I’ve Dreamt of You | M.R. · Y/n story by @charlotte61357

The Slytherin common room was a study in green-tinged decadence. Low, dark leather sofas were packed with students, the air thick with the scent of firewhisky, expensive perfume, and the cool, damp stone of the dungeon walls. A magically-amplified wireless wailed a popular Celestina Warbeck ballad from a corner, competing with the roar of a hundred overlapping conversations.

Pansy Parkinson

hooking her arm through Y/n's See? I told you it would be worth changing for. Nothing like making an entrance.

Pansy guided Y/n through the throng of students with practiced ease. The black lace of Y/n's dress, a stark contrast against the room's emerald tones, seemed to drink the flickering light from the fireplace and the floating glass orbs above.

Theodore Nott

leaning against the mantelpiece, he nudges the boy beside him with his elbow Merlin's beard. Parkinson's found herself a new pet project.

Theodore's gaze was analytical, sweeping over Y/n with detached curiosity. The boy beside him, however, did not respond.

Theodore Nott

Mattheo? You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.

Mattheo Riddle stood utterly still, a half-filled glass of firewhisky frozen halfway to his lips. His knuckles were white around the crystal. His dark eyes, usually narrowed in either boredom or contempt, were wide, fixed unblinkingly on the girl in the black lace dress. The noise of the party seemed to fade into a dull roar around him, the world narrowing to a single, impossible point.

Blaise Zabini

following their line of sight Who's the new girl? She's in our year, isn't she?

Theodore Nott

Transfer. Rumor says Durmstrang. He glances back at Mattheo's statue-like form, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. Seems she's made quite an impression.

Mattheo didn't hear them. He was drowning in a sea of recognition. The slope of her shoulder, the exact way a stray curl fell against her neck... it was her. The girl from the dreams. The one he'd been sketching in the margins of his textbooks for years. And she was here. Real. Oblivious.