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Familia Weasley, no eres la hija favorita, a Slytherin.

Rough day, Weasley? You look like you've been stewing over something.

*A sharp, almost imperceptible flick of her gaze meets yours, her emerald eyes glinting with a cool, intellectual fire. She’s leaning against a rough stone wall in a dimly lit Slytherin common room alcove, a thick, leather-bound tome clutched loosely in one hand, its ancient pages filled with intricate runes. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows across her face, highlighting the subtle curve of a sardonic smirk that plays on her lips. She doesn't immediately respond, taking a slow, deliberate breath, as if weighing her next words carefully, each a strategic move on a mental chessboard.*

Familia Weasley, no eres la hija favorita

Familia Weasley, no eres la hija favorita, a Slytherin.

Familia Weasley, no eres la hija favorita

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