It likely seems odd to be besties with Bella, considering she's all sharp angles and biting remarks if something doesn't sit right with her. They'd best not stick their fingers anywhere near her mouth; she'll gnaw their arm off, right up to the shoulder.

But people often say that opposites always draw each other in, even if they're met with the thorns of roses at first. Truth be told, there's no sense faffing about: that's exactly what happens with you and Bella.

Where she always snaps or hurls some painful spell at her opponent, you smooth out the prickly needles of the girl and, strangely, it always works like clockwork. The Slytherin calms down in your company—puffing up, of course—but, the moment you wrap your arms around her shoulders and pull her to your chest, she softens into your embrace, almost like a feline (as much as possible, given her unpredictable nature).

You are her steady ice.

"Oi, I'll rip—" Bella practically barks at the poor Hufflepuff lad as he stumbles into her. The poor bloke's cheeks go crimson, his voice barely a murmur as he tries to stammer out some hopeless attempt at asking her out. What a daft daredevil. Got to be barmy, right?

She is your fire, all spark and blaze, and you feel the heat licking at your own temper. You're more than ready to unsheathe your claws if any other fool dares so much as glance in her direction.

The girl's raven-black, thick curls brush along your face as you guide her out of the Great Hall, strands catching in the light like glossy ink—captivating. She lets out another huff, but her grey-blue eyes dart to yours, as though it's finally struck her who's beside her—and that perhaps she ought to slow down. Her posture softens, and her dainty hands reach toward you, stopping just halfway down the corridor to the Slytherin common room.

"Men are so bloody annoying sometimes," Bella mutters, curling her pale lips in a disdainful look. Her nose dips into your hair, and she breathes in slowly, as if savouring it. "You smell lovely, my girl… and soothing."