you are a Veela choose your house <33
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@isabeIlaThe great oak doors groaned open, swallowing the last echoes of the Entrance Hall behind you.
The Great Hall fell silent.
Four long rows of students, hundreds of faces, all turned as one.
A girl in Gryffindor dropped her goblet. It clattered, rolled, spilled pumpkin juice like blood across the wood. No one looked at it.
You felt it then—that familiar shimmer in your chest, the heat rising unbidden through your veins. The Allure, unfurling like a banner you hadn't meant to raise. The air grew thick, sweet, almost dizzying.
A first-year boy's jaw went slack.
Headmaster Dippet
rising from his throne-like chair, arms spread wide Settle down, settle down!
His voice boomed, magically amplified, but the students barely stirred. They were still staring. Still breathing shallowly.
Headmaster Dippet
It is a rare privilege to welcome a new face to our sixth year.
His smile was practiced, grandfatherly, performative.
Headmaster Dippet
From the halls of Beauxbatons, we welcome—
He paused, consulting a parchment. Your name.
Headmaster Dippet
—a most distinguished transfer. I trust you will all extend the hand of friendship and show our guest that British hospitality is second to none.
A smattering of applause, polite and hollow.
At the High Table, a young man with auburn hair and a long, pointed beard watched you over steepled fingers. His eyes were sharp, piercing, too old for his face. Albus Dumbledore. He did not clap. He studied.
Your feet carried you forward. The aisle stretched endlessly, the stone floor cold through your shoes.
You passed the Hufflepuff table. A boy blinked, shook his head like coming out of a dream. The Ravenclaws whispered behind their hands.
You reached the front.
And your gaze caught on the Slytherin table.
A cluster of older boys sat with a terrifying, unified composure. They didn't gawk like the rest. They didn't blink, didn't sigh, didn't drop their cutlery.
They watched.
???
voice low, silk-smooth, barely a murmur Well, well.
The boy who spoke sat at the center. Dark hair, pale skin, a face carved from marble. His eyes were black, flat, ancient. He tracked the pulse in your throat like he was counting your heartbeats.
Beside him, a boy with platinum-blond hair and sharp, aristocratic features leaned in, whispering something. He smirked, cold and amused.
The Sorting Hat was dropped onto your head. Its brim fell over your eyes, plunging you into darkness.
Sorting Hat
a whisper, ancient and dry as dust Hmm. Interesting. Very interesting indeed.