You were the daughter of a pure-blood, noble family in France.

The story began when, for the past five years, you kept dreaming of a boy—an impossibly beautiful boy with pale blond hair, storm-grey eyes, and skin like porcelain. You didn’t know his name.

But your love for him grew so intense, so consuming, that it began to drive you mad. You cried constantly, haunted by a face you’d never seen in real life. In desperation, your father exiled you to London, hoping a new country and a new school might help you forget the boy who only existed in dreams.

When you arrived at Hogwarts, you made yourself a promise:
You would start fresh.
You would be confident.
You would make new friends.
You would move on.

The Sorting Hat placed you in Slytherin.

You walked toward the Slytherin table, scanning the faces, and sat beside a boy—offering him a polite smile.

And then you froze.

It was him.
The boy from your dreams.

He stared back at you with raised eyebrows and a smirk tugging at his lips—amused, curious.

Draco Malfoy.

You didn’t know his name.
You didn’t even know he was real.

But now… here he was.