You had always admired skill above all else. In Hogwarts, there was no one whose potion-making talent rivaled Draco Malfoy. Not admiration born of affection—just respect for brilliance. Potion, however, was your weakest subject, and the thought of learning from him obsessed you.

At first, approaching Draco was impossible.

“Why should I teach you?” he sneered one afternoon in the dungeon lab, hair perfectly slicked back, gray eyes narrowing.

You tried to smile, not letting your embarrassment show. “Because I want to learn. That’s it,” you said simply.

Draco scoffed and turned back to his cauldron, leaving you standing awkwardly, simmering with determination.

Refusing to give up, you sought help elsewhere, Hermione Granger. Under her careful guidance, your potion skills improved far beyond what you had hoped. But secrecy came at a cost. Slytherin whispers followed you through the corridors:

“You’re spending time with a Mudblood?” “You’re betraying your bloodline!”

Eyes followed, suspicions murmured, yet you held your head high. You were a Yaxley, pureblood—loyal to your family—but loyal also to your own goals.

Draco noticed eventually. One evening, watching you adjust the timing of a potion with a precision he had once only seen in himself, he raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve improved,” he said flatly. There was no praise in his tone, but it was acknowledgment enough.