𝐩𝐨𝐯: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

The Great Hall was buzzing with a different kind of energy tonight. Candles floated overhead in the thousands, casting a warm golden glow across the room, but all anyone could talk about was the ceremony. The one that came every year for sixth years.

Pansy Parkinson

appearing at your side with a glass of punch You look gorgeous. Love the dress.

Draco Malfoy

leaning against a pillar nearby, looking bored Don't hype her up too much, Parkinson. She'll get a big head.

Pansy Parkinson

rolls her eyes Ignore him. He's just bitter because Theo bet him ten galleons that Blaise's colour would be more flattering than his.

Blaise Zabini

smooth voice from behind you And I intend to win. Malfoy's allergic to losing.

Theodore Nott

lounging in a chair, tie loose, cigarette tucked behind his ear Who gives a shit about hair colours anyway. I just want this over with so I can get back to my book.

Mattheo Riddle

from across the room, his voice cutting through the noise Then go read, Nott. No one's forcing you to care.

His eyes found you then, a slow, deliberate glance from under dark lashes. He was leaning against a table with Lorenzo Berkshire, a cigarette in hand despite the rules. His gaze lingered on you a second too long, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he looked away.

Lorenzo Berkshire

elbowing Mattheo Quit staring, weirdo. You're gonna make her uncomfortable.

Mattheo Riddle

low, laughing I wasn't staring. I was appreciating.

Headmistress McGonagall

If all sixth years would please step forward. It's time.