Slytherin Boys - ONE SHOTS

Theodore Nott - A Quixotic Feast

Context: Theo just pulled the trigger on a date. My first date. Cue the confetti. Let's hope this doesn't turn into a dumpster fire.

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The restaurant looms ahead like a beacon of pretentiousness, a place where art meets arrogance. It's the kind of joint where the menu uses words you need a thesaurus to understand, and the waitstaff gives you judgmental looks if you mispronounce "croissant."

As we stroll towards this temple, I can't help but wonder if Theo took a wrong turn, leading us to the set of a foodie cult.

Theodore Nott, a name that didn't ring any bells of excitement in my mind. Theo, as he insisted, with an air of pseudo-sophistication that clung to him like a cheap cologne. I'd never been one for subtle nuances. Life was too short for beating around the proverbial bush—just like the bushes that lined the sidewalk, dodging the drops of water as if they were mortal enemies.

Theo invited me here. Why? Probably not for my company or riveting conversation ability. No, the Yule Ball is lurking around the corner, and everyone's trying to secure a dance partner like it's the apocalypse and the last waltz is the only ticket to salvation.

And I'm not naive. I've read the signs. Theo, with his slicked-back hair that seemed to defy the laws of gravity, was no exception. A puppet in the theatre of social validation. I couldn't decide whether to roll my eyes or applaud the effort.

We don't talk much. It's the kind of silence that's louder than words. He probably thinks this dinner is a subtle preamble to an invitation to the Yule Ball. A strategic move to make an impression; to stand out. Maybe he thought the way to a girl's heart was through overpriced pasta.

I remember when he "helped" me with a Potions assignment, his eyes boring into the parchment like he was trying to decipher Ministry secrets. Speaking a language only he comprehended, leaving me to nod and pretend.

The restaurant door creaks open, and we stumble into the lion's den. The place screams fancy, like a rich uncle flaunting his wealth at a family gathering, desperately trying to overshadow the fact that we're just a couple of teens.

The waitress leads us to our table, a booth that creaked under the weight of its own history-much like the expectations of this dinner. I can't help but wonder if Theo has anticipated the awkwardness or if he's as clueless as a goldfish in a bowl.

Theo yanks my chair like a third-rate magician attempting a grand reveal, but all he unveils is a lacklustre rabbit that seems as disappointed as I am.

He attempts small talk. Mundane questions-classes, weather, the existential crisis of the french revolution; punctuated by the occasional clatter of cutlery and hushed conversations from neighbouring tables.

I've got my game face on. In my head, "Yes, Theodore Nott, I did spend eight hours at school, and no, I don't find your discussion of fancy food riveting. Excuse me while I suppress the yawns." I resist the urge to say it out loud because, well, manners.

The words flow like a leaky faucet-drip, drip, awkward pause. He's trying, I'll give him that. I nod, offering the occasional "uh-huh".

And then, a momentary silence descends upon us like a wet blanket. The vinyl upholstery clings to my skin like a second-rate superhero costume, and I can't help but stare at the inconspicuous stain on the tablecloth.

The waiter, our much-awaited saviour, arrives at the table like a deus ex machina, ready to take our orders and rescue us from the awkward silence. I ordered something mundane, a dish that mirrored the banality of our conversation.

"So, Theo," I start, "what's the grand occasion? Why me?"

His eyebrows twitch ever so slightly. For a moment, I wonder if I've caught him off guard.