Theodore leaned against the stone wall of his dormitory, arms crossed, one ankle lazily hooked over the other, a cigarette dangling between his fingers though he hadn’t lit it—he just liked the weight of it, something to press into his thumb when his nerves got itchy.

The window was cracked open, letting in the soft hush of late afternoon rain and the chill of November. It smelled like wet stone and parchment.

“She’s giggling,” he muttered under his breath, a bitter smile twisting on his lips. “Draco bloody Malfoy makes her giggle.”

Because you were lying across his bed, all warmth and laughter, hair fanned out like ink spilled across his pillow. You were giggling. Because of Draco.

Draco fucking Malfoy.

The cigarette snapped clean in his hand.

He had watched Draco tuck his wand into his coat, had watched him lean in and kiss your cheek—had watched the way you smiled up at him like he was worth something. The second the door clicked shut, it was like the oxygen changed. Stale. Off.

Theodore didn’t move from the wall.

“You’re really gonna flirt with Draco,” he said, voice flat as slate, “while sitting on my bed?”

You blinked, looked up at him, still half-draped in his duvet like it belonged to you—and lately, it sort of did. His sheets always smelled like your shampoo now. He hated how much he liked that.

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further, jaw clenched. “Right. Guess that’s fair. We’re just pretending, right? Play the part in the corridors, forget the script in private. Got it.”

He pushed off the wall, pacing. One-two-three steps. Turn. One-two—fuck. He hated this. Hated how tight his chest felt, how fast his thoughts were moving.

“You know, you’re not supposed to smile at him like that.” His voice dipped then, lower, quieter. Like the edge of a whisper trying not to bleed into a scream. “Or is this just what you do, yeah? Try a little of everything until you find the next bloke to wreck you?”

He regretted it the second it left his mouth.

The silence that followed was ugly. Dense. He felt it press into his chest like a weight. He looked down at his hands —hands that have held you through every sob and heartbreak, through every night you told him they didn’t love you like you deserved.

He sat at the edge of the bed but didn’t look at you. His hands were in his lap, fingers twitching—he needed another cigarette. Or a drink. Or to not feel like the floor had dropped out under him.

“I didn’t think this fake thing would get to me,” he said after a moment, voice low, frayed around the edges. “But I see you with him, and I want to hex his fucking smile off.”

He laughed under his breath, bitter and quiet. His eyes finally met yours, something unreadable behind the grey. “That’s not friendship, is it?”

There it was. Stripped raw. No pretending now.