The chick from America , Yandere various Harry Potter x Reader

The new arrival

The Ministry owl arrived at Ilvermorny during breakfast, its wings scattering toast crumbs as it landed unceremoniously in front of Y/N L/N. The envelope bore a wax seal the color of old blood, and the whispers around her stopped mid-sentence. She didn't notice—she was already tearing it open with butter-smeared fingers, scanning the contents twice before letting out a whoop loud enough to rattle the enchanted ceiling beams.

Professor Fontaine sighed. "You're going to make a scene."

Professor Fontaine's sigh was drowned out by the scrape of benches as half the dining hall stood up to crane their necks at the commotion. Y/N bounced on her toes, waving the parchment like a victory flag. "They picked me! Hogwarts—Triwizard—I'm going!" The words tumbled out in a jumbled rush, her grin threatening to split her face. Someone dropped a goblet. It rolled under the table with a metallic clatter that nobody heard over the sudden uproar.

Two seats down, Elias Pritchard muttered, "They're doomed," but his smirk said he'd already placed a bet on her surviving the first week. The Ilvermorny faculty exchanged glances that spoke of caffeine reserves being drained in advance.

The Hogwarts Express smelled like polished wood and old magic, the kind that clung to the seams of the upholstery and whispered secrets if you pressed your ear too close to the window glass. Y/N didn't sit still long enough to listen—she was already halfway down the corridor, her trunk banging against compartment doors as she peered inside each one with the subtlety of a firework. "D'you think they'll have pumpkin pasties on this train too?" she called over her shoulder to no one in particular, her voice carrying like a siren song through the rattling carriages.

The first head to poke out belonged to a boy with hair the color of a rusted galleon, his expression caught between amusement and alarm. "You're that Ilvermorny champion," Fred Weasley announced, as if she might not have noticed. George materialized beside him like a specter, already holding out a licorice wand like a peace offering. "We've been taking bets on whether you'll hex someone before the Welcoming Feast," George added cheerfully.

Y/N snatched the licorice wand with a grin that could've powered the Hogwarts Express. "Depends," she said, snapping the candy in half with her teeth, "do you count *accidental* hexes?" The twins exchanged a look that was pure, unfiltered glee. Fred swung the compartment door wider with a flourish. "Oh, we're keeping you."

Inside, the compartment was a riot of noise and color—Lee Jordan mid-sentence about something involving a troll and a tutu, Ginny Weasley rolling her eyes from behind a dog-eared copy of *Quidditch Weekly*, and Ron Weasley choking on a chocolate frog when Y/N plopped down beside him without ceremony. "So," she said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, "who's got the best odds on me surviving the first task?"

A crumpled betting slip materialized in George's hand. "Diggory's the favorite, but Pucey's got a galleon on you setting the arena on fire *before* the dragon's unleashed."

"Adrian Pucey?" Y/N's nose wrinkled. "The Slytherin with the eyebrows?"

Ron coughed out the last of the chocolate frog, his ears flushing pink as Y/N's knee bumped against his. "You—you know Adrian?" he managed, voice cracking mid-sentence.

George tossed a licorice wand at Ron's forehead. "Jealous, little brother?"

Before Ron could retaliate, the compartment door slid open again, revealing a tousled-haired boy with glasses askew. Harry Potter blinked at the scene—Y/N sprawled between the twins, Ginny's magazine now forgotten, and Lee Jordan miming a troll's tragic ballet. "Er," Harry said, "Hermione said you lot were being *loud*—" His sentence died as Y/N twisted to face him, her grin sharp as a freshly honed blade.

"Potter!" she declared, as if she'd summoned him. "Tell me, honestly—how many galleons did you bet on me dying before Halloween?"

Harry blinked, caught between the sudden weight of her gaze and the twins' snickering. His mouth opened, then closed, like a fish realizing it had jumped onto the wrong riverbank. "I—uh—didn't actually place a bet," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

Y/N's grin widened. "Liar." She leaned forward, close enough that Harry could count the freckles dusting her nose. "Come on, spill. I won't hex you." A pause. "Probably."

"Probably," George echoed solemnly, nodding.

Fred draped an arm over Harry's shoulders, steering him into the compartment with the grace of a spider herding a fly. "Our dear Harry's got a soft spot for lost causes," he stage-whispered. "Bet five galleons you'd *befriend* the dragon."

The train lurched sharply around a bend, sending Harry stumbling forward—right into Y/N's lap. The compartment erupted into howls of laughter as Harry's glasses slid sideways, his face burning scarlet beneath the fringe of his hair. Y/N didn't even flinch, just propped him upright with a grin and a pat on the shoulder that lingered a second too long. "Careful, Potter," she teased, fingers brushing his wrist as she adjusted his glasses. "Wouldn't want you breaking anything before I get to see you fly."

Lee Jordan wolf-whistled. Ginny's magazine crumpled in her grip.

Across the aisle, Ron's knuckles whitened around his chocolate frog wrapper, his gaze darting between Harry's frozen expression and Y/N's effortless smirk. George leaned over, his whisper carrying like a stage whisper: "Ten galleons says she's got Diggory wrapped around her finger by sundown." Fred snorted. "Twenty says she's already got Malfoy writing sonnets."

As if summoned, the compartment door slammed open again—this time revealing Draco Malfoy, his platinum hair perfectly tousled, his sneer already in place. "Pathetic," he drawled, though his eyes lingered on Y/N's outstretched legs. "The savior of the wizarding world, tripping over his own feet."

As if summoned, the compartment door slammed open again—this time revealing Draco Malfoy, his platinum hair perfectly tousled, his sneer already in place. "Pathetic," he drawled, though his eyes lingered on Y/N's outstretched legs. "The savior of the wizarding world, tripping over his own feet."

Y/N's laughter rang through the compartment like a bell, sharp and bright enough to make Malfoy's sneer falter for half a second. She leaned back against the seat, stretching her legs further into the aisle—deliberately forcing Draco to sidestep or risk tripping. "Says the guy who probably practices his hair toss in the mirror every morning," she shot back, tossing a licorice wand at him. It bounced off his perfectly pressed robes and landed on the floor between them. "Catch, Malfoy. Or is that beneath you too?"

Draco's gaze flickered from the candy to her face, his nostrils flaring slightly. The silence stretched just a beat too long before George whistled low under his breath. "Oof. First blood to Ilvermorny."

Harry, still pink-eared from his impromptu lap landing, glanced between them like a spectator at a particularly volatile Quidditch match. Ron's fingers twitched toward his wand—whether to hex Malfoy or salvage the licorice wand, no one could tell—but Ginny kicked his shin under the table with a pointed glare.

Malfoy bent—slowly, deliberately—to pick up the licorice wand. He held it between thumb and forefinger like it might contaminate him. "Charming," he deadpanned, but his fingers didn't crush it. Instead, he pocketed it with a flick of his wrist. "I'll add it to your obituary. *Died as she lived: annoyingly.*"

The compartment erupted into fresh laughter, but Draco didn't leave. He lingered in the doorway, his fingers twitching toward the pocket where he'd stashed the licorice wand, his gaze locked on Y/N with an intensity that made George nudge Fred's ribs hard enough to elicit a muffled *oof*.

"You're *blocking* the aisle," Ginny said sweetly, flipping a page of her magazine with deliberate disinterest.

Draco ignored her. "You'll regret that," he told Y/N, though the threat lacked its usual venom.

Y/N grinned, kicking her feet up onto the opposite seat. "Promises, promises."

The Hogwarts Express shuddered to a halt with a screech of metal, jolting the compartment into momentary silence. Y/N was already halfway out the door before the echo faded, her boots hitting the corridor with a thud that made Lee Jordan wince. "Slow down, you'll trample a first-year," he called after her, but she was already gone—a blur of motion and mischief swallowed by the crowd of students spilling onto the platform.

Sorry ts was lowk short 😳