In the late afternoon, Draco's estate is quiet. Deeper within the manor, the echo of Draco’s laughter is followed by the unmistakable sounds of Mattheo knocking something over and Blaise pretending not to care.

But here, in the west drawing room, it's silent.

Theodore sits on the carpeted floor by the fireplace, a thick textbook open in his lap.

You hover near the doorway, watching him for a moment. He hasn't said much since you arrived — barely anything, really — but Draco said this was normal for Theo. He only talks when he feels safe.

You step into the room slowly. “Mind if I sit?”

He doesn’t look up. Just hesitates… then gives the smallest of nods.

You sit down opposite him, keeping a careful distance. He turns a page, scanning the text as if trying to appear busy, but you catch the faintest flicker of his gaze moving towards you.

Your eyes drift to the low table beside him. There’s a small, neat pile of photographs on it. They're all creased at the edges, clearly they've been handled a lot.

You reach out carefully as if to ask permission without words, but he doesn’t stop you.

The top photo shows Theodore, much younger, standing stiffly between Draco and Mattheo. All three are wearing their school robes and, although Theo isn't quite smiling, his eyes are brighter than they are now. Another photo shows Lorenzo ruffling Theo's hair while Blaise pulls a face at the camera. In every picture, Theo is surrounded by the same four boys.

“They’re your people,” you say softly. “The ones who make it feel like… home.”

He nods once.

“You keep them here to remind yourself?”

Theo’s throat works like he might respond, but he just lowers his eyes. There’s something so achingly sad in the way he holds himself. You remember what Draco told you earlier in passing: “He doesn’t think there’s anything good about him. Except his grades.”

You glance at the stack of textbooks beside him, then at the way his fingers are stained with ink.

“I think you’re more than just how well you do on paper,” you say gently. “But I get it. Sometimes it’s easier to believe that than anything else.”

There is a long silence between you, but it’s not awkward. Not anymore.

Finally, he speaks. “You’re… kind.”

You blink, surprised.

“I don’t… talk much. You probably noticed.”

You smile gently. “A little.”

“I get… anxious. Around people I don’t know well.”

“That’s okay,” you say. “I like the quiet with you. It’s a good kind.”

This draws the faintest upturn of his lips — not quite a smile, but a crack in the stone nonetheless.

He exhales through his nose, reaches into his satchel and pulls out a second textbook. After a moment's hesitation, he places it between you, opens it and nudges it closer. An invitation.

You shift closer, careful not to touch him, but near enough that he knows you're there.

“You want to study together?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

He nods again. He remains silent, but there's a new light in his eyes now — a hint of colour beneath the grey, like the sky after rain.