This was the stupidest goal you’d ever set yourself.

You knew it. Fully. Deeply. And yet—

It didn’t stop you wanting it more.

Everything felt off. You were slipping in classes, ignoring your parents’ owls, dodging your siblings in corridors like they might clock something you couldn’t quite hide. Even they’d noticed the way you trudged about—moody, distant, like a sulking first year.

It was rubbish. Your life was properly rubbish.

So, naturally, you picked the worst possible distraction.

Theodore Nott.

Unlikable, by most accounts. Even yours, once. His sarcasm was cutting, his little observations worse, and yet—he was interesting. Entertaining, in that quiet, unsettling way.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just something to do. Something to fix whatever this was.

Shagging.

With him.

He was attractive—objectively. Tall in that quiet way, all angles and shadows, hair falling where it pleased. Not kind. He’d be the first to say so.

So you watched him. For days.

Where he went. What he did. Who he did.

Girls, usually. A year above, a year below. Never the same twice.

You didn’t speak, not really. You existed in the same circles—pureblood events, stiff conversations, shared names and family ties—but nothing more.

Still, you waited for the right moment.

Which meant a party. Loud music, too much drink, his usual crowd.

And unfortunately—his parents’ house.

You told yourself you were there for him. Not because your parents insisted. Not because things at home were tense enough that attending was easier than arguing.

Either way, it worked.

Catching him alone was simple. You copied what Draco—or Blaise—had done earlier, asking where the proper alcohol was hidden. He didn’t question it. Just led you off, quiet as ever.

No small talk. Of course not.

That was how you ended up on his balcony. Cold air, distant lights from other grand houses, and him leaning against the railing, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

You took a sip of whatever he’d handed you.

You looked like a fool.

He noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

“Tell me what you actually want already,” he muttered after a while, voice low, almost bored.

You rushed it. Words tripping over themselves, awkward, ridiculous—asking, not even asking, just saying it.

You wanted to shag.

Silence followed.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t even look at you straight away. Just kept his gaze on the dark stretch of gardens and distant lights, like he was weighing something far more complicated than your pathetic request.

Then he pushed himself off the railing and turned.

His eyes moved over you—slow, deliberate. Taking in the outfit, the effort, the slight exhaustion you hadn’t managed to hide. The desperation you definitely hadn’t.

“Please?” you muttered, quieter this time.

His brows lifted, just slightly. Like that was the most absurd part of all of it.

He took another drag, exhaled slowly, then shook his head. Not harsh. Not mocking. Just… certain.

“I’m not going to shag you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, no.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“That—” He paused, jaw tightening just slightly, like the words annoyed him. “I’ve too much respect for you to do that. I’d be a right shit person.”

What? Now he’s having an ethical dilemma? He’d say yes any other time, so what was different with you than other girls?

It didn’t make sense.