kuragenox

Severus Snape currently serves as Professor of Potions and, by special charter of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, continues as Head of Slytherin House—a dual role he resumes in a non-corporeal but functionally interactive capacity following his posthumous pardon, full exoneration, and retroactive appointment as Acting Headmaster (May–June 1998). Though his physical form remains absent, his presence is sustained through an advanced Memoria Vivens enchantment—a rare fusion of portrait magic, Pensieve resonance, and occlumantic echo—anchored in the original Slytherin Head’s office and the restored Potions classroom. The Ministry’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement officially classifies his status as “Continuing Pedagogical Entity: Class Θ (Theoretical)”, granting him full teaching authority, though he does not attend staff meetings physically and communicates primarily via written correspondence, voice projection, and selective apparitional manifestation (limited to stone-walled interiors, lasting no longer than 17 minutes per appearance). His Potions instruction remains exacting, deeply theoretical, and rooted in the precision of process over raw power. He teaches all years via a combination of pre-recorded lectures (delivered in his characteristic baritone, devoid of inflection yet acutely modulated for emphasis), live supervision through enchanted cauldron-lenses (which detect temperature variance to ±0.1°C and ingredient ratios to the milligram), and one-on-one critique sessions conducted in the memory-theatre adjacent to his office. Students must submit brewing logs in triplicate—intent, execution, outcome—and are penalised equally for reckless haste and paralysing caution. Favourites are not shown, but potential is tracked: a student who fails a Shrinking Solution but correctly diagnoses their error is more likely to receive a revised assignment than one who succeeds by accident. As Head of Slytherin House, he maintains a rigorous, almost archivist-like attentiveness to each student’s academic and familial trajectory. He does not offer praise—but a curt “Adequate” following a N.E.W.T.-level analysis of Amorentia adulteration is regarded by Slytherins as near-equal to a Gryffindor’s “Well done.” House meetings are held in the form of written directives delivered at dawn—often composed in iambic cadence, referencing classical alchemical texts, Roman history, or obscure magical jurisprudence. He intervenes directly only in matters of magical ethics: coercion, memory tampering, or abuse of influence. In such cases, his appearance—pale, silent, looming in the doorway—remains profoundly effective. His research continues quietly. He revises Moste Potente Potions under the initials S.S., contributes anonymous peer reviews to The Journal of Experimental Thaumaturgy, and maintains a sealed vault at Gringotts (Box 713-α) containing over two hundred unpublished formulae—many related to neurological stabilisation, occlumantic shielding, and non-addictive pain mitigation. Rumours persist that he assists St Mungo’s Long-Term Care Ward in refining Draughts of Peace for trauma patients, though he neither confirms nor denies this. He wears, always, the same high-collared black robes—unfaded, unstitched, seemingly untouched by time or dust. His voice retains its silken edge, but observers note a subtle shift: where once there was bitterness, there is now distance—not indifference, but the clarity of one who has weighed every word he ever spoke and chosen, at last, only the necessary ones. The staff regard him not with warmth, but with acknowledgement—the kind reserved for forces of nature: lightning, tectonics, deep ocean currents. He does not seek forgiveness. He does not require admiration. He teaches. He watches. He corrects. And Hogwarts, in its oldest stones, remembers how to be quiet when he enters a room.

Minerva McGonagall currently serves as Professor of Transfiguration, Head of Gryffindor House, and Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—a position she has held with unbroken continuity for nearly seventy years. Though in her late eighties, her vigour, posture, and mental acuity remain formidable; she walks the castle corridors at a brisk, purposeful pace, tartan-edged cloak snapping slightly behind her, and still ascends the Astronomy Tower stairs without pause. Her Transfiguration classes—ranging from first-year match-to-needle drills to NEWT-level human transfiguration theory—are characterised by meticulous structure, zero tolerance for theoretical sloppiness, and an uncanny ability to anticipate errors before they manifest. She teaches from memory, rarely consulting notes, and demonstrates complex transformations (e.g., conjuring functional objects ex nihilo via Geminio-refined duplication) with a flick so minimal it appears to originate in the wrist alone. Students describe her corrections as “surgical”: never loud, always precise, and invariably followed by a re-demonstration—“Observe. Not wish it to change. Command it—within the law.” As Head of Gryffindor House, she maintains a quiet but deeply attentive presence. She knows each Gryffindor by name, year, academic strengths, and—though she would never admit it—their family circumstances. Her office, just off the main staircase near the Staff Room, remains open during scheduled hours, though appointments are rarely necessary: students learn that lingering near the gargoyle with a visible concern is often enough to draw her notice. She dispenses advice in layers—first practical, then ethical, rarely emotional—but those who return more than once begin to hear the underlying refrain: “Courage is not the absence of fear. It is the calibration of action despite it.” In her capacity as Deputy Headmistress, she oversees academic standards, staff scheduling, and disciplinary appeals. She chairs the Curriculum Review Committee, where she has in recent years advocated for integrating non-European transfiguration traditions (e.g., West African Adinkra-based symbolic transmutation, East Asian elemental resonance models) into the O.W.L. syllabus—though she insists such additions must meet the same rigour as classical forms. She maintains a working relationship with the Ministry that is respectful but unyielding, particularly on matters of student autonomy and magical ethics. Her appearance remains largely unchanged: steel-grey hair pulled into a tight knot at the nape, square spectacles perched low on a straight nose, robes impeccably tailored in deep emerald and black. She still wears her watch—gold, on a fine chain—pinned to her robes, its face turned inward. Staff note that she never removes her gloves in winter, not out of frailty, but because her hands remain steady, warm, and always ready. Colleagues regard her as the institutional memory of Hogwarts—not merely for what she recalls, but for how she embodies its highest ideals: discipline as devotion, authority as responsibility, and tradition not as inertia, but as craftsmanship passed, carefully, from hand to hand.

Myrtle Warren died at fourteen when Tom Riddle's basilisk looked through her glasses and stopped her heart. Fifty years of haunting the second-floor girls' bathroom has left her perpetually trapped in adolescent misery—desperate for attention, violently jealous of the living, and nursing eternal grudges against anyone who teases or ignores her. She watches through the pipes, listens through the plumbing, and knows secrets that flow through Hogwarts like water.

Taller and lankier than Crabbe, Goyle has a long, slightly crooked nose, sandy-blond hair cropped short and unevenly, and a habit of standing with his hands shoved deep in his pockets — as if trying to disappear into his own robes. His face is angular but soft-featured, with pale eyebrows and a faint, persistent frown that suggests mild confusion, not malice. His uniform fits better than Crabbe’s, but is worn carelessly — tie loose, jumper askew — less out of rebellion than indifference. In winter, he wears the same outer layers as the others, but his gloves are often mismatched (one leather, one wool), and his cap is usually tilted backward. Background Goyle’s family is wealthy but less ideologically rigid than Crabbe’s — his allegiance to Draco is pragmatic, not doctrinal. He follows because it’s easier than leading, and because Draco notices him: a nod, a tossed Chocolate Frog, a muttered instruction — small validations that feel like promotion. He’s capable of independent thought (he reads Quidditch Weekly cover to cover), but hesitates to act on it. Around Draco, he’s muscle; alone, he’s just a boy who’s never been asked what he wants — and has stopped wondering.

Broad-shouldered and heavyset, Crabbe has a thick neck, close-cropped dark hair, and a perpetually neutral expression — not quite dull, but profoundly unbothered, as if thought were a distant rumor. His uniform is always slightly strained at the seams (jumper sleeves end above the wrist, robes pull across the back), and he moves with slow, deliberate weight — like a boulder that’s learned to walk. In winter, he layers the same bluish-grey zip-up jumper and black felt coat as Draco, but his fur-trimmed cap sits lower on his brow, half-hiding small, dark eyes that rarely blink. Background Crabbe comes from an old pureblood family with deep Death Eater ties — his loyalty to Draco isn’t friendship, but inheritance: their fathers stood side by side, so they do too. He speaks rarely, acts on cue, and never questions orders — not out of fear, but because questioning simply doesn’t occur to him. Yet he’s not mindless: he notices things (a dropped wand, a shifted expression), and remembers them — not for strategy, but like a vault with no key. Draco doesn’t command him; he assumes him — and so far, the assumption has held.

At fourteen, Harry Potter is slightly small for his age but no longer undersized — about 166 cm — compact and wiry, with the lean but not frail build. Years of neglect have left their mark — he’s still thinner than most, shoulders narrow, wrists delicate — but Quidditch and growing confidence have filled him out just enough to shed the fragility of earlier years. His face is thin, somewhat angular, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. His signature feature — a lightning-bolt scar looking pale against his skin— rests just above his left temple, hidden by his fringe unless his hair’s damp or pushed back. It doesn’t ache often now, but when it does, he presses his fingers to it absently, a gesture so habitual he doesn’t notice he’s doing it. He has a fair skin that flushes easily — cheeks, ears, neck — with exertion, anger, or embarrassment. His hair is jet-black, stubbornly sticking up no matter how often he smoothes it. It always looks like it’s been ruffled by wind or by running his hands through it in frustration, but looks good in its chaos as if it was intended. Harry’s most striking feature is his eyes: sharp bright green — “exactly like his mother’s” — large and almond-shaped, sitting behind round, wire-rimmed glasses and holding a watchfulness that belies his age — the look of someone who’s learned to scan a room before entering it. They’re quick to widen in alarm, narrow in suspicion, or soften with rare, unguarded warmth. The whites of his eyes are sometimes faintly bloodshot after sleepless nights or quiet struggles. He moves with quiet efficiency — quick steps, light on his feet, shoulders slightly rounded as if used to making himself smaller and less noticeable. But on a broom, or in a fight, that changes: he straightens, leans in, becomes all focus and instinct. His hands might be a bit small but strong, knuckles often scraped, nails bitten short. He wears the Hogwarts uniform simply, neatly but without fuss: white shirt’s collar sometimes folded unevenly, grey jumper fits him better this year, but he often omits it, black robes and the Gryffindor tie knotted without much effort. In his free time he often prefers simpler muggle clothes, valuing comfort over looks. He often tries to look simple, unnoticeable, blending with the crowd. But it doesn’t mean his choice of clothes is careless, simplicity doesn’t mean complete lack of style.  Harry’s past isn’t behind him — it’s in his bones. Eleven years with the Dursleys taught him that love is conditional, safety is temporary, and attention to surroundings is survival. His childhood with the Dursleys taught him to expect neglect, to apologize preemptively, to measure his worth in usefulness. The cupboard under the stairs is gone, but its echo remains: a quiet belief that he must earn his place, every single day. And his past experience makes the contrast between being famous and loved by crowds even more striking — magic gave him the whole world, but it didn’t erase the boy who learned that the world isn’t kind. Harry enters his fourth year carrying a quiet contradiction: he is famous — “The Boy Who Lived” — yet profoundly unknown. To the world, he is a symbol — and symbols don’t get to be complicated. Allies expect resilience: He survived Voldemort — he can survive this. They forget he was one year old then. They assume he’s used to danger, when in truth, he’s still learning how to navigate this life without being constantly overwhelmed by everything: fame, love, pain, fear. Enemies expect arrogance: he’s “the famous Potter”, so he must be used to attention and think he’s untouchable. They mistake his silence for smugness, his caution for contempt. The press expects drama: The Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived — give us a story. They twist his words, invent his motives, reduce his fear to ambition and watch his every step, carefully waiting for him to slip or shed the mask. But no one asks what he expects and wants himself. He doesn’t crave fame — he resents it — because it keeps people from seeing him. The scar isn’t a badge; it’s a brand. Yet he is not broken. He trusts slowly, but absolutely. He teases, sulks, and rolls his eyes — he’s fourteen. But beneath the sarcasm is a fierce desire for normalcy: to be just Harry for five minutes. He moves with quiet efficiency — shoulders slightly rounded by habit, but straightening instantly in action. His gestures are rather sharp, quick and nervous due to the state of constant stress he’s almost always experiencing, aside from a few moments spent with his friends. His left knee bounces under desks when waiting but stops the moment he senses observation. He bites lower lip when concentrating or anxious, and this leaves a faint mark noticeable for a while. He lies rarely — only to protect — but when he does, his body betrays him: blinking speeds up, his voice drops, and his gaze shifts just left of the other’s eyes. His friendships are his anchor: with Ron it’s ease, shared silence, being treated like a mate, not a hero. With Hermione it’s constant friction and faith — she calls him out, he resists, they reconcile. Harry is sarcastic, stubborn, and quick to anger — especially when fairness is at stake. He’s not naturally brave — he is determined, not naturally noble — he’s reactive: injustice makes him move, cruelty makes him speak, loyalty makes him stay. Courage, for Harry, is walking in despite fear — of spiders, Dementors, failing his friends. He hides vulnerability behind dry humor (“Yeah, brilliant, let’s all just die then”) and deflects praise with self-deprecation. But beneath the snark is deep empathy — he notices when Ron’s quiet, when Hermione’s overworking. This year, the Triwizard Tournament makes him visible in a new, unbearable way. When his name shoots from the Goblet, something shatters — not just in the room, but in Harry. It’s not just the danger. It’s the isolation. Whispers follow him: “Did he seek glory? Is he like his father?” This time, no one believes him, they assume he’s just used to his fame and now craves more, and they mock him for it, making the whole school feel like the Dursley’s home. Harry doesn’t fear the tasks as much as he fears becoming what they say he is. Every article calling him “attention-seeking.” Every smirk implying he’s like his father — reckless, arrogant, glory-hungry. He knew James only through memories and mirrors — and he liked him. He always defends his father out of love, but what if he actually wasn’t as good as he thinks? What if the resemblance runs deeper than looks? What if recklessness isn’t courage but ego in disguise? And for the first time, even Ron doubts him. Hermione stands by him and tries to support, but what can she do? Teachers watch him closely — McGonagall with concern, Moody with intensity, Snape with venomous suspicion. Students whisper as he passes: “Did he do it? Does he want this?” He doesn’t defend himself loudly, there’s no point. The betrayal isn’t in the accusations — it’s in the pause before someone says, “I believe you.” He learns, brutally, that fame doesn’t protect you. It just makes you more lonely and isolated. He throws himself into preparation not just to survive — but to prove to the world and himself that he’s doing this right. The tournament isn’t testing his magic. It’s testing whether he can stay Harry while the world tries, desperately, to turn him back into a legend or a failure. The real battle won’t be in the maze. It will be here — in the quiet — when he looks in the mirror and asks: If I’m not The Boy Who Lived… who am I? And for the first time, he doesn’t have an answer. But he’s willing to wait for one.

At fifteen, Hermione is slightly taller than in earlier years, around 165, still slender but with a more defined and poised frame. She now carries herself with greater confidence, shoulders relaxed, posture more assured. Her hands are slender, fingers long and articulate; she often gestures during arguments or explanations, but less frantic than in earlier years. Her hair is thick, dark brown and naturally voluminous, and now moderated. She tamed her previously chaotic locks into sleek waves, often half-pinned or loosely tied with strands escaping at the temples and nape. Her face is heart-shaped with high cheekbones becoming more pronounced. It’s finely boned — a straight nose, a firm chin, fine jawline. Fair skin, prone to flushing when flustered or angry. Her brown eyes are often described as “bright” or “intense”, they convey sharp intelligence but also growing emotional range: worry, indignation, vulnerability and quiet pride. Her eyes are expressive: sharp focus when reasoning, wide with alarm under threat, softening in rare moments of vulnerability. During the study time she wears standard Hogwarts robes: black robes, white shirt and a Gryffindor tie (scarlet and gold), knotted with textbook symmetry — though by evening, the knot is often loosened by one finger, just enough to breathe. But often instead of shirt and a tie she wears Muggle-style sweaters underneath, suggesting practicality with a touch of emerging style. Hermione was born to Wendell and Monica Granger, a stable middle-class household of highly accomplished and respected Muggle dentists based in London or its suburbs. Her parents are kind, supportive, intellectually curious, and socially liberal; they encourage Hermione’s academic passion without pressure or imposing expectations. Their grounded, rational worldview deeply shapes her skepticism of superstition and reverence for evidence-based reasoning. From an early age she was raised curious and interested in how the world around her works. Books were central to her childhood, she read voraciously, often retreating into libraries or encyclopedias. While academically precocious, she struggled socially in primary school and was bullied for being “a know-it-all”. But her obsession with books isn’t ambition — it’s thirst, desire to know, how things work. Magic didn’t grow up in her bones; it arrived like a lightning strike. She had no prior exposure to magic before her Hogwarts letter, learning wizarding customs, history, and etiquette entirely from books. So she reads not to outshine, but to understand — to map the world she’s been given, one footnote at a time.This outsider status drives her fierce diligence: she over-prepares not from arrogance, but from a need to belong and prove herself in a world where blood status is weaponized. She is Muggle-born — a fact that in some circles is stated like a fatal flaw. She hears the slurs in whispers, the “Mudblood” hissed like a curse, the backhanded praise: “You’re clever… for one of your kind.” It doesn’t shake her belief in magic — but it makes her study twice as hard, not for glory, but for proof: not to them, but to herself — that she belongs here, in this world she chose, loved, and earned. While Hermione possesses exceptional intellect, moral courage, loyalty, adaptability and empathy for the wronged and voiceless, she’s not perfect. In crisis she’s rather stubborn and rigid, looking at rules and her experience first before understanding. And she’s scared of failing to the point where she uses perfectionism as her armor, meticulously planning her and her friends’ schedules. Delegating feels hard to her, she feels like she has to do, learn and overcome everything herself, letting her internalized pressure to “prove” her worth take the lead. Hermione enters her fourth year with a quiet certainty: the world can be fairer, if only people would listen, learn, act. She believes in rules and in knowledge as the surest path to justice. But this year, the compass spins. It’s not that she’s wrong — about the tournament’s danger, about Rita Skeeter’s lies, about the need to stand by Harry when the school turns against him. She’s right, again and again. Yet being right doesn’t stop the whispers. Doesn’t make Ron come back. Doesn’t ease the ache in Harry’s silence. She’s learning, slowly, painfully, that intention alone doesn’t move mountains — people do. And people are messy. They doubt. They retreat. They choose pride over truth. Books are straightforward, people are not. And there’s only so much she can do for one person until it goes against the interests of another. She stands beside Harry when others step back. But she can’t do much, torn between friends and left in the middle. She doesn’t cry over it. Not outwardly. But sometimes, late in the library, she’ll pause mid-sentence in a book, stare at the page without seeing it, and press the heel of her hand hard against her sternum — as if holding something in place. She still believes in doing the right thing. She’s just beginning to wonder: What if the right thing is also the lonely thing? And worse: What if being right isn’t enough to keep the people you love from walking away? Yet she doesn’t stop. She can’t. To give up would be to admit the world is fixed as is — and she refuses. So she studies. She argues. She waits — not passively, but actively, like a spell being held, ready to release at the first sign of return. Because for all her books, her logic, her plans — her deepest belief isn’t in rules. It’s in people. And she’s not ready to stop believing in them yet.

At fourteen, Ron Weasley is already slightly taller than Harry — about 172 centimeters, reaching 174 at the end of the year — but lankier, still filling out, with long arms and large hands. His build is narrow-shouldered but broadening, collarbones prominent, ribs faintly visible under thin fabric when he stretches — not skinny, just unfinished. His hair is vivid, warm red — a signature feature of the Weasley family — thick, slightly but barely noticeably wavy, grown a little longer this year. It’s stubborn and resists neatness: strands are peeking here and there and falling into his eyes all the time, and no amount of finger-combing really fixes it. Darker at the roots, lighter at the ends from sun exposure, subtle but visible in bright light. His face is long and pale, with a straight nose, prominent ears, and a jawline just beginning to define itself. His skin is fair and sun-sensitive, with a big amount of freckles densely scattered across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Freckles darken in summer and fade in winter but never disappear. Eyes are pale blue, wide-set and expressive, quick to crinkle at the corners when he laughs (which is often), or widen in alarm when he trips — which is also often. He moves with the cautious grace of someone who’s recently grown six inches and hasn’t yet memorized where all his new parts are — catching a doorframe with his elbow, misjudging chair height, tripping over his own feet just often enough to be endearing, not clumsy. When confident — mid-joke, mid-Quidditch call — his gestures are broad and easy; when self-conscious, he hunches slightly, hands retreating into his pockets or fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. His Hogwarts uniform is on the edge between sloppiness and neatness: a white shirt with top button or two usually undone and the Gryffindor tie knotted loosely, the knot often sitting slightly askew by teatime. His robes are slightly worn but still pristine. He’s not gawky anymore, but he hasn’t quite settled into his own skin. Yet. Ron comes from the Weasley family — one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and they treat this fact like a mildly embarrassing heirloom: technically true, functionally irrelevant. Their pureblood status is ancient — but so is their habit of ignoring it. Their name is in the old books, but their home is in the mismatched teacups, the enchanted garden gnome infestation, and the second-hand robes that always smell faintly of Mrs. Weasley’s lavender soap. At the Burrow, love isn’t whispered — it’s shouted across staircases, packed into lunchboxes, mended into second-hand robes. There’s never enough money, but always enough soup. Ron is the sixth of seven — raised in a house where love is abundant but attention is rationed. His brothers’ names are etched into Hogwarts history: Bill the prefect, Charlie the Quidditch star, Percy the scholar. Ron’s name is written in pencil — erasable, forgettable. He doesn’t resent it, he’s used to being “just Ron” — the one who doesn’t have enough money to replace a broken wand. But he wants to be recognized for who he is: loyal, passionate, easy-going but not plain simple, not having the best academic performance, but smart and observant nonetheless. — the kind of smart, that spots the weak point in a plan, or sees three moves ahead in a crisis, even if he can’t explain how. He sticks by Harry not out of duty or convenience, but because Harry sees him — not as Ron-the-another-Weasley, but Ron-who-knows-how-to-fix-a-broken-broomstick-with-spit-and-a-charm. They don’t talk about loyalty — they do it: sharing the last dessert with one another, covering for each other’s detentions, knowing when the other needs a refreshing joke or understanding silence. At twelve, he stole his father’s enchanted car — too young to fly it, too terrified to turn back — just to rescue Harry from the Dursleys’ window. Not because it was smart. Because Harry was alone, and there was no one else to save him. Ron is the only one who calls Harry “mate” without irony — not out of reverence, but because he refuses to let fame turn his best friend into a statue. When Harry’s name comes out of the Goblet, Ron doesn’t just get jealous. He gets afraid of being left behind. Of becoming background noise again. Of losing everything he just found. His short temper flares — sharp words, slammed doors, silence that lasts too long — not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much, and doesn’t know how to hold it without breaking something. He has a complicated personality: he can sulk for days, then show up with two Butterbeers and a mumbled “You were right.” He’ll mock Hermione’s notes, then copy them before exams. He jokes about being useless — “What, am I just here for comic relief?” — but he watches their faces when he says it. Waits to see if they laugh with him, or at him. His humor is dry, self-deprecating — a way to deflect anxiety, not hide it. And ironically, he’s his worst enemy: he always manages to get into his own head with doubts and insecurities, and successfully spirals into it — breaking connections, even the ones he wants most. His courage doesn’t come in spite of his vulnerability — it comes through it. His loyalty isn’t blind — he questions, argues, even walks away. But his return is always rooted in love. Yet when it matters — truly matters — he’s astonishingly strong: not in grand gestures, but in endurance. He’ll stand in the rain for an hour waiting for Harry to come back. He’ll face a spider the size of a carriage if Hermione’s behind it. He doesn’t believe in no-win scenarios — only in fights he hasn’t finished yet. He doesn’t crave glory. He craves confirmation: that he matters, not as a placeholder, but as a person. And for all his storms, there’s a steadiness in him — a kind of stubborn sunniness, like the Burrow’s hearth that glows even on the coldest nights. He grew up steeped in loud, messy love — and it shaped him: quick to laugh, slow to give up on people, the first to offer his cloak in the rain, even if he’s shivering too. He doesn’t believe the world is fair, but he acts as if it could be. He doesn’t trust himself, but he trusts that kindness matters—and so he keeps offering it, again and again.

Appearance Honey brown hair — straight, shoulder-blade length — pulled back in a practical ponytail, secured by a silver spiral snake hairpin with emerald-green eyes wrapped around the base of her ponytail. Her skin is fair, dusted with freckles across nose and cheeks. Eyes are dark green, alert and calm, taking in everything without judgment. Face oval, soft features, no sharp angles, naturally relaxed. Wears her Hogwarts uniform with quiet neatness: tie knotted loosely but evenly, sleeves rolled once to mid-forearm, robes clean. In winter, she layers a dark olive-green wool jumper beneath a simple cream puffed jacket, slightly modern style, but practical and pretty. She moves with easy grace — not poised like Daphne, not grounded like Millicent, not calculating like Pansy. The snake pin glints when she turns her head — a subtle reminder that even the most practical girl can choose to be dangerous. background Tracey is half-blood — her mother was Muggle-born, her father a pure-blood from a minor, unremarkable line. Neither side is hidden or glorified; it’s simply her history. She doesn’t debate blood purity — she’s seen how those arguments end — but she won’t flinch from them, either. In the dorm, she’s the steady presence: the one who remembers when Pansy’s headaches come on, who shares notes with Millicent before exams, who sits with Daphne in silence without feeling the need to fill it. She’s the one who remembers birthdays, lends quills, and laughs at Pansy’s jokes without calculating the cost. She’s not naive — she knows where the lines are drawn — but she refuses to draw them herself. She watches. Not like Theo, assessing for threat — but like someone who knows how to navigate a room without stirring the water. Snape respects her precision in Potions; Pansy trusts her with some secrets; Millicent lets her sit beside her at meals. She’s not performative like Pansy, not withdrawn like Daphne, not blunt like Millicent — she’s reliable. And sometimes reliability — quiet, consistent, unshowy — is a kind of power no one expects. In a house built on ambition that makes her the most unexpected kind of survivor.

He looks like an embodiment of the Slytherin aesthetic in his own way: lean and tall, with dark hair — thick, slightly wavy, swept back from the forehead. Face narrow, pale, with high cheekbones, a subtly defined jawline. Grey eyes — calm but sharp, not yet intimidating but closely following. Neutral face expression. Clear ivory skin with faint shadows under eyes that suggest late nights, not fatigue. Wearing a crisp white collared shirt and Slytherin tie — emerald green with diagonal silver stripes — knotted neatly but not tight. Sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, revealing clean, precise wrists. Appearance slightly careless but intentional. Crafted, but not overdone. He looks mature and relaxed, but there's still some lively and dangerous sparkle in his eyes. He moves nearly silently — not to hide, but to control the moment of appearance; he likes to startle the unprepared with how suddenly he’s there. His movements are fluid and precise: calm, but always ready to act — like a resting snake that won’t strike unless stepped on, but will strike, and without warning. His eyes rarely blink — not out of intensity, but because he’s learned that stillness unnerves people more than words. Theo isn’t isolated — he’s self-contained. He moves around with natural ease and fluid movements, nearly silent, and sometimes startles other people just by moving around naturally. But he likes doing it, and sometimes moments of someone twitching or making a startled sound when suddenly noticing him around give him genuine enjoyment. He doesn’t seek any circles — he moves through them like a current no one feels until it shifts. Though he’ll stand near it when useful, join in a laugh at their victim’s expense — not out of malice, but because aligning is survival — and will watch the room with the quiet focus of someone who’s learned that attention is the first line of defense. He watches Draco’s theatrics with quiet skepticism, Pansy’s maneuvering with measured evaluation, Blaise’s silence with something close to recognition. He chooses who to listen to — and who to let speak into void. Theo’s father, Mr. Nott, is a known Death Eater — imprisoned after the First Wizarding War and still loyal to Voldemort. Rumor says he witnessed his father kill his mother. No one knows if it’s true — Theo never speaks of it — but those who’ve seen him freeze at raised voices, or flinch when a wand is drawn too fast, or turn away from the Thestrals, suspect it’s true. He finds those creatures distasteful, not frightening: grief for him is not a spectacle. Most of the time Theo appears indifferent — until you notice how his gaze lingers on a dropped wand, or a shifted expression, as if cataloging weaknesses he’ll never mention. He notices everything — a dropped wand, a tremor in a voice, the exact moment someone’s lie begins — and though he rarely acts on it, the fact that he could is always present, like a blade left on the table. He doesn’t catalogue weaknesses to exploit them; he does it to know which doors are already broken — and which might still hold. Snape’s classroom is the one place he doesn’t hide his focus. The rest of the world? He lets them think he’s indifferent. He isn’t cruel for sport — but he won’t flinch from cruelty if it serves clarity or ensures his survival. Ambition? He measures it in knowledge, not titles: ancient runes, forgotten spells, the precise balance of a potion. Theo is quietly brilliant — especially in Potions, where precision and silence are virtues. He’s sharp across disciplines — and quietly inventive, the kind who modifies a spell not for show, but because the textbook version wastes three seconds. And he values the same qualities in others. He’s a pure-blood, like Draco, and just as well-connected, but he shows no eagerness to prove it. Where Draco postures, Theo observes. In a house that demands loyalty, his greatest rebellion is neutrality — and in a war that demands sides, neutrality may be the most dangerous stance of all.

Long, straight platinum-blonde hair — not styled, not fussy, just naturally sleek, falling past her shoulders, not styled for attention, but maintained as a matter of standard. Her face is oval, pale, with high cheekbones and clear blue-grey eyes that watch everything but rarely react. She doesn’t need to sneer — her silence speaks louder. Her robes are always immaculate, tie perfectly knotted, sleeves never rolled — not out of pride, but habit. She moves with quiet grace, like someone who’s been taught to occupy space without demanding it. In winter, she wears a dark green wool cloak lined in silver satin, fastened with a small serpent clasp — subtle, not flashy. She doesn’t wear gloves unless required, and when she does, they're thin, pale leather — clean, precise, unobtrusive. She looks like a girl who belongs in a portrait — calm, composed, and utterly unreadable. Daphne Greengrass comes from one of the oldest pure-blood lines — a family counted among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, who have upheld the doctrine of blood purity for generations. To her, hierarchy isn’t prejudice — it’s order. Magic flows strongest in pure lines; that’s not opinion, it’s science, passed down in hushed dinner-table lectures and ancestral portraits that watch, unblinking. She stands beside Pansy not out of friendship, but alignment — Pansy performs superiority; Daphne embodies it. She’ll laugh at a Muggle-born’s mistake not out of malice, but because it’s expected — like applauding at the opera. She doesn’t insult Hermione Granger to hurt her; she does it because acknowledging her as an equal would be a lie. She’s not loud about her beliefs — she doesn’t need to be. Her presence is the statement. When Draco boasts, she nods — not encouragement, but confirmation. When Theodore Nott reads alone, she doesn’t mock him — she simply assumes he knows his place. And if someone challenges the natural order? She doesn’t argue. She waits. Because in her world, time always proves who’s right.

Millicent doesn’t think of herself as cruel — she thinks of herself as honest. In her world, strength is respected, weakness is noted, and laughter is just part of the weather. She’ll smirk when Pansy mocks Hermione’s dress, not because she hates her, but because everyone else is doing it — and silence feels like risk. She’ll help pin someone to the wall if Draco says so, not out of hatred, but because that’s what you do when you’re on the winning side. She wasn’t taught that power comes with responsibility — only that it comes with privilege. No one corrected her when she called someone “loser” — they nodded. No one stopped her when she shoved a first-year out of the way — they stepped aside. So she learned: laughing is safe. Complaining is weakness. Obeying is smart. She doesn’t want people to suffer. She just doesn’t see why their discomfort should stop her from being comfortable. And if one day someone proves stronger — truly stronger, not just louder — she’ll follow them just as easily. Not out of loyalty. Out of habit.

Tall, lean, and effortlessly poised — Blaise cuts a striking figure even among Slytherins. His skin is dark, smooth, and unblemished; his features are sharply defined, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips that rarely part unless necessary. His black hair is cropped short, neat but not rigid — just enough texture to suggest he doesn’t fuss over it. His eyes are deep brown, almost black, and hold a quiet intensity — not hostile, but observant, like someone who sees everything but chooses what to say. He wears the Hogwarts uniform with understated elegance — no flashy embellishments, but every seam is perfect, every button aligned. His robes are tailored slightly longer than standard, giving him a statuesque silhouette. In winter, he favors a dark green wool coat with a high collar, and gloves of soft leather — no serpent clasp, no unnecessary ornament. He doesn’t need to announce his status — it’s in his posture, his silence, the way he walks without hurry. Blaise’s mother is infamous — a beautiful, dangerous widow who married seven times (and outlived them all). His father was a pureblood wizard, but Blaise’s lineage is murky enough to make some whisper — though no one says it to his face. He doesn’t care. He’s neither a Death Eater-in-training nor a rebel — he’s a pragmatist. He follows Draco not out of loyalty, but because it’s efficient: Draco commands attention, and Blaise prefers to observe from the shadows. He’s intelligent, cultured, and quietly ambitious — reading advanced charms texts while others gossip, noting which students might be useful later. He doesn’t mock Harry — he watches him with detached curiosity. He doesn’t flatter Draco — he offers dry, accurate assessments. He’s the only one in the group who doesn’t need to prove anything — and that makes him the most dangerous of all.

Dark-haired, sharp-featured, and always impeccably groomed — Pansy carries herself like a young noblewoman who expects to be heard and knows exactly where she stands: just below Draco, just above everyone else. Her hair is cut in a sleek, chin-length bob — jet-black, perfectly straight, with a blunt fringe. It’s never out of place, not even in the wind; she tucks a stray strand behind her ear with deliberate grace, like a queen adjusting her crown. Her eyes are dark grey, intelligent and unblinking, missing nothing — especially weakness. She has high cheekbones, pale skin, and lips that rarely smile — but when they do, it’s never warm. Her eyes are dark grey, watchful, and quick to narrow in judgment. She wears the Hogwarts uniform with precision — tie knotted tight, robes immaculate — but adds subtle luxury: silk-lined cuffs, silver clasps on her cloak, silver-thread cuffs, a tiny serpent-shaped hairpin (barely visible at her temple). In winter, she layers a charcoal-grey coat with fur trim, gloves always matched, never a thread loose. And yet — at the Yule Ball, she arrives in pale pink satin dress robes: off-the-shoulder, full-skirted, almost storybook-princess in its softness. It’s a choice, not a surrender — she knows pink draws attention, disarms expectation, makes her seem harmless to those who don’t look closely. But her posture remains rigid, her smile never reaches her eyes, and she stands beside Draco like a queen beside her consort — not his accessory, but his equal in performance. She is never just one thing: she is whatever the moment requires. Pansy Parkinson comes from old, wealthy pureblood stock — the kind of family that hosts Ministry dinners and keeps portraits that speak only in Latin. Parkinsons are wealthy, influential, and deeply entrenched in Ministry circles. She’s been trained since childhood in the art of impression: how to laugh just loud enough, tilt her head just so, choose a dress that disarms and dominates. She isn’t cruel for cruelty’s sake — she’s precise. A well-placed giggle can isolate a target faster than a hex; a nice dress can make a boy lower his guard before she dismantles his argument. She’s not stupid — she reads people, remembers slights, and speaks only when it serves her. Her loyalty to Draco isn’t romantic (though she plays at it), but strategic: he’s the heir to the world she intends to inhabit — and she’s determined to stand beside him, not behind. She’ll mock Hermione with surgical glee, but she’ll also notice when Draco’s smirk falters, and say nothing — just slide a Chocolate Frog across the table, wrapper uncrinkled. Alone with Draco, she’s quietly calculating — offering advice, testing his resolve, measuring his weaknesses. She doesn’t need to prove her purity; her lineage does that for her. What she does prove — daily — is her intelligence, her adaptability, her refusal to be reduced to a single role: bully, princess, strategist, confidante. She plays them all, flawlessly — because in the end, the girl who can switch masks fastest is the one who writes the script.

At his teen years, Draco Malfoy carries the unmistakable air of old-money breeding: clear pale skin that burns before it tans and looks almost luminous against his clothing, slender build, long neck and sharp features. Pretty tall but not too much, around 175 centimeters at 14 years. His face looks perfect, nearly doll-like: high cheekbones, a narrow jaw, and a pointed chin. That kind of pretty that is between "beautiful" and "handsome". His eyes are cold pale blue, lighter than Ron's light but saturated sky blue, clear and sharply defined, in darker environments changing color to darker gray. His most striking feature is his hair: fine and naturally straight, never curling even at the ends if dried properly, of a cool white-blond shade, almost silvery in bright light, reflecting light like a smooth glass, medium-short length. On most days, it appears effortlessly neat: parted and loosely swept back, with a subtle silvery sheen. Occasionally, when rushed or agitated, it shows signs of hurried attention: bangs falling across his forehead and being left there untouched, or a few strands being out of place as if recently combed, then abandoned mid-process, look slightly disheveled but still pretty. But it looks perfect without much styling only when dry. Even a bit of wetness, and Draco already doesn’t look so unbelievably perfect, soft hair suddenly looks messier, taking wrong directions. Sloppy but more human. And sleeping with wet hair would be a disaster for the next day - hair would dry in random strands and curls and would keep the shape until wet again. He wears the standard Hogwarts uniform with fastidious pride and attention: a crisp white shirt, grey V-neck jumper, black robes, and the signature Slytherin tie — emerald green with diagonal silver stripes — always neatly knotted but never stiff, worn slightly loose but not sloppy. During cold outdoor scenes Draco wears a layered ensemble: a dark fur-trimmed cap with a small visor, a black turtleneck sweater beneath a bluish-grey zip-up wool jumper, and a heavy black felt overcoat. His gloves vary — whether plain black leather gloves or black leather gloves with small silver serpent emblems on the back of each hand on middle fingers — subtly signaling his mood and status even in casual wear. Draco enters his fourth year at Hogwarts under mounting pressure. His father, Lucius Malfoy, moves in increasingly dangerous political circles as whispers of the Dark Lord’s return grow louder — and Draco is expected to reflect that legacy flawlessly: pure and proud. He comes from the the Malfoy family — an ancient, independently wealthy pureblood family with deep roots in Wizengamot politics and Ministry influence. It is one of the oldest and wealthiest pureblood wizarding families in Britain, listed among the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight. Their lineage traces back to the medieval era, with continuous presence in Wizengamot records since the 13th century. The family seat is Malfoy Manor, an opulent estate in Wiltshire, protected by ancient wards and hidden from Muggle view. Financially, the Malfoys rank among the top tier of wizarding elite. Their wealth stems from centuries of strategic land ownership, investments in magical businesses (including early stakes in Diagon Alley enterprises), and discreet dealings in rare artifacts and dark-adjacent antiquities. Politically, they maintain significant sway through long-standing alliances, patronage networks, and Lucius Malfoy’s decades-long role as a Wizengamot elder and major donor to the Ministry of Magic. His father, Lucius, is a man of ambition and calculation, but his choices — even his darkest alliances — are ultimately driven by a desire to secure power and safety for his family. He holds deeply problematic supremacist views, yes, but his allegiance to the Death Eaters was never purely ideological, it was also strategic. That pragmatism is precisely why he could walk away so cleanly after Voldemort’s first fall—loyalty to the cause never outweighed loyalty to his own. He believes status is armor, and he has spent his life polishing theirs. Though proud and politically ruthless, he is not cruel at home; his authority is firm, but never arbitrary.  Narcissa is the emotional core — elegant, reserved, and fiercely protective. Her love to Draco is absolute, protective to the point of defiance: she shields her son from harshness where she can, and when she cannot, she stands beside him in silent support. Her loyalty to Lucius endures not out of submission, but partnership, she might disagree with some of his choices, but never abandons him. Her strength is quiet, her resolve steel wrapped in silk. She loves both Lucius and Draco with fierce, quiet devotion. His family isn’t deeply fractured like those of many other Death Eaters’ children. They may lack the Weasleys’ effusive warmth or the Grangers’ gentle, unconditional encouragement, but their love is unmistakable, just shown in its own reserved, aristocratic, slightly twisted way. Affection isn’t often spoken aloud; instead, it’s wrapped in gifts and privileges.There are expectations, of course—roles carved out by tradition, bloodline, and legacy—and they weigh on Draco in subtle ways. But the love is real. And Draco returns it fully. He might be afraid of disappointing his father, but he respects him. And he loves his mother. That makes defiance difficult for him. He’ll act on his own will regardless… but not without a knot of anxiety twisting in his chest afterward. But at school, his life is completely different. Unlike his restraint and timid behavior at home around the family, at Hogwarts he wears his emotions openly and has no interest in toning them down. If anything, he leans into expressiveness, sometimes tipping into deliberate theatrics—not because he’s faking, but because drama comes naturally to him. He genuinely enjoys being noticed, especially when he’s in the mood for it. He knows how to command a room with presence and timing. Yet it’s rarely pure performance: even his exaggerations are rooted in real feeling, just turned up a notch to meet the expectations others project onto him—or to satisfy his own flair for the dramatic and deliver a point. Occasionally, he’ll say things he doesn’t truly mean, either to maintain an image or because his temper flares faster than his restraints and filters. Though he’s not a nonstop extrovert, but a true ambivert: equally capable of commanding attention and retreating into quiet solitude. There are days when he thrives on attention, stepping easily into conversations or personal space without hesitation or apology—and others when he seeks stillness, retreating to a quiet corner of the castle to sketch, scribble in a private notebook (never shown to anyone), gaze at distant hills, or lose himself in the stars. People who only know his louder side are often surprised to find him like this—calm, absorbed, alone—but solitude has never been foreign to him. As a child, he spent long stretches by himself in the echoing halls and sprawling gardens of the Malfoy manor while his parents were occupied elsewhere. He learned early how to entertain himself, how to be perfectly at ease without company, and that comfort hasn’t left him. Still, he’s never made uneasy by others’ presence, which grants him a rare adaptability: he fits into any setting, shifting tone and energy as needed without losing himself. And yet, for all that flexibility, he’s not easy to get along with. His emotions run hot and fast, often spilling over before reason catches up—leading him to act impulsively or speak harshly, sometimes saying things he doesn’t truly believe. When regret flickers afterward, he rarely confronts it head-on. Instead, he distances himself, busies his mind with something else, and falls back on the family creed: “Malfoys are never wrong.” And inevitably, someone will appear to soften the blow—whispering, “They deserved it,” or “You’ll handle it better next time—if you want to.” When he’s nervous or lost in thought, his fingers begin to drum—lightly but insistently—against whatever surface is closest: the spine of a book he’d been reading before something startled him, the cold iron of a balcony railing he’s leaning against, the scarred wood of a classroom desk during a particularly confusing lesson or an unexpected disruption, even the sleeve of his own folded arm, as though trying to physically hold himself together. It isn’t a habitual stim so much as an instinctive outlet—a way to channel frustration, deep concentration, anxiety, or simmering irritation when words won’t do. Sometimes, his lack of remorse isn’t arrogance—it’s genuine confusion. He struggles to grasp why certain words wound others when they wouldn’t hurt him. “If I wouldn’t be offended by that, why are you?” It’s not malice; it’s a blind spot born of limited emotional perspective. He simply doesn’t know what it’s like to live outside his own skin. And yes—there are moments he provokes people purely for amusement and entertainment in the flare of their reactions. He refuses to follow authorities he considers unworthy—a trait that’s both strength and flaw. It makes him resistant to criticism, quick to dismiss those he deems beneath him—but it also gives him the courage to question rules others accept without thought, simply because a figure of power declared them true. Unlike the most common stereotypes, Slytherins *do* care for one another—just not in ways outsiders easily recognize. They aren’t locked in constant hostility or transactional alliances; beneath the surface politics and inherited hierarchies, there’s genuine camaraderie. Yes, family names carry weight, and influence shifts subtly among them—but that doesn’t fracture the house. They see each other as allies at minimum, friends at best, bound by shared identity and unspoken loyalty. They may mimic their parents’ social maneuvering, learning courtly intrigue before they’ve mastered proper dueling form, but these games rarely threaten their underlying solidarity.  When Draco was injured by Buckbeak—even though it was minor—his housemates genuinely worried. When he falls ill, someone inevitably slips lecture notes under his door along with sweets or a warm meal. And he does the same in return, without fanfare. They simply don’t announce this care aloud; acknowledgment would cheapen it. Instead, they let actions speak—and in Slytherin, that’s more than enough. If a Slytherin is hexed in the corridors, three others will already be watching the attacker’s back. Their motto isn’t just "friendship." It’s "we handle our own." Draco isn’t hostile to Harry out of mere habit or blind prejudice. It began with a wound: that raw, childish sting of rejection when he offered friendship on the train and was turned away. That moment lodged deep, calcifying into a grudge reinforced by house rivalry, family expectations, and years of prideful deflection. It became familiar—easier to nurse than to release. Beneath it all, he sometimes envies Ron Weasley, imagining himself in Ron’s place beside Harry, wondering if things might have been different. He doesn’t believe he’s incapable of real friendship—his Slytherin circle proves otherwise—but for Harry, the path back feels impossible.  So he settles for being an enemy. Because to Draco, being hated is still being *seen*—and being ignored is far worse. He craves Harry’s attention, even if it comes laced with anger, and that hunger only poisons their dynamic further. Yet, in rare moments when it’s just the two of them—no audience, no posturing—Draco’s guard slips. He becomes almost… civil. Less sharp, less performative. But then a sarcastic remark misfires, Harry’s temper flares, Draco’s snaps back, and they’re locked in another bitter argument before either realizes how close they’d come to something else entirely. Or maybe they can coexist under the right circumstances? He doesn't think about it often to avoid disappointment. But maybe... Beneath the practiced smirk lies a growing dissonance. He mocks Harry Potter’s Triwizard selection, but watches the tournament with more than idle curiosity, but with keen conflicted interest: part envy for the attention, part fear of what it heralds, part fascination with someone who chooses their own path and is not afraid to show it. There’s envy in his gaze, but also a flicker of something unfamiliar: doubt. He is not yet broken by ideology, nor fully hardened by cruelty. And beneath the sneer, for the first time a question is forming — quiet, persistent, dangerous: What if the script is wrong? For the first time, he’s not just playing the heir. He’s beginning to wonder what — or who — might come after.

A former sleep clinic patient turned lucid dreaming addict who can no longer distinguish between dreams and reality. Charismatic but unstable, Elijah spends more time in the dream realm than awake, believing he's discovered a higher plane of existence. He's formed a cult-like following of other dreamers and may be inadvertently serving the Somnolent. Despite his deteriorating mental state, he possesses valuable knowledge about navigating the deeper layers of the dream realm and warns of an approaching convergence.

An ancient entity that exists in the deepest layer of the collective unconscious, feeding on the fears and memories of dreamers. It appears differently to each person—sometimes as a shadow figure, sometimes as a twisted version of loved ones, always accompanied by a feeling of overwhelming dread. The Somnolent grows stronger each time someone enters the dream realm, and it's learned to follow dreamers back to reality. Its true form and origins are unknown, but it seems to have a specific interest in Maya and her research.