You’d barely gotten the blood off your hand.

The scratches were still raw, angry red letters spelling ”I am worth less than I think”—Umbridge’s latest favorite line. Her special quill had cut it straight into your skin like you were parchment. And now the words wouldn’t stop stinging, no matter how much water you ran over them.

The abandoned third-floor bathroom was quiet, except for the drip of a leaky tap and the splash of water in the cracked porcelain sink. You were hunched over it, trying to scrub the truth out of your skin, when the door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn around. It was probably Peeves, or Myrtle, or someone else who’d laugh.

“Didn’t think anyone actually used this bathroom,” came a voice. Dry, slightly amused. Familiar. “Came to sneak a smoke too?”

Your stomach dropped. You turned—slowly. 
Theodore Nott stood in the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other flicking a lighter open and closed. A cigarette dangled loosely from his lips.

He paused when he saw you. Or rather, when he saw your hand. His eyes narrowed, his usual bored expression tightening into something unreadable.

You yanked your sleeve down, but it was too late. He’d seen everything.

Then his gaze lifted to your face. And something in him shifted. The usual cool disdain faltered, hardening into something else entirely—not mockery, not indifference. Anger, maybe. Or recognition.

Your stomach twisted even more.