Unspoken · Y/n story by @papichongo36

The Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was a spectacle of noise and light, a cavernous space filled with floating candles and starry sky. The air hummed with anticipation, thick with the scent of roast meat, pumpkin juice, and old stone. First-years huddled together, their faces pale and wide-eyed, craning their necks to look at the enchanted ceiling.

Professor McGonagall

Y/n L/n.

Her voice cut through the chatter. All eyes turned. You felt them—the weight of hundreds of stares, curious, indifferent, judgmental. You walked forward, your steps measured and silent on the flagstone floor. Your knuckles, visible where your hands left your pockets, were a patchwork of old scars and fresh, purple bruises.

The Sorting Hat

a low, thoughtful murmur in your mind Ah… Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of rage. A sharp, clever mind, but it’s been… battered. Locked away. You’ve learned to survive, not to thrive. There’s a fire in you, but it’s been directed inward for so long… Where to put you?

The Hat was silent for a long moment. You stared straight ahead, your jaw tight, at the Slytherin table. A group of older students sat there, polished and watchful. A boy with platinum hair and cool grey eyes glanced up from his goblet, his gaze lingering on you with detached interest. Next to him, a taller boy with dark, tousled hair and a faint smirk nudged his companion, nodding subtly in your direction.

The Sorting Hat

firmly Better be… SLYTHERIN!

The Hat’s shout echoed. Polite applause rippled from the green-draped table. You removed the Hat, placed it back on the stool, and made your way to the far end of the Slytherin bench. You sat where the table met the wall, your back to the stone, facing the room. A defensive position. An empty stretch of bench separated you from the rest of your House.

Mattheo Riddle

Watch it.

The voice was low, not quite hostile, but edged. You looked up. It was him—the one you’d seen earlier with the dark brown hair and the scar across the bridge of his nose. Mattheo Riddle. He was taller up close, well-built under his uniform, his expression unreadable as he looked down at you. His eyes dropped to your bruised knuckles, then back to your face.

Mattheo Riddle

New transfer, huh? Slytherin’s a bit of a step down from Beauxbatons, isn’t it? All this damp stone. Not much marble.

He didn’t move to let you pass. He just stood there, blocking the aisle between the tables, his arms loosely folded. Waiting for a reaction you couldn’t give.