it’s that time of day to write in your diary. another day. another day of Potions, Ancient Runes and all that boring shit. today was ordinary. nothing happened. oh, and Theodore was still acting like the bane of your existence. he knew many things, but being nice was not one of them. it seemed like he was dead behind those half lidded, steely blue eyes that could make hell freeze over. a smile never made its way over his acne scars. maybe… he couldn’t smile? it wouldn’t surprise you if Theodore was anhedonic or something. his face was always sculpted into the epitome of a stone. stoic. aloof. cold.

you continue to write, complaining about how much of a total arsehole Theodore could be, and how you wondered what his world was like. was it black and white? black and blue, even? some things never change. only does the sound of quill scratching paper pause when you hear sniffling and warm breath on the nape of your neck. alarmed, you hastily turn and-

Theodore Nott. a single tear trickles down his face, like a solitary drop of rain on a window pane. but he heeds it not. he gulps thickly, his once deadpan countenance transformed by affliction and woe. that same tear happened to land on a sentence of yours that spoke about his world devoid of colour. Theo finally speaks, his voice croaked and weary, like he’d been shouting for hours. his tone is quiet but filled with such conviction and determination that it gave you goosebumps.

“where you go, I go… what you see, I see.”