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 nearly bolted from his seat, Mattheo's booming encouragement echoing behind him. "Go on, mate! Show her you're a bear, not a bloody mouse!"
He stormed out of the Great Hall, Mattheo's words echoing in his ears like a rallying cry. His steps were heavy with frustration, every thought and emotion waging war inside his mind. The mere idea of Cecelia with someone else was unbearable, and yet he couldn't escape the nagging guilt that it was his own fault.
When he arrived at the door, his heart constricted painfully as he spotted Cecelia, her hair styled in an alluring way that made his heart race. There she was, talking to Neville Longbottom, and for a moment, Theodore contemplated intervening. But as quickly as the impulse came, reason prevailed. It wasn't fair to her, not after his countless botched attempts.
He watched as Cecelia placed her hand on Neville's shoulder, their exchange ending with a shy smile from Neville. Theodore felt as if someone had stabbed him in the chest. A pang of jealousy coursed through him, and he turned away, unable to witness her acceptance of Neville's invitation to the Yule Ball.
But then, her eyes found his. In that moment, all his resolve crumbled under her gaze, and he felt like a mouse cornered by a predatory cat.
"Theodore," she said, her voice a soft melody, almost teasing.
"Cecelia," he replied, his voice lacking its usual bravado.
She approached him, her fingers lightly brushing his hair. "Did you happen to borrow some hair gel from Draco?" she asked, her tone casual.
He nodded, feeling oddly self-conscious. "You know, girls seem to like it."
A hint of amusement flickered in her eyes. "Do they now?"
He stumbled over his words, desperately trying to salvage the situation. "Going to the Ball with Longbottom then, I assume? That's an interesting choice."
She raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. "How so?"
"Well, he is a Gryffindor," he blurted out.
"And Slytherins should stick together? Is that why nearly half the boys in your year asked Beauxbatons?" she retorted, her words laced with a touch of sarcasm.
He scratched his head, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. "I'm being nasty."
Cecelia shrugged. "That might be a strong word. I might say you're being disagreeable. Slightly irritating."
"Only slightly?"
"Well, we'll see. I feel like this conversation is only getting started," she said, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. "Now, how about this. I'll answer any question you have for me if you answer any question I have for you. Truthfully, of course, and I'll know if you lie. You have a tell."
