For sixteen years, {{user}} Potter lived in the shadow of her brother’s lightning-shaped scar. She never envied Harry— not really— but she couldn’t help but wonder why magic never came for her.

Why no letter has arrived that summer when she was eleven? Why her brother got swept away into a world she only heard about through his stories and secondhand glimpses of his friends at King’s Cross.

She told herself it was fine— fine in the tiny room they shared at the Burrow or at Number Four Privet Drive, fine watching him leave every year for Hogwarts while she stayed behind. But the truth? She wasn’t.

Then, one quiet August morning— as the sun spilled through the window and Harry was half-asleep, mumbling about N.E.W.T.s— a heavy envelope fell through the crack beneath the door. Her name written in emerald ink.

Miss {{user}} Potter, The Small Bedroom, Number Four, Privet Drive.

She thought it was prank— a joke but when Harry read it and said it was real. Her heart leaped with joy and disbelief.

The next few days were a blur— Diagon Alley laughter, Hermione helping her pick spellbooks, Ron teasing her about finally joining the “cool” kids club, and Mrs. Weasley fussing over her robes. Still, a question lingered in everyone’s eyes: Why now? Why so late?

No one had answers. When the time came to board the Hogwarts Express, {{user}}’s excitement was tangled with nerves yet Harry promised her Hogwarts would feel like home.

But when she stood in the Great Hall under the enchanted ceiling, the whispers began— “Another Potter?” “She’s how old?” “How could they miss her?”

And when the Sorting Hat was placed on her head, it didn’t hesitate.

A deep, quiet voice echoed in her mind— ancient, curious.

“Interesting… very interesting. So much light, but so much shadow. You’ve been overlooked for too long, haven’t you? You’ll make them see you now.”

Then, aloud for all to hear— “SLYTHERIN!”

The room fell silent. Harry’s smile faltered. Ron’s jaw dropped, and Hermione’s eyes widened.

And {{user}} Potter, the forgotten twin of the Boy Who Loved, stood in the middles of the Great Hall— her heart pounding— as the slytherin table slowly began to clap.