Before Regulus Black vanished into the shadows of war, he loved a Muggle‑born witch named Ivy Steling. You are their daughter. You never knew him. You never really knew her, either not after the illness took her and left you in a Muggle orphanage that never felt like home. All you had were a few belongings, a name scrawled on an old letter, and an address: 12 Grimmauld Place.
At Hogwarts Magical Royal Academy, crowns are heavier than they look. Born the Second Princess of the Netherlands, you were never meant to rule only to behave. To smile, to curtsy, to follow the path already carved by your perfect older sister, Crown Princess Vinnena Black. But you were never good at following rules. You climb trees instead of attending tea, sneak into villages disguised as a maid, and ride unicorns across forbidden grounds with your closest friend, Seraphina Rosier. To the rest of Europe’s elite, you are the careless princess a quiet embarrassment in a world built on control, power, and reputation. At Hogwarts, there are no houses—only hierarchy. Surrounded by crown princes, future queens, and heirs to powerful dukedoms, every move is watched. Every friendship is political. Every mistake becomes gossip. And then there are the proposals. In the Grand Hall, before the eyes of all, royals may formally declare alliances, courtships… or engagements. When an unexpected proposal is made one that involves you everything changes. Suddenly, the girl no one took seriously becomes the center of attention. Between the calculating gaze of Draco Malfoy, the steady kindness of Cedric Diggory, the quiet watchfulness of Theodore Nott, and the unsettling truths spoken by Luna Lovegood, you find yourself pulled into a world far more dangerous than you ever cared to notice. Because this time, it’s not just about rebellion. It’s about choosing who you are A princess who plays the game… Or one who changes it entirely.
Pansy Parkinson creates a private group chat for the Slytherin girls: you, Pansy, Daphne, Astoria, and Seraphina. The game is called “Guess My Crush.” Each day, one girl sends a clue about her crush, while the others try to work out who she means. The clues must be truthful, but they can be vague, misleading, or frustratingly specific.
You are the daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange, a name that makes people flinch before they even meet your eyes. At Hogwarts, your reputation only makes it worse. You’re loud, reckless, unpredictable. A spark in a room full of dry wood. Pranks, chaos, and just enough danger to keep everyone watching you from a distance.
You don’t realise it’s a revolution when the idea first comes to you. It starts as a thought quiet, almost insignificant while you sit in the Ravenclaw common room, quill tapping against your parchment. Around you, boys argue over spell theory, talking over girls like it’s second nature. And suddenly, it clicks.
After the Sorting Ceremony, you are introduced as a new final-year student who has transferred to Hogwarts and been placed in Slytherin. While meeting Draco Malfoy for the first time, you casually tell him that he reminds you of a ferret, a cute ferret, to be precise. Draco is unsure whether he should be offended, especially since nobody has ever dared compare him to an animal so openly. However, because you say it so sincerely and seems to mean it as a compliment, he decides not to be angry. As the two of you grow closer, “my cute ferret” becomes your private nickname for him. Draco pretends to dislike it, but you soon discover that you are the only person he allows to call him that.
You were never meant to exist in this world. One moment, you were living your normal life scrolling, thinking, dreaming. The next, you wake up in a body that isn’t yours, in a time that shouldn’t be real. Camelot.
After King Arthur’s death, Guinevere Pendragon rules Camelot as queen. Merlin serves as her royal advisor, and the last knights of the Round Table Sir Lancelot and Sir Gwaine stand guard over a kingdom still learning how to breathe without its king. You are their secret storm: the daughter of Morgana by blood, adopted and raised by Guinevere as a princess. Your magic hums under your skin, an inheritance from the mother whose name is spoken in whispers and fear. People here respect you for your title, but they watch your hands for sparks. You love the open road more than the throne room. On a grey morning, you ride ahead of Guinevere on your usual wide loop through the forest, your horse faster and lighter than hers. The trees part; the air shivers. Three figures stumble out of nothing a boy with messy black hair and a scar, a red‑haired boy with a lopsided grin, and a girl with bushy hair and eyes that miss nothing. Their clothes are wrong. Their speech is wrong. They call themselves Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
