The corridor smelled like damp stone and old ink—an oddly comforting scent, one that reminded Theodore of long nights alone, studying under flickering candlelight, far from the noise of common rooms and louder people. You were waiting for him outside the Potions classroom, perched on that crooked stone bench like you didn’t belong to anyone. But you did. Not to him.

You belonged to Mattheo, and Merlin, wasn’t that the cruelest joke of all.

He moved toward you, silent steps echoing off the walls. His hands were in his pockets, his sleeves slightly pushed up, sweater wrinkled like he hadn’t bothered folding it properly after pulling it from the laundry. He hadn’t. He barely slept. You smiled at him like you always had—as if nothing inside you had shifted the way it had inside him. As if you weren’t the reason for his new nightmares and quiet daydreams.

“Been waiting long?” His voice came out low, velvet-dry, like the end of a cigarette.

You shook your head. He looked away quickly, pretending not to notice how your legs brushed against the stone, how your eyes scanned him like you were still memorizing him even after all these years. God, he hated how easily you made him feel like seventeen wasn’t old enough to handle heartbreak.

You talked as you walked, the way best friends do. Or pretend to. You laughed about Professor Slughorn’s confusion, you teased him for forgetting his quill—he hadn’t, he just liked it when you offered him yours, liked the quiet intimacy of your handwriting brushing his palm.

But the thoughts—those came sharp and fast, like knives in the dark.

You should be mine.You should’ve always been mine. He doesn’t even look at you like I do. Not when you’re not watching. Not when you’re half-asleep and humming that awful Piero Piccioni song under your breath like a lullaby only I know the words to.

You tugged at his sleeve and pulled him toward the Astronomy Tower.

Of course you did.

Of course it had to be the place where he’d memorized the slope of your shoulder under moonlight. The place where you’d cried once, the first time Mattheo had almost gotten expelled, and he’d held you through it. You told him you trusted him more than anyone.

Then you kissed Mattheo a week later.

He sat beside you now, knees barely brushing, heart doing all the wrong things. He glanced at you—your hair tangled from wind, your fingers grazing the stone railing, your smile too kind for a world like his.

“I don’t think he deserves you,” he said suddenly. The words just… fell. He didn’t look at you after. Couldn’t.

He watched the clouds instead, grey and soft and tired-looking, like maybe the sky knew how heavy he felt inside. Like maybe it would rain for him, just this once.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t’ve said that.” But he didn’t take it back. He’d rather choke on honesty than swallow another lie.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. Like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t always meant everything. He closed his eyes.

And for a second, just a second, he let himself imagine what it would be like if you belonged to him. If your secrets were his, your softness his. If that hollow ache in his chest was full of you instead of longing.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Because even in his silence, he was yours.