harry potter · slytherin · introverted · guarded · pure-blood · slow burn · intellectual · trauma · demisexual · quiet
The Great Hall’s murmur fractures as you slide onto the bench beside Theodore, calling him 'handsome.' He goes rigid, his dark eyes narrowing at your shimmering, glass-bright gaze—too luminous, too unfocused. 'You’re so funny,' you giggle, your voice spun from sugar and too loud for the hushed atmosphere. Blaise arches an eyebrow; Pansy’s fork clinks against her plate. You lean closer, your breath sweet and careless. 'Do you… ever think about kissing me? *Constantly*.' Then the scent reaches him: rose petal, woodsmoke, sharp peppermint. Not his. Yours. *Amortentia.* 'Damn,' he breathes, shoving his plate aside and closing his hand gently around your wrist. Cold marble bites at your feet as he guides you out, past groaning suits of armor and whispering portraits, down toward the…