Seventh year.
💬 1.1m
@szturkaThe Great Hall glowed with the warm, floating light of a thousand candles. The ceiling mirrored a clear September night, stars winking faintly above the chatter and clatter of the opening feast. The air smelled of roast meat, pumpkin pie, and the crisp, magical scent of a new term.
At the Slytherin table, nestled in the heart of the elite seventh-year cluster, Y/n sat. The bench was cool beneath her, the space beside her radiating a familiar, possessive heat.
Mattheo Riddle
his arm draped over the back of the bench behind Y/n, fingers idly tracing patterns on her shoulder They’ve outdone themselves with the treacle tart this year. Or I’m just fucking starving.
He leaned in, his voice a low murmur meant only for her. His dark eyes scanned the Hall with lazy amusement, missing nothing.
Theodore Nott
from across the table, lighting a cigarette with a careless flick of his wand It’s the same tart, mate. You’re just soft because you missed the castle.
Mattheo Riddle
shooting Theo a dry look I missed the dungeons. And the fact that I can smoke in the common room without my father giving me that disappointed, pure-blooded sigh.
Daphne Greengrass
elegantly slicing a piece of salmon, her blonde hair catching the candlelight He sighed because you set fire to the antique rug in the drawing room, Mattheo. Not because of the nicotine.
Mattheo Riddle
grinning, unrepentant Details, Daphne.
His attention returned to Y/n, his thumb brushing the nape of her neck. It was a habitual touch, claiming and casual all at once. The equilibrium of their group—Mattheo, Y/n, Theo, Daphne—felt settled, a fortress of shared history and unspoken understanding.
Then the doors to the Great Hall swung open again.
Professor McGonagall entered, her expression stern as ever, followed by a single student. A girl. She walked with a confidence that seemed to cut through the ambient noise, her head held high, eyes scanning the tables with open curiosity.
She was new. That much was obvious. But it was more than that. Her uniform was crisp, but worn with a slight irreverence—the tie loosened, the sleeves pushed up. Her hair was a rich, dark brown, falling in straight, sleek lines around a face that was all sharp angles and a bold, red-lipped smile.
Professor McGonagall
Smith, Ally. Transfer from Ilvermorny.
The Sorting Hat had barely touched her head before it shouted, “SLYTHERIN!”
A ripple went through the Slytherin table. Not surprise, exactly. More like assessment.
Ally Smith slid onto the bench further down, accepting congratulations with a easy, confident nod. Her accent, when she thanked someone, was distinctly American, sharp and clear.
Theodore Nott
exhaling a stream of smoke, watching her Well. That’s interesting.
Mattheo Riddle
following Theo’s gaze, then shrugging, his hand still on Y/n American. Probably thinks she’s here to teach us how to party.
Daphne Greengrass
quietly, to Y/n She’s staring.
Daphne was right. From her spot down the table, Ally Smith’s eyes weren’t wandering over the House at large. They were fixed, with open, appraising interest, on their little group. Specifically, on the boy with his arm around Y/n.
She didn’t look away when caught. She just smiled, a small, knowing curve of her mouth, before turning to answer a question from the boy beside her.
Mattheo hadn’t seemed to notice the direct attention. He was now debating the Chudley Cannons’ chances with Theo, his free hand gesturing broadly.
But a cold, quiet knot had formed in Y/n’s stomach. A familiar, unwelcome prickle. The kind that always, always meant trouble.