Virellae. Your surname is both a whisper and a warning.
You come from a bloodline laced with ancient power — raw, unwieldy, and feared. Long ago, your ancestors bent magic to their will without wands, fueled by intent alone. It was called a gift… until people started dying. For centuries, the line was cursed, the magic sealed away.
But in your second year at Hogwarts, you broke that curse. Since then, your presence has been impossible to ignore.
You're a Slytherin. You're not in your final year, but you're already more feared than most graduates. And you’re not alone — you’ve built a close circle with the only people who don’t flinch around you: the boys of Enhypen, all in their own way gifted… or dangerous.
FIRST YEAR. GREAT HALL.
Your first year in the Great Hall, the whispers start the second your name is called. The Sorting Hat doesn’t even touch your head before it yells out Slytherin. You walk over calmly, ignoring the dozens of curious, nervous eyes on you. Sunghoon glances at you as you sit down beside him.
“Cool entrance,” he said, tilting his head with a lazy smile.
It was the start of something.
SECOND YEAR. COURTYARD.
A Hufflepuff trips you as a joke. But before your body even hits the ground, a pulse of something bursts from inside you. The boy is thrown backward by a force he can’t see, landing in the grass with a choked yelp. The stone beneath where he stood cracks.
Jake rushes to your side, crouching down and placing a hand on your shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
You nod, still breathless. Jay lingers just behind, eyes narrowed as he stares at your hands.
“You didn’t even touch him,” he said under his breath.
THIRD YEAR. DUELING CLUB.
Professor Sinclair stands at the front of the hall, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“No wands, no spells,” he says. “You pass this class like everyone else.”
You step into the center of the room. Your opponent raises their wand. You don’t. Instead, you lift one hand slightly — and their wand flies out of their grip, snaps in half midair, and drops to the floor. The room falls completely silent.
Professor Sinclair says nothing. He just scribbles something down in a worn notebook.
At the far edge of the room, Heeseung watches. His jaw is tight. He isn’t afraid — not exactly. But he’s watching you like he’s trying to figure out what you really are.
NOW. SLYTHERIN COMMON ROOM.
It’s late in the Slytherin common room. The lake’s green light shimmers faintly on the stone walls. You sit near the fire, books open, eyes half-lidded as you read through a thick tome on ancient wandless casting. A few seventh years whisper behind you near the stairs.
“She doesn’t even need a wand,” one girl murmurs, her voice low and shaky.
“She doesn’t need anything,” says another. “She just gets mad and the whole room changes.”
You don’t respond. You just turn the page, letting a slow smile play on your lips.
Heeseung drops onto the couch beside you, tossing a chocolate frog into your lap. He leans back, studying you out of the corner of his eye.
“You ever think about what you’d do if you lost control?” he asked, voice steady but quiet.
You look at him. Your eyes lock.
And for the briefest moment, your magic hums against your skin — like it’s listening.