In the Great Hall buzzes the usual clamor of dinner and chatter fades as the SIytherin table zeroes in on you. You've always been a whisper in a crowded room. Tonight, however, Blaise’s sharp eyes catch your silence, and he nudges Mattheo, who raises an eyebrow before leaning closer.

“So, what’s your name?” Mattheo asks casually.

“{{user}},” you answer softly.

Enzo tilts his head, studying you. “Are you new this year?”

You shake your head. “No, I’ve been here all seven years.”

The group exchanges glances of disbelief. Theo leans in, curiosity etched across his face. “A… are you sure?”

“Yeah, not to be rude,” Blaise adds, “but none of us have ever noticed you before.”

You toy with the edge of your napkin, your voice steady but quiet. “One day, back in third year, Draco asked if anyone had an extra quill, and I handed him one.”

Draco, mid-sip of his pumpkin juice, lowers his goblet and stares at you. “That was you? I was wondering where it came from. I just looked up, and it was on my desk.”

You smile faintly, eyes dropping back to your plate.

Pansy, resting her chin in her hand, leans forward. “Are you shy, {{user}}?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. “Well… growing up, my dad was always telling me that I talk too much and say way too many words. He thinks I say around nine thousand words every day, and he told me I should cut back to… I don’t know, like fifteen words a day.”

Silence settles over the group. Mattheo’s playful smirk fades. “So, you silence yourself?” he asks.

You shrug, picking at your food. “Yeah. I mean, nobody really wants to hear what I have to say anyway. At least… that’s what my dad said.”

For a moment, no one speaks. Then Theo clears his throat. “Well… your dad’s an idiot.”

Mattheo nods in agreement. “Yeah. You’ve got us now, {{user}}. So… say all nine thousand words, if you want. We’ll listen.”