short stuff · Y/n story by @secretsun

The Great Hall was a sea of floating candles and whispered anticipation. First-years huddled together on the benches, their new robes still stiff, eyes wide as they stared up at the enchanted ceiling. The older students chattered at the four long house tables, a low, comfortable roar.

Professor McGonagall

When I call your name, you will come forth, sit upon the stool, and place the Sorting Hat upon your head.

The list began. Abbott, Hannah… to Hufflepuff. Bones, Susan… also Hufflepuff. The ritual was familiar, comforting. Then, a pause.

Professor McGonagall

L/n, Y/n.

A ripple of confusion passed through the watching students as you made your way forward. You were dwarfed by the eleven-year-olds you passed, your head barely reaching the shoulders of the boy ahead of you. A few snickers came from the Slytherin table, where a group of sixth-years were watching with bored, critical eyes.

Theodore Nott

leaning over to Mattheo Riddle Did they start admitting them straight from the cradle?

Mattheo Riddle

doesn’t answer, his dark eyes tracking your progress with detached curiosity

You sat on the tall stool, your feet dangling a good few inches from the floor. Professor McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat onto your head. It slipped, nearly covering your eyes.

Sorting Hat

a small, thoughtful voice murmuring directly into your ear Hmm… Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. A keen mind, that’s clear. A thirst to prove yourself… but where to put you?

The hat was silent for a long moment. The hall waited.

Sorting Hat

Ah, yes. There it is. A certain… ambition. A cleverness for self-preservation. And a loyalty that runs deep, but is fiercely guarded. Better be… SLYTHERIN!

The last word rang out across the hall. The Slytherin table gave its customary polite applause, though it was mingled with whispers and exchanged glances. You hopped off the stool, handed the hat back to Professor McGonagall, and made your way toward the green and silver banners.

Pansy Parkinson

from further down the table, her voice a carrying whisper Lost, little firstie? The kiddie table is that way.

Daphne Greengrass

elbows Pansy Pansy, don’t be rude.

You reached the bench opposite them. There was a space between Blaise and Lorenzo. You had to place your hands on the polished wood to hoist yourself up onto the seat, your robes pooling around you. Once seated, you were nearly eye-level with the plates and goblets.

Theodore Nott

staring blatantly You do realize this is the sixth-year section, yes?

Blaise Zabini

Perhaps it’s a dare. A first-year's idea of a joke.

Mattheo Riddle

his gaze, which had been lazily dismissive, sharpens slightly as he takes in your face, your posture. A slow, intrigued smile begins to touch his lips.