He spotted you the moment he turned the corridor. That hair—not quite Malfoy, not quite anything else—had always made it easy. Warm like honey, muted like dusk. You weren’t platinum like your brother. No. You were different. Soft in a way the rest of you never was. Theodore’s eyes tracked it instinctively, as they always did.
He wasn’t looking for you. Not really. At least, that’s what he told himself. Just keeping an eye out. Old habits. Protective, nothing more. You were Draco’s sister, and by extension, his… responsibility.
But then he saw him.
The boy wasn’t familiar. Some Ravenclaw, probably—didn’t matter. What mattered was the space between you, or rather; the lack of it. What mattered was the brush of his fingers against yours, the way you didn’t recoil, didn’t freeze or sneer or hex the poor bastard. Instead, you looked—unbothered. Maybe even… amused.
Theodore’s stomach coiled.
It was strange. Disorienting. Like walking into a room you’ve known forever only to find the furniture rearranged, unfamiliar. You were growing up. You had grown up. He just hadn’t noticed how much until now. Or perhaps he had, and just didn’t let himself look long enough to admit it.
He didn’t think. He just moved.
His hand caught your arm, gentle but deliberate, fingers curling just below your elbow. The other boy started to protest, but Theodore didn’t even glance at him. His grip tightened fractionally.
“Come with me.”
No explanation. No time. The hall blurred as he guided you—pulled you—through the crowd. One of the old Charms classrooms, long unused, dust clinging to the windows like a veil. He closed the door behind you with a quiet finality, the click of the latch sounding like something heavier than it was.
And then he faced you.
You.
Not the little sister of his friend. Not the girl who used to trip over her own robes in the common room or make fun of his handwriting. You, with fire in your eyes, that too-grown posture, and your hair loose around your shoulders like the kind of sin he wasn’t allowed to want.
His voice was low, quiet, like he was afraid of waking something, or confessing it, “Who the fuck was that?”
He hated the way it came out. Harsh. Possessive. Too raw.
He rubbed his thumb against the spot on his hand where your skin had been. That accidental, barely-there touch already starting to feel like it meant something.
“I’ve never seen you with him before. And suddenly he’s—” He stopped. Bit down hard on his cheek. That bitter taste of blood and jealousy.
His eyes flicked up, grey and storm-heavy. “You didn’t pull away.”
He took a slow breath in through his nose, like that might settle the war in his chest. It didn’t.
“You hate men. That’s been your whole thing for—years. So tell me, did that change overnight, or just… for him?”
His voice dropped. Softer, now. Edged with something cracked, “Or… did it change for someone else, too?”
He didn’t move closer. Not yet. But his body was tense, poised, like something on the verge of unraveling. Because the thing was—he didn’t know what he was to you anymore. And for the first time in years, that terrified him.