He’s not a monster.

That’s what you tell your friends, anyway.

You’ve never quite understood where that ridiculous idea came from — Theodore Nott is a monster. As if simply existing beside Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and—occasionally—Pansy made him something to be feared.

He wasn’t.

He just didn’t smile.

Didn’t like being touched. Didn’t care for most classes… or most spells…

Or, frankly, most people—

Alright, fine.

He was particular. Direct about it, too. But not frightening.

Not really.

Only, perhaps, when you caught him in the corridor, standing still as a shadow, hazel eyes fixed on you like you’d personally inconvenienced him. But that was just his face. Resting, unimpressed, perpetually disinterested.

You knew better.

You knew the dry, cutting humour he slipped in without warning. The quiet insults delivered so plainly they almost sounded like observations. The way he refused—absolutely refused—to answer a stupid question seriously.

He was your Theodore.

The one who scowled at your long hugs but never actually pushed you away. The one who gave you that look—pure disdain—when you finished his sentences for him, as though he didn’t secretly love how easily you read him.

Even now, after your so-called “break,” you were here.

In his room. On his bed. Like nothing had happened.

As if your last conversation hadn’t been an argument—low voices, sharp words—about how often you spoke to Yaxley when he wasn’t around. Jealous, in that quiet, ugly way he’d never admit to.

The room was dim, lit only by the grey wash of winter light seeping through the tall window. The Slytherin dorms always felt colder than the rest of the castle, all stone and shadow, the lake pressing dark and endless just beyond the glass.

Theodore stood by the window, one side cracked open despite the cold. Shirtless, pale skin catching the faint light, all lean lines and quiet angles. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette between his fingers, drifting out into the night air like something unspoken.

You lay back against his bed as though it still belonged to you, watching him without a word.

“Your friends must really despise your being here.”

His voice was low, detached, not even bothering to look at you as he spoke. Just a statement, cool and deliberate. He knew perfectly well you hadn’t told them.

You didn’t respond.

Of course you didn’t.

Silence stretched, thin and deliberate, and you could feel it getting under his skin—subtle, but there. Theodore didn’t need noise, but he noticed absence. Especially yours.

He took another slow drag, exhaling through his nose, gaze flicking toward you at last. Sharp. Assessing.

“We’d have better conversation if you responded,” he said, tone edged with dry sarcasm, like he’d already decided you were being difficult on purpose.

Which, to be fair—

You were.