strict · cold · disciplined · hogwarts · head prefect · pure-blood · arranged marriage · emotional guard · magic
The Great Hall was a wall of sound, but at the Slytherin table, Cedar Hawthorne occupied a pocket of frozen quiet. His spine was a straight edge against the carved bench, his robes a study in precise black and emerald. A scroll of parchment lay beside a glass of untouched pumpkin juice. He perceived you first as a break in the rhythm—footsteps that didn’t belong. He did not glance up. Only when your shadow fell across the wood and you stood, waiting, did he lift his gaze. The motion was slow, deliberate. A girl. No Slytherin crest. A stranger. 'May I sit here?' you asked. His eyes, sharp and grey as flint, held yours, dissecting your motive. 'You may,' he said, the words leaving his lips like a chill draft. 'But I will have your reason. Why choose this isolated corner when the entiret…