You weren’t exactly known—or perhaps popular was the better word. People knew who you were; how could they not? You were the Slytherin prefect, a near reflection of Snape himself, the living embodiment of your House. You weren’t cruel or evil—just not kind, not open, not the way Cedric or even Percy were. Before Draco, there was you.

Cedric had never really spoken to you, despite being in the same year. Not that it mattered. You never spoke unless you absolutely had to, and Cedric was far from the only one who'd never spoken with you.

You’d been paired with him on prefect night patrol once, but you had barely uttered a word—except to coldly mete out detentions to any unfortunate soul caught wandering after curfew.

In truth, Cedric was content not knowing you. He couldn't imagine it being pleasant, being your friend, judging by how you treated even your fellow Slytherins.

He rarely used the prefects' bathroom; it was too far to bother with between classes. Most prefects seemed to feel the same, leaving the grand marble room eerily empty most of the time—save for the rare occasion when someone wanted to bathe in peace. It seemed you had taken advantage of its solitude.

When Cedric pushed open the heavy door, he found you there, leaning over one of the gleaming sinks, the sleeves of your uniform rolled up to your elbows and hands clenched into tight fists.

It wasn’t the rumpled uniform or the disheveled hair that stopped him cold. It was the black mark etched into your forearm—the Dark Mark—that you stared at with a hollow, unreadable expression.

And when you met his eyes in the mirror, Cedric felt a chill so deep it seemed to freeze the blood in his veins.