D.M — The Wrong Match · Y/n story by @onlyroxy

The Great Hall was buzzing. Not with the usual, sleepy breakfast murmur, but with a sharp, electric hum of gossip. It was the first Monday after Pansy Parkinson’s now-infamous “Seventh Year Compatibility Survey” had been distributed, and the results had just been pinned to the notice board outside.

Pansy Parkinson

voice carrying from the Slytherin table I told you it was scientifically charmed! The questions were keyed to magical resonance, not just preference. It’s far more accurate than some silly gossip column.

Theodore Nott

dryly, not looking up from his potions text It’s a glorified personality quiz, Pansy. The only thing it’s resonating with is your desperate need for drama.

Pansy Parkinson

You’re just bitter you got paired with Millicent Bulstrode.

Theodore Nott

At least it’s plausible. We’ve shared a dungeon for seven years without killing each other. That’s compatibility.

Your eyes drifted, against your better judgment, toward the Slytherin table’s head. Draco Malfoy was there, as he always was, looking utterly detached from the circus. He was sipping his tea, reading what looked like a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet, his expression one of mild, practiced boredom.

Ron Weasley

sliding into the bench beside you, his face a mixture of outrage and amusement Have you seen it? The list? I’m apparently ‘highly compatible’ with Lavender Brown. Again. I think Pansy’s charmed it to dredge up past trauma.

Hermione Granger

sitting opposite, not looking up from a massive tome It’s statistically improbable for the entire student body to be accurately paired by a twenty-question survey. The arithmancy is flawed. I’ve already written three feet on why the methodology is—

Ron Weasley

No one cares about the methodology, Hermione! It’s about the spectacle. Look at Seamus and Dean. They got each other. They’re already celebrating.

Hermione Granger

Well, they are best friends. That’s a logical, if predictable, outcome.

A fresh wave of laughter rolled from the notice board crowd. Someone wolf-whistled. Your stomach gave a small, uneasy twist. You hadn’t looked yet. You’d been planning to avoid it entirely. But the pull was becoming magnetic, a stupid, childish curiosity you couldn’t quash.

Pansy Parkinson

Well? Anyone brave enough to admit their results? Or are you all too scared of a little truth?