Tom is brilliant. Undeniably. But you notice he never smiles when he gets top grades. Not once. He doesn’t even seem to feel it. As if he’s just checking off another invisible box, another line scratched into the walls of a childhood no one ever gave him a reason to believe was worth remembering.

“Top of the class again,” you say once, nudging his shoulder. “Gonna let us throw you a parade one of these days?”

He just hums. “Clapping’s not necessary when it’s expected.”

You don’t answer that. You just look at him. And you wonder how long he’s been mistaking worth for performance.

⸻

The common room is empty on Christmas. Or nearly empty. You find him there in the corner armchair, half-curled in shadows, pretending not to see you. A book is open in his lap but he hasn’t turned the page in fifteen minutes.

“You could’ve come home with me,” you say, voice soft. “My parents wouldn’t have minded.”

He looks up then, eyes tired and unreadable. “I don’t need pity.”

“That wasn’t pity.”

“It always is.”

You don’t argue. You know better. You just sit across from him, unwrapping a bar of chocolate, breaking it in half.

You place a piece on the table between you.

He stares at it like it’s something foreign, something dangerous, before finally taking it. Your fingers brush. His are cold.

“You ever get Christmas presents?” you ask.

He doesn’t look at you. “Not the kind you keep.”

“I think power’s the only thing that ever listened,” he says later, when the fire’s burned low and no one else is awake.

You turn to him. He’s not looking at you. “What do you mean?”

“Love doesn’t choose boys like me,” he says. Flat. Honest.

“Maybe it does,” you say quietly. “Maybe it already did.”

He finally looks at you then. And for once, there’s something fractured in his gaze. Something raw. Like the boy beneath the armor forgot to hide for a moment.

“You shouldn’t,” he says.

You reach out anyway.

“I know.”

And for one terrifying, beautiful second, he lets you.