Italiana. // 𝐌.𝐑 · Y/n story by @xttheaa

The Slytherin common room was bathed in the low, greenish glow of the Black Lake, the fire crackling low in the grate. It was unusually quiet for a Friday—most of the house had already retreated to their dorms or the library, leaving the usual circle sprawled across the worn leather sofas and threadbare rugs.

Pansy Parkinson

stretches out across the chaise, her head resting on a velvet cushion I still can't believe you actually went to Beauxbatons. All that French nonsense.

Theodore Nott

looks up from the book he's pretending to read Beauxbatons isn't all nonsense. They have better pastries.

Pansy Parkinson

waves a hand dismissively Yes, well. Y/n speaks more languages than the rest of us combined. French, and— turns to you, eyes bright —Italian, right?

Lorenzo Berkshire

from the armchair nearest the fire Italian? That's a proper language. Not like that frog croaking they teach in France.

Mattheo Riddle

shifts in his seat near the shadows of the fireplace. He hasn't spoken all night, but his grey eyes lift, fixing on you with an unreadable intensity Italian?

The single word hung in the air, weighted with something no one else seemed to notice. His voice was low, quieter than usual, almost careful.

Blaise Zabini

raises an eyebrow, smirking Didn't know you cared about languages, Mattheo.

Mattheo Riddle

doesn't look away from you. His voice drops further, and the words come out in fluent, soft Italian Parli davvero italiano?