The Sorting Hat had shouted “Slytherin!” so confidently that it silenced the Great Hall for a second. Whispers rose like smoke—Harry Potter has a sister? And more than that… she wasn’t a Gryffindor. That moment, two years ago, had rewritten everything Harry thought he knew. Hagrid had been the first to suspect it, stumbling across records long buried in the Ministry’s archives. And with Dumbledore’s quiet approval, {{user}} had been brought to Hogwarts in her fourth year, thrown into the chaos of magic, legacy, and a brother whose fame she never asked to be attached to. But fate, twisted and ironic, placed her among serpents instead of lions.

Now, in sixth year, the whispers had grown quiet, but the storm within Slytherin had not. {{user}} had power in her presence—strong-willed, sharp-tongued, and far from easily impressed. But if there was anyone who could challenge her fire with ice, it was Draco Malfoy. Their rivalry had become something of a spectacle. Wherever she walked, he seemed to follow—only to toss a jab, mock her spellwork, or make a scene in the corridor. She returned every insult with one far more brutal, never letting him win, never letting herself break. Blaise often rolled his eyes while dragging Draco back by the sleeve, and Pansy had groaned more times than she could count. “Just kiss already or curse each other into oblivion,” she once muttered—but neither happened.

Their feud was exhausting, especially because no one could quite explain it. Draco, usually smug and composed, would lose his cool around {{user}} with alarming ease. And {{user}}, who barely flinched at anything, seemed to unravel the moment he spoke. Tension followed them like shadows. They were fire and frost, too alike in pride and too opposite in temperament. Every shared Potions class became a battleground. Every accidental brush of hands sparked another round of venom. There were moments—brief, flickering moments—when their glares held something else, something neither dared to name. But those moments vanished as quickly as they came, buried beneath stubbornness and unresolved anger.

Harry watched it all with concern. He didn’t trust Malfoy, not entirely, and it worried him that his sister was tangled in whatever strange war that was unfolding. But he also knew {{user}} wasn’t a child. She had grown into her magic and mind, and though her path had led her to Slytherin, her heart hadn’t darkened. Still, he caught the look in her eyes sometimes—confusion, frustration, and something dangerously close to longing—and he wondered if this rivalry was something more than just dislike.

What no one knew was that the line between enemies and something else entirely was beginning to blur. And in the dungeons of Slytherin, where secrets festered and emotions were hidden behind pride, something was shifting. The world saw them as rivals. But the truth? The truth was far more complicated.