the slytherin boys thought they had all the time in the world to make their move. they were wrong. enter dmitri volkov: durmstrang's massive, sweet-tempered transfer student who accidentally sweeps everyone off their feet. or a durmstrang exchange student walks into hogwarts, calls everyone "my friend," and accidentally triggers the greatest romantic crisis slytherin house has ever seen. russian oc request by @MalfoysAngell
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@darkmarkThe first night back at Hogwarts always carried a particular brand of theatrical chaos, but this year, the Great Hall had outdone itself.
The enchanted ceiling swirled with the bruised purples and deep blues of an early autumn storm, the floating candles flickering with the same restless energy that crackled through the student body below.
The Eighth Years, of course, had claimed their territory early.
The Slytherin contingent had arranged themselves along a stretch of their house table with the territorial confidence of cats who had never once been told no. Mattheo was sprawled sideways on the bench, one leg thrown over the other, his tie already loosened to the point of being purely decorative. Draco sat with the rigid, bored posture of someone who had been raised to believe the Sorting Ceremony was beneath him. Pansy was mid-lecture, gesturing with a lacquered nail, while Blaise observed the entire hall with the detached interest of a man watching an ant farm.
Theodore Nott
leans across the table, snagging a roll from Daphne's plate without asking I'm calling it now—this year's first-years are the most underwhelming batch yet. Look at them. Trembling. All of them.
Daphne Greengrass
doesn't look up from smoothing her napkin You were trembling your first year.
Theodore Nott
I was trembling with rage. There's a difference.
Pansy Parkinson
snorts You cried on the boat.
Theodore Nott
That was mist.
Lorenzo Berkshire
from his slumped position, eyes half-lidded Malfoy, your cousin's about to put his elbow in the butter.
Draco Malfoy
without turning his head Mattheo, remove your elbow from the butter.
Mattheo Riddle
does not remove his elbow It's not my elbow.
It was, in fact, his elbow.
The Sorting droned on, a parade of damp-haired eleven-year-olds being sorted into houses with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The Eighth Years clapped politely for the new Slytherins, cheered obnoxiously for the Gryffindor first-years who tripped on the steps, and generally behaved like the jaded seniors they were.
And then, quite suddenly, the doors to the Great Hall opened with a sound that cut through the hum of conversation like a blade.
A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. A very large figure.
The kind of figure that made the first-years at the end of the table go quiet, then silent, then slightly pale.
Dmitri Volkov
steps inside, blinking against the candlelight, and then beams Ah! This is very nice!
The entire Hall, which had been expecting—based on the sheer physical presence of the man—a declaration of war or possibly a dark omen, collectively exhaled in confusion.
The stranger was enormous. Broad-shouldered and towering, with thick, wavy dirty-blonde hair that looked like it had recently lost a fight with a winter hat, and a jagged scar slicing through his left eyebrow. He wore a heavy, fur-lined coat of blood-red and brown over what appeared to be a Durmstrang uniform, and he was smiling.
Not the polite, tight smile of a politician, or the smug smile of a pure-blood heir. A real smile. The kind of smile that suggested he had just spotted an old friend in a crowd of strangers.
He also, the narrator notes with a certain resigned amusement, had no idea that half the Hall was now staring at him with open alarm.
Professor McGonagall
rises from the staff table, her voice carrying with its usual crispness Mr. Volkov, I presume. Do come in. You're just in time for the Sorting.
Dmitri Volkov
booms, striding forward Yes! Thank you! I got lost. Twice. The stairs here are very—ah, как это... tricky. he grins, unbothered Tricky!
A ripple of whispers spread through the Great Hall. The name Volkov didn't ring any particular pure-blood bells among the Slytherin table, but the accent, the coat, and the sheer size of him had already begun to stir a certain competitive awareness among the Eighth Year boys.
Draco Malfoy
eyes narrowing slightly Durmstrang. Interesting.
Mattheo Riddle
sitting up a little straighter, elbow finally leaving the butter That's a lot of man.
Pansy Parkinson
twisting around for a better look That's a lot of something.
Blaise Zabini
observing with a slow, unreadable smile He looks like he could bench-press the Sorting Hat.
Theodore Nott
grinning I want to see him try to fit at this table.
Dmitri Volkov, blissfully unaware that he was already the subject of at least six separate Slytherin evaluations, made his way toward the front of the Hall with the easy, rolling gait of a man who had never once worried about taking up space.
He also, the narrator notes with a certain dry affection, appeared to have a small, crumpled napkin-wrapped bundle sticking out of his coat pocket that smelled faintly of honey and cinnamon.
Professor McGonagall waited, lips pressed together in her usual line of tolerant patience, as the Sorting Hat was retrieved.
A hush fell.
The hat was placed on Dmitri's head, and for a moment, there was only silence.
And then—
Sorting Hat
SLYTHERIN!
The Slytherin table erupted.
It was not, perhaps, the most dignified eruption in Hogwarts history. There was clapping, yes, but also a fair amount of delighted smirking, a few raised eyebrows, and at least one wolf-whistle from the vicinity of Pansy Parkinson.
Dmitri Volkov
grinning as the hat is lifted off, turning to face the Hall Ha! Excellent! I like snakes!
He said this with such genuine enthusiasm that even a few of the Hufflepuffs giggled.
He made his way to the Slytherin table, and the crowd of students parted for him—some eagerly, some hesitantly, and Mattheo Riddle with a look that was one part curiosity and one part the expression of a man watching a bear walk into a dinner party.
Dmitri Volkov
arrives at an open spot, beaming down at the nearest students Hello! I am Dmitri. It is very good to meet you!
He stuck out a hand. It was approximately the size of a small rowboat.
There was a pause.
A pause in which the entire Slytherin Eighth Year contingent seemed to collectively decide how they were going to play this.
The narrator, for one, was already reaching for popcorn.
The spot Dmitri had chosen was not far from where the Eighth Years sat, close enough that his arrival had effectively shifted the entire social gravity of that end of the table. He was looking around with open, unguarded curiosity, taking in the enchanted ceiling, the floating candles, the House banners.
Dmitri Volkov
turning to the students nearest him, still beaming I have never seen a room this big! It is like a cathedral, but with food! Very good system.
He laughed, a deep, booming sound that bounced off the stone walls and made a nearby first-year jump.
And then, with the casual confidence of someone who had never met a stranger, his warm amber eyes landed on Y/n.
Dmitri Volkov
brightening even further, if possible Ah! Hello!