Everyone knew you and Theodore Nott were close. It wasn’t something either of you announced—it was just obvious. The way Theo’s usual dry drawl softened when you spoke, the rare flicker of amusement in his eyes when you told one of your stories.

Mattheo Riddle was his best mate, of course—that was a given. The two were nearly inseparable: smoking behind the greenhouses, sneaking contraband Firewhisky into the dorms, whispering plans that almost always ended with detention. But you were something else entirely. You weren’t his partner in mischief; you were his balance. The one who listened when the noise died down.

Theo’s comfort with you had a sort of depth he didn’t have around anyone else; it was the kind that only comes from years of talking and slowly opening up.

You were more talkative than he was, but Theo didn’t mind; he liked the sound of your voice. Sometimes, when the castle had gone still and everyone else had drifted to bed, he’d stay up just to hear you talk about the latest gossip—sprawled on the Slytherin common room sofa, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, smoke curling toward the low ceiling.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The Great Hall feast was still raging far above—music, laughter, the clatter of goblets—but the Slytherin common room was empty, lit only by the green shimmer of the lake filtering through the tall windows. You’d slipped away from the noise together, seeking the familiar quiet beneath the castle.

You sat curled into one of the velvet-clad couches, legs tucked beneath you, while Theo lounged beside you, his tie loosened, his hair a little messy from running a hand through it too many times. The scent of smoke and the faint tang of burnt herbs clung to the air.

“…and apparently, Pansy’s done it again,” you said, lowering your voice in mock secrecy. “Sixth-year gossip’s all over her latest escapade. She came to Potions with hickeys all over her neck.”

Theo exhaled a thin stream of smoke, eyes half-lidded. “Zoccola,” he muttered, the Italian word rolling lazily off his tongue—not sharp, just habitual. It was more proof that he was listening than it was an insult to Pansy.

You huffed a laugh. “That’s rude.”

He glanced sideways at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s not rude if it’s true.”