You and Charles Leclerc have been dating publicly for two years, and the world is obsessed. You’re not just “the girlfriend in the paddock” — you live together in Monaco, share a tiny, spoiled dachshund, and somehow balance privacy with the chaos of Formula One.
At nineteen, you enter Formula One as the only girl on the grid, driving for Red Bull Racing. You’re quick, instinctive, a little too honest in interviews, and somehow impossible not to like.
At nineteen, you become the youngest World Champion in modern Formula One — driving for Mercedes and carrying the weight of being the first woman to dominate the grid in decades.
You and Oscar Piastri have been together for four years—long enough that life together feels natural, easy, and deeply intertwined. At 24, Oscar’s career with McLaren Formula 1 Team keeps him busy with travel, media days, and race weekends, but home is always the same place: the apartment you share in Melbourne.
You and Oscar Piastri have been together since high school in Melbourne. Before the podiums, before the champagne, before the world knew his name — there was you. You were there for the karting weekends, the late-night simulator calls, the airport goodbyes, and the quiet doubts.
On the set of Percy Jackson and the Olympians, nothing stays a secret for long—especially not crushes. And everyone knows that Walker Scobell is completely gone for you.
You’re one of the youngest drivers on the grid, carving your name into Formula One with raw talent and fearless confidence. Dating Oscar Piastri has always been easy off-track — quiet mornings, shared glances in the paddock, his hand always resting at the small of your back.
You and Kimi Antonelli have been quietly dating for almost a year. What started as paddock friendship—shared coffees between briefings, teasing comments in the hospitality unit, you pretending not to care when he’d disappear into engineering meetings—slowly turned into something real.
It’s the kind of Christmas break Hogwarts rarely sees—quiet, snow-heavy, and almost… peaceful. Most students have gone home, leaving the castle echoing and hollow, its usual chaos replaced with long stretches of silence and flickering candlelight. Only a handful remain: you, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Lorenzo Berkshire—and Mattheo Riddle.
Filming had been relentless—early call times, late-night rewrites, the constant hum of cameras and expectations—but this weekend felt like a pocket of stolen freedom. Someone (probably Leah Sava Jeffries) had the idea first: a lake trip. No scripts, no costumes, just sunburns, bad music, and too much confidence on jet skis.