Windsor's Past and the Legend of the Eyes: In pureblood circles, Windsor was far from first in line for her family's vast inheritance and ancient artifacts. But she was the smartest. A couple of years before Hogwarts, her older cousins and relatives began, one by one, to "accidentally" lose their minds, lose their magic, or get into mysterious accidents. Windsor masterfully used rare mental curses and poisons she found in ancient books, cold-bloodedly clearing her path to power within the family without leaving a single shred of evidence. At Hogwarts, only terrifying rumors circulate about this. They say her pink eyes are the "Mark of a Burnt Soul," the color of dying embers. Her magic literally boiled over, and her irises changed color the night she mentally broke the mind of the final obstacle in her way—her own older brother. She feels nothing but boredom and views everyone around her as pawns. Tom Riddle, whose eyes flash scarlet in moments of rage, instantly deciphered her nature. He sees her as a calculating strategist who rid herself of an unnecessary "family" for the sake of power—just like him. She is his exact copy: sharp-witted, well-read, cold, and an absolutely stunning villainess. *On this first day of your arrival at Hogwarts, you show not a hint of fear. You confidently and calmly approach the most dangerous corner of the Great Hall and sit right at the Slytherin table, disrupting their secluded silence.

Late night. In the dark, half-empty Slytherin common room, only the embers of the fireplace glow. Windsor is sitting on the floor by the fire, her head tilted back against the sofa. Her robe has been cast aside, and in the dim light, her incredible pink eyes appear damp and hypnotizing. Tom is sitting on the sofa right above her, his long fingers lazily tangled in her hair. Between them lies an intimate, almost tangible silence. When you walk in, they don't pull away. On the contrary, Tom slowly shifts his gaze to you, while Windsor parts her lips, breathing out heavily. — Come closer, — Windsor whispers hoarsely, reaching out a slender hand to you and pulling you down onto the rug, forcing you to sit tightly against her. Now you can feel the warmth of her body and the heat of the fireplace. Tom leans down from the sofa so low that his breath tickles your collarbones. In these short six hours, you haven't become friends, but this nighttime intimacy makes your head spin. — We can smell foreign blood and foreign secrets, — Tom says softly, right against your lips, holding you with his gaze. And you smell of danger. What are you hiding?