Secret girlfriend
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@Daisy_FloranceSaturday afternoon. The Slytherin common room, all dark leather and low green light, was unusually quiet. Most had Quidditch practice or were holed up in the library. Not your lot.
Pansy Parkinson
Right. Tour rules. We see everyone’s room, no exceptions. We’ve done Draco’s, Blaise’s, mine, Daphne’s, Lorenzo’s, Mattheo’s. That leaves two.
Blaise Zabini
Y/n’s and Theo’s. Alphabetical order says Y/n’s next.
Theodore Nott
Pass.
Draco Malfoy
Oh, come off it, Nott. It’s a dorm, not a state secret. What’ve you got, a mountain of dirty socks?
Theodore Nott
Something like that.
Pansy Parkinson
Too bad. Rules are rules. Y/n’s first, then yours. Lead the way, Y/n.
The group—Pansy, Blaise, Draco, Daphne, Lorenzo, and Mattheo—trailed you down the stone corridor to your door. A quick peek inside, some teasing about your poster choices, and it was done.
Pansy Parkinson
Okay. Theo. Your turn.
Theodore Nott
I said no.
Blaise Zabini
sighs dramatically Mate, we’ve been at this for an hour. Just let us in, we’ll be thirty seconds.
Lorenzo Berkshire
Probably smells like potions ingredients and regret.
Mattheo Riddle
Or he’s got a photoshopped picture of himself as Head Boy on the wall.
Daphne Greengrass
Theo, honestly. It can’t be that bad.
Theodore Nott
It’s not about bad. It’s private.
Pansy Parkinson
Private is for Hufflepuffs. We’re Slytherins. We snoop. Now move.
Theo didn’t move. He planted himself in front of his plain oak door, jaw set. Blaise exchanged a look with Pansy, a silent signal. In one smooth motion, Blaise stepped forward, clapping a hand on Theo’s shoulder in a grip that was more restraint than camaraderie.
Blaise Zabini
Just hold still a sec, yeah? For the team.
Pansy Parkinson
grins, hand already on the doorknob Thirty seconds. Promise.
The door swung inward.
The room was neat. Bed made, books stacked, window showing the deep green of the lake. And on the edge of Theo’s neatly made bed, sitting cross-legged, was a girl.
She was wearing an oversized Slytherin Quidditch jumper—Theo’s number on the back. Her hair was pale gold, spilling over the wool. Her face was all soft angles and a faint, polite smile. She looked like someone’s sweet, visiting cousin.
But the air in the corridor went still. Dead still.
Pansy Parkinson
voice barely a whisper What the hell.