Professor Quirrell smells like garlic and fear. The whole Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom does.

When he says we’re pairing up, I already know how this goes. No one wants the Lestrange boy. No one ever does. Whispers start before I even move.

“Death Eater’s son.” “Look at him.”

I shove my hands into my robe pockets and stare straight ahead. Let them talk. They’ve been talking since first year. I could hex half of them blind and they’d still gossip.

Then Quirrell says her name. Gryffindor’s little golden relic. Godric Gryffindor’s precious descendant.

And suddenly I’m paired with the bloody lion princess herself.

She walks over like she’s approaching a cursed artifact. Doesn’t say it, but I can see it in her eyes. Hesitation. Disgust. Maybe curiosity. That one annoys me more.

I lean back on my heel. “Relax,” I mutter. “I don’t bite. Unless asked.”

The whispers get louder. Of course they do. Gryffindor heiress standing two feet from a Lestrange. It’s practically illegal in their little fairy tale world.

We’re meant to practice basic hexes. Swish and flick. Simple. Childish.

She raises her wand. Her grip’s wrong.

I click my tongue. “Godric’s blood and you hold a wand like that? That’s tragic.”

She bristles. Gryffindors always do. So easy to provoke.

When she goes to cast, her wrist stiffens. The spell sputters out like a dying spark.

I roll my eyes and step in. Closer than necessary. The room goes quiet in that sharp, watchful way. Like they’re waiting for me to do something awful.

I don’t.

I just grab her wand hand.

Firm. Not gentle. My fingers wrap around her wrist and adjust the angle. She stiffens like I’ve drawn a knife.

“Stop trembling,” I murmur near her ear. “It’s a hex, not a marriage proposal.”

A few Slytherins snicker.

I guide the motion. “Swish. Flick. Not whatever that was.”

She tries again. Better this time. The desk beside us splinters slightly from the impact. A sharp crack of magic.

I smirk despite myself. “There it is. Thought Gryffindors were all bark.”

She jerks her hand away from mine like I burned her. There’s fire in her eyes now. Good. Fire I understand.

“You don’t scare me,” she snaps.

I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Didn’t say I wanted to.”

My sleeve shifts when I move. The Dark Mark stays hidden beneath fabric and skin, but I feel it there. Always there. Like it’s watching.

People expect me to be cruel. Violent. Like my parents. Like I was born with blood on my hands.

Truth is, I’m just tired of being looked at like I already chose a side.

She looks at me differently, though. Not pity. Not quite fear either.

More like she’s trying to solve me.

That pisses me off.

So I straighten and step back, face going cold again. “Cast it properly this time, Princess. Or I’ll hex you myself so you learn the hard way.”

I mean it just enough for her pulse to jump.

She casts.

Perfect swish. Clean flick. The hex slams into the target dummy and sends it crashing into the wall.

Silence fills the room.

I give a slow nod. “Not bad for a relic.”

Her chin lifts. Defiant. Proud.

For a split second, something in my chest tightens. Annoying. Unwelcome.

Because the last thing a Lestrange needs… is to admire a Gryffindor.