𝘾𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙖 𝙒𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙮 𝙞𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮.
Sorted into Slytherin, she's constantly torn between the expectations of her bloodline and the darker allure of a house that whispers of ambition and power...
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Theodore flicked his cigarette ash onto the floor as he scanned the crowd, his eyes searching for a familiar shock of red hair amidst the sea of students. He was stuck in a conversation he didn't want to have, trying to fend off the blonde girl's attempts at conversation with curt responses. She didn't catch the hint; they seldom did. All he wanted was solitude, not small talk.
Cece wasn't here tonight. He knew she avoided Wednesday parties because of her early Potions class with Snape the next day. A rational decision, he thought, unlike his own presence here. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the air as he pondered his own choices.
The room was alive with chaos, punctuated by the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood. It was the unmistakable symphony of a brawl. Theodore's keen ears didn't need to hear the words 'Mattheo' to know his friend was at the epicentre of the turmoil. With a resigned sigh, he extinguished his cigarette, dropping the butt to the ground.
He moved swiftly, a predator navigating through the chaos. There, in the midst of the commotion, was Mattheo, throwing punches with the fierce determination that was his trademark. Theodore watched for a moment, letting Mattheo's primal energy play out, knowing he needed the outlet otherwise he'd be restless for the entirety of the night.
The fight was a visceral display of sheer, unbridled aggression. Mattheo was a whirlwind of fury, his fists finding their mark with alarming precision. The unfortunate Ravenclaw on the receiving end attempted to defend himself, but it was futile. The air crackled with tension, the room momentarily hushed as if the universe itself held its breath, watching the spectacle.
Amidst the chaos, a voice rose above the rest, shrill and commanding. It was Pansy Parkinson, her piercing gaze narrowing in disapproval. "Break it up, you lot! We don't want Filch on our backs!" Her tone carried a mix of annoyance and concern, the practicality of avoiding trouble blending with genuine worry for her fellow Slytherins.
The crowd surrounding the brawl was a cacophony of gasps, shouts, and jeers, the spectacle drawing the attention of the entire room. Students pushed and jostled, attempting to get a better view of the fight, their faces illuminated by the sporadic bursts of coloured light.
Mattheo's punches landed with thudding impacts, sending his opponent reeling backward. A spray of blood and spittle accompanied one particularly vicious blow, prompting gasps from the spectators. The Ravenclaw's attempts at retaliation grew feeble, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated.
When Mattheo took a punch to the nose, he merely chuckled, the sound oddly melodic amidst the chaos. "Not bad," he quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "but you'll have to do better than that to ruffle these fuckin' feathers." His words were like poisoned honey, sweet yet laced with venom, and they only seemed to infuriate his opponent further.
With a lightning-fast jab, Mattheo retaliated, his fist finding its mark with a sickening thud. He stepped back, his stance relaxed yet predatory, as if he was savouring the fight, relishing every moment of the brutality. His movements were a macabre ballet, a dance of destruction that left an indelible mark on anyone who dared to witness it. And amidst the violence, he remained inexplicably charming, a dark prince of chaos who revelled in the art of controlled madness.
