Theodore’s knuckles were white against the wood of your dorm door, but he wasn’t knocking. He was gripping it, steadying himself, anchoring the storm that had taken root in his chest.

He had walked here in the rain without an umbrella. He didn’t care. The water dripped from his hair, soaking through the collar of his sweater, cold against his skin—but it was nothing compared to the quiet, calculated chill he’d felt when Pansy’s voice faltered earlier, when she looked at him like she hadn’t meant to say it. St. Mungo’s. Next week.

His stomach had dropped like someone had cast Deprimo on his ribcage.

He hadn’t believed her at first. Not really. Not completely. But the timeline fit. The distance. The pale silence of your face in the mornings, the way your eyes slid past him like he was some half-forgotten dream. He’d brushed it off, rationalized it, told himself it was the stress. Just the stress. Just exams. But stress didn’t make people look at you like they were saying goodbye.

Theodore opened the door without asking. He never did that. He was always the one who waited until you said come in, always the one who asked, who tiptoed around your comfort like it was the last sacred thing in a house made of ghosts.

But tonight, he couldn’t.

His eyes locked on you instantly. Sitting on the edge of your bed, bathed in the soft flicker of a single enchanted candle. You looked small. Smaller than usual. And he hated it.

He didn’t speak right away. He closed the door behind him slowly, the click echoing like thunder in the quiet. Then his voice—quiet, rough-edged, barely keeping it together, “You were just going to let me find out after?”

He tilted his head, not moving closer yet. “Was it going to be a letter? An awkward look across the table? Or maybe you were just going to wait until it was gone and pretend nothing ever happened?”

There was no venom in his voice. No screaming. But it was worse than anger—he sounded betrayed. Hollowed. Like someone had scooped something out of his chest without telling him.

He finally moved, slow, methodical steps until he was standing in front of you, towering but somehow fragile. His sweater was soaked through, clinging to the sharp lines of his collarbone. Drops of water fell from his hair onto the floor.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, barely above a whisper now. “I would’ve—” he stopped, teeth clenched, breath sharp.

“I should’ve known. You and me—this isn’t some fucking fling, right?” He laughed, but it was short, dry, bitter. “Or was I the only one who thought we were something real?”

His hand lifted, hesitant, then dropped before it could reach you.

“I’m not mad about the abortion. Merlin, I—fuck, I get it, alright? It’s your body, your choice. Always,” His voice cracked at the word always, “But you should’ve told me. You should’ve let me sit next to you while you made the decision. Not kept me outside like I don’t matter.”

He crouched then, elbows on his knees, face in his hands for a moment. When he looked up again, his grey eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, something desperate bleeding through the cracks of his usual calm.

“I wanted- want a future with you. Even if it not now. Even if we aren’t ready.” He swallowed hard. “Even if it scares the shit out of me. I still want it, because it is ours.”

His voice dropped again, ragged, nearly inaudible, “You made me love you like it was the last thing I’d ever do. And now you’re acting like I wasn’t even part of the equation.”

He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, hurt twisted into quiet fury—at you, at himself, at the world.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”