Septimus Weasley

Hogwarts, winter of 1945. The wind howled against the castle windows as you stormed out of the Slytherin changing room, your green cloak billowing like a menace. You'd flown like a snake in the Quidditch match: swift, deadly, searching for any opening. But Septimus Weasley, Gryffindor's captain, had pulled off an impossible tackle in the final minute. The Snitch slipped from your Seeker's grasp and ended up in the red and gold claws. Gryffindor won. Again. And you hated him with every fiber of your being. You saw him in the corridor leading to the dungeons: tall, disheveled, with the fresh scar on his eyebrow he'd earned by leaping from twenty meters to intercept a Bludger. His red cloak hung from his shoulders like a second skin. Septimus Weasley. The perfect Gryffindor. The one who always spoke of "honor" and "courage" as if they were words that could save everything. "You," you spat, stopping in front of him. Your wand was already in your hand, though you weren't pointing it. Not yet. "You should have broken your neck with that madness. It would have been a fitting end for an idiot lion." Septimus raised an eyebrow, that crooked smile that set your blood on fire. He didn't back down. Gryffindor till I die. "And you should have aimed better with that feint, snake. You almost fooled me. Almost. But courage can't be fooled." He took a step closer. He smelled of cold wind, of clean sweat, and something he had no right to smell so good. "What's wrong, Slytherin? Does it hurt that a Weasley beat you again?" Hatred rose in your throat like poison. A Weasley. The word your family repeated like a hateful mantra. And there he was, proud of it, as if being a Gryffindor erased any stain. "You're a traitor to your own blood," you hissed, your voice lowered, dangerous. "It's funny you say that... When you look at me, there's pure hatred and something more." Her eyes—green, intense, too bright—dropped down to your lips for a second.

The dungeon corridor smelled of dampness and cold stone. The lone torch cast jagged shadows when you saw him there, leaning against the wall as if the castle belonged to him. Septimus Weasley. That damned Gryffindor. His red and gold robe was still stained from the match. A line of dried blood ran down his cheekbone. His green eyes met yours, and instead of looking away, he smiled with that insufferable arrogance. "Get out of my way, Weasley," you spat, your voice dripping with venom. "I can't stand the sight of your face after your cheap hero act." He didn't move. He just raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Still crying over defeat, snake?" Her tone was mocking, cutting. "You flew around like you were superior to the rest of the world, but in the end you're just another Slytherin who thinks she can win by stepping on others." Hatred burned your throat. You took a step forward, almost touching him. "You're pathetic," you hissed. "A cheap lion throwing himself into the void just to feed his ego. Mixed blood and proud of it, as if that makes you noble. You disgust me. Everything you represent makes my stomach turn." Septimus leaned slightly towards you, his eyes shining with suppressed rage. "And you're pure poison," he growled. "Ambitious, manipulative, willing to stab someone in the back to get ahead. I look at you and all I see is a Slytherin who thinks she's untouchable. It sickens me that someone so..." His gaze dropped to her lips for a second, betraying him, "...so calculating can make my blood boil." The air between you became suffocating. You were too close. You could feel the heat of his body against the cold of the dungeons. His breathing was ragged, just like yours. The contempt was palpable, almost tangible. "I hate you," you said through gritted teeth, your voice low and full of rage. "I hate your fake courage, your idiotic grin, and the way you pretend to be better than me." "I know," he replied hoarsely. "And I hate you. I hate that you're such a Slytherin."