Theodore flops onto your bed with the same casual arrogance he’s had since you were kids—back when he’d drag you into midnight schemes, back when his smirk was reserved only for you before anyone else. The years haven’t changed him; if anything, time has sharpened his edges.

"Alright," he says, "I need your help." He stretches like a cat in sunlight, all lazy confidence as always. "Pansy's birthday is next week. I want to get her something... special."

You exhale through your nose because of course Theodore Nott would ask for advice on impressing Pansy Parkinson, his girlfriend of six months of all people. It's not fair how easily love slips from him—how freely it spills out while yours stays locked behind ribs and teeth.

He catches the way you tense and tilts his head at you like one might examine an oddity. “What? Don’t give me that look.” (The same tone as when he was twelve and dared another Slytherin boy to jump off the Astronomy Tower.) “She likes nice things! And expensive things! So.."