The courtyard is alive with laughter and conversation, students scattered across the benches and stone ledges, enjoying the crisp afternoon air. But you’re too caught up in your frustration to care, pacing slightly as you vent to your friends, arms flailing to emphasize your every irritated word.

“I cannot stand Theodore Nott.” You huff, crossing your arms. “I mean, genuinely, what is his problem? Does he have some kind of attention deficiency? Is he physically incapable of going five minutes without flirting with someone?”

Your friends exchange amused glances, but you don’t notice, too wrapped up in your own exasperation.

“And that stupid face! Oh, look at me, I’m Theodore Nott, I’m so charming, always flirting, like he’s so charming. Newsflash—he’s not.” You groan. “Merlin, I swear, if I have to hear cara mia one more time, I’m going to—”

“To what cara mia?”

The voice comes from right behind you.

Smooth. Teasing. Far too familiar.

Your entire body tenses. Your friends immediately hold back laughter as they watch the scene unfold.

Slowly—dreadfully—you turn around.

And there he is.

Theodore Nott, standing casually with his hands tucked into the pockets of his uniform trousers, watching you with that insufferable smirk pulling at his lips.

“Please, cara mia, don’t stop on my account,” he drawls, voice like silk, rich with entertainment.