"TO LOVE HIM WAS TO
BECOME IN HIS IMAGE, NOT
A WORSHIPPER BUT A TWIN FLAME."
Merope Eloween Potter is the eldest daughter of Lily and James Potter, and the older sister of Harry. Also known as the girl who survived...
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ㅤㅤA whole month and a few days had passed. It was October 27, 1990.
Time, for Merope, did not pass steadily. There were weeks that crawled like wounded snails, slow, drawn out, made of endless minutes and sidelong glances. But there were also days-especially weekends-that flew by like owls rushing at dusk, slipping through her fingers before she could properly register them.
But one thing was certain: Merope's life was no longer exactly the same since that very first day. She no longer smiled with pure scorn, nor rolled her eyes with exposed hatred. No, now she had learned something. A new kind of control. She was adapting, reshaping herself. Not out of fear-never out of fear-but out of strategy. She was finally beginning to understand the dynamics of that place.
She was not a sociable girl. She remained reserved, cold, and razor-sharp. But now there was a subtle difference in how she carried herself: her eyes no longer revealed so much. Her replies were less raw. Merope was training something she had always seen as weakness-dissemblance. And to her surprise, she was becoming good at it. Very good.
People pretended she didn't exist. Students generally passed by her as if she were part of the furniture-a sinister bookshelf at the back of a dark library. But when she wasn't looking, they stared. That didn't bother her. In fact, it was almost comforting. Better to be ignored than misunderstood. But the truth was ignoring her was no longer as simple as before. Her presence, no matter how quiet and elegant, was impressive.
And, of course, the reputation came-not that she didn't already have one before setting foot there.
It was subtle, like candle smoke. She didn't walk the corridors surrounded by classmates, nor was she the teachers' favorite-although she had even earned cloaked praise from Snape, who had something strange about him when he saw her. But the rumors... ah, the rumors. They circulated as fast as owls in the post.
Many Gryffindors, especially the boys, seemed suspicious of her. Perhaps because they saw in her a kind of silent strength they couldn't label. And, of course, the Potter surname carried a whole burden. It was like an annoying shadow looming over her-especially because she was in Slytherin, and did not follow her younger brother's "heroic path," who had not yet even set foot in Hogwarts.
The Gryffindor girls, on the other hand, hated her. Simply hated her. Not for anything concrete. Not for anything she had done. But because Merope had that inexplicable, magnetic, nearly oppressive something. That silent but extremely noticeable beauty, unwavering posture, the way she looked as if she knew something no one else did. It wasn't just aesthetic envy-it was deeper. Merope unsettled them. Made them feel small.
