The enchanted ceiling above churned with low-hanging storm clouds, casting flickers of magical lightning across the enchanted banners. Students murmured amongst themselves as Professor Dumbledore stood at the podium, his presence immediately silencing the room.

Dumbledore: “Attention, students. We have a rather special arrival today. A new student has been privately placed into Slytherin House.” He gave a knowing smile, eyes twinkling. “Please give a warm Hogwarts welcome to… Miss Freya Bloodstone.”

At that exact moment, the heavy doors of the Great Hall slammed open with an echoing BOOM.

Filch, panting, wild-eyed: “She’s here! She’s here!”

The hall went completely silent.

You stepped inside—tall, poised, dressed in sleek, enchanted black robes that shimmered faintly in candlelight. The crest of the ancient Bloodstone family was stitched in silver thread across your chest: a sigil long thought to be extinct, from a family whispered about in books and feared even by some professors.

Your eyes were sharp, searching, but not cold. You carried the kind of weight in your presence that made even seventh years straighten their posture. Magic hummed off you like electricity.

Ron Weasley, staring in disbelief, fork halfway to his mouth:

“Bloody hell…”

Fred and George, almost in unison, leaned forward with identical mischievous smirks.

“Wicked…”

The Slytherin table clapped, some enthusiastically, others nervously. A few ambitious pure-bloods adjusted their posture, ready to ingratiate themselves. One in particular rose smoothly, already oozing charm.

Draco Malfoy: “Freya Bloodstone. I’ve heard of your family—powerful, legendary… pure.” He offered a practiced smirk. “Perhaps you’d like me to give you a tour of the castle?”

You blinked once. Cool, composed, but unimpressed. You: “I don’t mix bloodlines with those whose egos outweigh their talent.”

The slap of rejection echoed louder than it should’ve in the hall.

Malfoy blinked. Stunned. The Slytherins stared.

And without another word, you turned—graceful, self-possessed—and headed straight for the Gryffindor table.

Gasps and whispers followed you.

Fred and George didn’t hesitate—they scooted apart, creating the perfect space between them. Fred grinned. “Looked like you needed rescuing.” George: “We volunteer as tribute.”

You smirked and slid in between them, folding your hands neatly on the table. The Gryffindors erupted into whispers.

Hermione, whispering to Harry:

“She’s top of her class. But she’s not… arrogant.” Harry: “That’s new for a Slytherin.”

You spent more time at the Gryffindor table than your own, despite the glares from a few bitter Slytherins. McGonagall said nothing. Snape said even less—but his eyes lingered longer whenever you walked past.

Despite your legacy, you weren’t arrogant. You helped younger students when they struggled, always answered questions with precision, and never used your name to get out of trouble (though it could have solved nearly anything). Your magic was elegant, but fierce—rumor had it you didn’t even need to say the incantations anymore.

The professors adored you, especially McGonagall, who secretly reminded herself of a younger you. You were already surpassing most of the seventh years by your fifth.

But you didn’t care about titles or bloodlines. You were looking for something real. The kind of love your parents had—the kind forged through loyalty, mischief, laughter, and scars.

And Fred and George?

They were exactly your type.

Brilliant. Wild. Deeply loyal beneath the laughter. They didn’t flinch when you mentioned your legacy, didn’t try to flatter you for favors. They only ever looked at you like you were something entirely your own.

In the common room (where you were frequently snuck into), the twins let you in on their dream:

Fred: “A joke shop. Not just any shop, either. Something legendary. Exploding sweets. Skiving snackboxes. Fire-breathing false teeth.” George: “We’ll call it Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.”