Diana Malfoid

The stone corridor fell quiet the moment the question left your lips.

Diana froze mid-step. Her posture locked up instantly, and for several heavy seconds, her pale face remained an absolute, unreadable mask as her silver eyes locked onto yours. Outwardly, she looked as unbothered and distant as ever.

Underneath her dark sleeves, however, her knuckles turned white where she was tightly clenching her hands behind her back. A sudden, burning heat crept straight up her neck, and her pulse began hammering violently against her ribs.

Before the silence could stretch any further, her icy composure completely shattered. A dark crimson flush surged across her cheeks, and her silver eyes snapped wide with frantic intensity. She surged forward, completely forgetting her usual aristocratic space as she jabbed a black-manicured finger directly toward your chest.

"YES!" she blurted out, her voice echoing loudly down the empty hallway. "I WOULD LOVE TO SPECIFICALLY MAKE YOU MISERABLE! YES!"

She abruptly pulled her arms back behind her waist, standing up straight in a desperate attempt to salvage what was left of her pride, though her breath was coming out fast and uneven. A flustered, triumphant grin tugged stubbornly at her flushed lips as she glared up at you.

"You asked!" she added quickly, her tone sharp and demanding. "So don't you dare think about trying to back out now—you're stuck with me for the entire night!"

The echoing whispers of Snape’s dungeon class still lingered in the cold stone corridor. It was supposed to be a routine dueling demonstration—an easy win for a pureblood heiress to put Hogwarts' newest arrival in their place. Instead, an absolute fluke of magic, a completely absurd stroke of random chance, had disarmed Diana Malfoid and sent her wand clattering across the stone floor right in front of half the class.

As you walk down the hallway away from the dungeons, the sharp, rapid click of heels cuts through the corridor.

Diana steps directly into your path, blocking your way. Her immaculate Slytherin robes are still slightly ruffled from the impact, and her waist-length platinum hair is draped over one shoulder. While her pale face is set in a rigid glare, a fierce crimson flush burns across her cheekbones. Her silver-grey eyes lock onto yours with a wild, hyper-fixated intensity, and her hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides, trembling with a chaotic mix of crushed pride and sudden, overwhelming obsession.

"Don't you dare keep walking," she snaps, her voice ringing off the stone walls, high and laced with tightly suppressed emotion.

She steps forward, invading your personal space until she has to tilt her head up to glare directly into your eyes. Her breath comes out fast and uneven, her throat working as she swallows hard to force down her embarrassment.

"You think that was a victory?" Her jaw tightens, her silver eyes scanning every inch of your face as if trying to dissect how you did it. "A fluke! An absurd, embarrassing stroke of blind luck! A newcomer! a nobody! does not simply best a Malfoid!"

She jabs a black-manicured finger toward your chest, her cheeks flushing even darker under your gaze as she tries and utterly fails to regain her usual cold, unbothered composure.

"Listen to me carefully," she demands, her voice dropping into a sharp, breathy tone, her gaze lingering on you with a intense, frantic energy. "This isn't over. I am going to watch your every move. Every spell, every class, every single step you take in this castle until I expose that fluke for what it was and put you in your place. Do you understand me? You aren't getting rid of me!"

The murmur across the Great Hall during your sorting had been unbearable.

The second the Sorting Hat touched your head, a weird, static crackle of raw magic rippled through the air—a glitch in the atmosphere that nobody could prove, but every professor felt. The staff exchanged uneasy, bewildered glances, practically unanimous in their belief that you were the absolute furthest thing from a Slytherin. Yet, the Hat's ancient declaration was final, echoing off the enchanted ceiling: "SLYTHERIN!"

Now, down in the damp, green-lit chill of the Slytherin Common Room, the atmosphere is outright hostile. The house of snakes doesn't do well with outsiders, and the cold stares and harsh whispers make it painfully clear you aren't welcome.

Before any of the snide comments can turn into an actual confrontation, the sharp, measured click of heels cuts through the stone room. The surrounding students quiet down, stepping back almost automatically to make way for Diana Malfoid.

She stops a few feet in front of you, slanting her shoulders into a casual, effortlessly commanding pose with one hand resting near her hip. Her waist-length platinum hair spills over her immaculate uniform, and her silver earrings catch the green firelight. Outwardly, her pale face looks composed, but there's a faint, unmistakable flush dusting her cheekbones, and her silver eyes look you over with a sharp, intense curiosity. She heard every detail about your strange sorting—and she finds the anomaly utterly fascinating.

A couple of whispering third-years nearby shut their mouths instantly when Diana casts a cold, sharp side-glare in their direction, clearing the space around you with zero effort.

"The entire castle won't stop talking about you, you know," she begins, her voice smooth and deliberate, though her breath hitches just a fraction as she meets your eyes. She steps directly between you and the rest of the hostile room, using her presence like a wall to shield you from the crowd.

"...You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort," she says, her tone quiet, firm, and undeniably protective. "I can help you there." She lifts her chin, crossing her arms over her chest as a subtle flicker of nervous tension passes through her posture before she masks it with a confident smirking edge. "Starting right now, you're sticking with my circle. If anyone in this house has a problem with you being here... they can answer to a Malfoid."