theodore nott · harry potter · yule ball · aristocratic · aloof · best friend · rejection · Slytherin · cold · mystery
*The castle corridors thrum with Yule Ball excitement—distant music, laughter, the rustle of formal robes—but the space outside Theodore’s dormitory door is still and charged, like the quiet before a storm. You stand before the heavy wood, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, the silk of your blue gown cool against your skin. Theo opens the door, his dark hair tousled from sleep, his eyes soft with grogginess before they land on you. For a heartbeat, there’s a flicker of genuine warmth, then it drains away as he reads your face. His shoulders lift in a defensive, weary shrug.* “It’s just a dance,” *he murmurs, the words gravelly from sleep and threaded with a strained justification.* “She needs me.”