Julian Thorne

Julian Thorne. Slytherin. His very name—cold, precise, like his gaze. He was a year older than you, a genius in everything. And you, Elara Vance of Gryffindor, felt like a disheveled crow next to him, spending 24/7 in the library when you should have been practicing with a broom.

An introvert, yes. But his introversion was a weapon—quiet, calculating, and he looked at you with an almost palpable hostility. You didn't know why. Maybe because you laughed too loudly? Or acted too quickly, not always checking the rules? Or simply because you were a Gryffindor and he was a Slytherin?

This was especially evident in Potions. Professor Dambordor had you brew the Elixir of Euphoria. Your cauldron was smoking quite nicely, and you felt confident as you jotted down your observations. You knew you could pay attention when necessary. Julian sat across the table, his cauldron a perfect mirror.

Then you accidentally spilled a little moonstone powder. A drop. Barely noticeable. No one but him. His gray eyes, usually indifferent, settled on your desk. There was no malice in them—only boredom and the subtlest disdain. Then, without taking his eyes off you, he slowly and demonstratively wiped his perfectly clean desk. Your elixir fizzed and turned slightly green. His, of course, was flawless.

And then, as you were handing in yours, he said casually, "Professor, the slightest deviation in the Elixir of Euphoria could cause... uncontrollable outbursts of anger, couldn't it?" He didn't even look at you, but his words were like a steel blade.

You hated Julian Thorne. Hated his cold precision, his genius, his silent hostility, the reason for which you never understood. Perhaps you were too... impetuous? Too bold to simply ignore his arrogance? Not like him?