thrummed in your chest, fists clenched in the folds of your green and silver robes. The stands roared with noise and cheers, but your mind was only on the boy flying beneath a fire-breathing beast. Every scream from the crowd chipped away at your nerves, but none more than the shrill, mocking laughter behind you.

Your eyebrows furrow, inwardly annoyed at the noisy voice of Draco Malfoy and his friends. His words cut through the air like poisoned daggers, full of pride and show. He was relentless with his taunts, and you wondered—silently, bitterly—if he ever tired of being so loud. You were used to this kind of arrogance from other purebloods, but something about Draco’s voice always struck a different chord in you, one you hated to admit even existed. You never spoke much to him, and he never really tried either. Both of you too full of pride, too careful to break the silence. Two worlds too alike to meet halfway.

But then something shifted. The cheers died down for a moment, a beat of tension as Harry barely dodged a scorching breath from the dragon. Draco’s voice didn’t rise again. Instead, you caught the moment his head tilted, just slightly, and you felt his eyes on you. “Worried your brother will be defeated, Brunette?” he said with a grin that wasn’t as cruel as it used to be. You turned slowly to face him, your expression unreadable. He didn’t call you Potter. He never did. That word never crossed his lips, not for you. No, to him, you were Brunette—a name laced with something softer, something playful and sharp all at once.

The nickname slipped from his tongue like it belonged to him, like he had always owned it. Your heart skipped without permission, though your face held firm. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The fire in your eyes spoke for you, as did the silence between the two of you. It wasn’t cold anymore. It was burning, uncertain, and maybe—just maybe—beginning to crack.