You transfer in and accidentally trigger Draco Malfoy’s messiest crush yet—flowers, gifts, flirting, zero shame—while everyone else nods solemnly and says, ‘Yes. This makes sense.’
💬 2.5m
@gauntOkay, so picture this: the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but like, if Hogwarts had a glow-up and started caring about aesthetics. Candles float, sure, but they’re also giving mood lighting. The Slytherin table is a whole vibe—dark wood, green accents, and the collective aura of teenagers who think their family vaults are a personality trait.
It’s breakfast. Chaos, but the expensive kind. Pansy Parkinson is holding court, because of course she is.
Pansy Parkinson
I’m just saying, if the transfer is some Ministry brat’s kid trying to buy their way in, I’m hexing their shoes to stick to the floor. We have standards.
Aurelia Greengrass
stirs her tea slowly, not looking up it’s mahoutokoro, pansy. they don’t buy their way. they earn it. brutally.
Theodore Nott
leaning back, voice a low murmur Heard they finished top of their year. Undefeated in the elite dueling stream. a slight, appreciative tilt of his head That’s not a transfer. That’s a statement.
Astoria Greengrass
ooooh, are they cute? like, cute cute? because blaise is great and all but my eyes are, you know, windows.
Blaise Zabini
doesn’t look up from his prophet flattered, astoria. truly.
Pansy Parkinson
Who cares if they’re cute? Are they useful? Are they connected? Draco, back me up. You’ve been quiet.
And here’s the thing about Draco Malfoy. He’s been staring at the entrance doors for the last ten minutes like they’re about to reveal the meaning of life. He hasn’t touched his food. He hasn’t blinked. It’s unsettling.
Draco Malfoy
doesn’t look away from the doors They’ll be here when they get here, Parkinson. Your commentary isn’t speeding up the process.
Pansy Parkinson
pouts You’re no fun anymore.
Cressida Rosier
sitting perfectly still, her frost-grey eyes fixed on the same doors They’re here.
And just like that, the ambient noise of the Slytherin table drops by about ninety percent. Because she’s right.
The massive oak doors swing open, not with a bang, but with a whisper that somehow cuts through everything. And you walk in.
Let me set the scene for the poor souls who haven’t seen you yet. You don’t just enter a room. You redefine it. The air gets heavier. The light seems to bend, just a little, like it’s checking with you for permission to exist. You’re wearing what might be a uniform, but it’s tailored with a precision that would make a goblin weep. Every step is measured, silent, deliberate. Your posture is so perfect it’s basically a threat.
Conversations die mid-syllable. A Hufflepuff drops a sausage. A Gryffindor chokes on their pumpkin juice. It’s like someone hit mute on the entire hall.
You don’t look around. You don’t smile. Your gaze sweeps across the room once, calm, assessing, utterly dispassionate. It lands on the Slytherin table for a fraction of a second, and then moves on as if you’ve seen everything you needed to.
At the Slytherin table, it’s a bloodbath of composure.
Theodore Nott’s usual lazy slouch has gone rigid. His fingers, which were idly tracing the rim of his cup, have frozen.
Mattheo Riddle, who was in the middle of saying something undoubtedly arrogant and probably illegal, just stops. His mouth is slightly open. He looks like his brain just blue-screened.
Aurelia Greengrass sets her spoon down with a tiny, precise clink. Her expression is perfectly neutral, but her knuckles are white where she’s gripping the edge of the table.
Pansy Parkinson’s sharp eyes are wide. She’s not plotting anymore. She’s just… watching. Absorbing.
Astoria Greengrass lets out a tiny, breathy, “oh.”
And Draco Malfoy?
Draco Malfoy doesn’t breathe. His storm-grey eyes, which have been fixed on the door, are now locked on you with an intensity that should require a permit. Every line of his body is taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. He’s not just looking. He’s consuming. Memorizing the angle of your jaw, the fall of your hair, the impossible calm in your posture. He’s been waiting for something his whole life without knowing what it was.
He thinks he just found it.
You continue across the hall, a silent, immaculate force of nature, heading toward the staff table. The path clears for you without anyone consciously deciding to move. It’s instinct. Predatory grace meeting primal deference.
The silence holds until you’re halfway to the front.
Then, from the Slytherin table, a low, awed whisper cuts through the quiet.
Astoria Greengrass
…i need to change my entire life.