Theodore’s jaw was tight as he stormed in after you, the heavy stone door swinging shut behind him with a resounding thud. The flames in the common room flickered, casting long, twisting shadows over the green-tinged stone walls, the lake outside throwing rippling waterlight across the ceiling.

You were halfway across the room, your hair catching in the glow like muted honey spun with dusk. It was always your hair he looked for first.

“You’ve been sneaking off,” he said, low and hard, the words catching on the edge of his breath like they burned to say aloud. “Don’t fucking deny it.”

His boots echoed with every step as he moved closer, slow and deliberate, like a fuse burning down. He watched your shoulders tense, back turned to him, refusing to flinch but he knew you—knew you too well to miss the stiffness in your spine, the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides.

“Ravenclaw. Sixth year. Tall. Smiles like he’s never been hit before,” he sneered slightly, hands balling into fists inside the folds of his robe. “You think I wouldn’t find out?”

He wanted to stop. Merlin, he wanted to stop. But he couldn’t. Not when his chest felt like it might split open from how tightly everything inside him was wound.

“I asked you—bloody asked you—where you were last Thursday. You said library. I checked the bloody library. Don’t insult me.”

Theodore’s voice cracked then. Just a bit. Barely enough to notice.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face and through his hair, fingers trembling as they curled into the strands. That old habit. That old tell. He didn’t look at you now. Couldn’t.

“Do you know what people say about him?” he asked, quieter now. “That he collects girls like trading cards. That he doesn’t remember their names once he’s had them.” His voice darkened again. “And you—you went to him?”

He turned then. Finally looked at you. Looked hard.

“Did you let him touch you?”

It slipped out before he could catch it, and something in his chest snapped the moment it did. He wanted to reach for you, wanted to take the words back, wanted to put distance between them all at once. The silence stretched, choking.

“Did you? Because I would’ve—” he swallowed, voice dropping into a hoarse tone—honest, “If it was going to be anyone… it should’ve been me.”

He stepped closer, slower now, like he was wading through something thick and ancient. His eyes found yours, grey and unreadable, and yet begging you to see the chaos underneath.

“I would’ve been good to you. Gentle.”

He laughed once, bitter. No humour behind it.

“You think I don’t see you?” His gaze swept over you, soft now, painfully soft. “I’ve been tracking your bloody hair in every room since I was thirteen. You were the one thing I let myself keep. The one part of this place that never rotted. I’d have waited for you. I was waiting.”

His fists loosened slowly at his sides. His breath was uneven.

“I didn’t want you to see me as another brother,” he said finally, voice low. Confession laced with ache. “Not really. Not for a long time now.”

And with that, he stood still—heart thundering in the silence, unsure whether he’d just ruined you or himself.