You were both deeply troubled people.

Morally grey.

Emotionally unavailable.

Absolute arseholes.

Perhaps that was why it worked — if this even counted as working. The whole arrangement had originally been meant to stop you from shagging Theodore Nott. Then you actually shagged Theodore Nott and ruined the point entirely.

Typical.

And, like the evil little whore he was, Theodore seemed to enjoy the fact you could never properly refuse him. It got under your skin horribly.

At first, it had only been drunken conversations on the balcony outside his bedroom during Christmas hols — the two of you smoking cigarettes beneath frost-covered railings whilst speaking far too casually about parental neglect and childhood misery, as though discussing the weather.

Before that, you barely spoke at all unless it involved your usual crowd: Blaise smirking into his drink, Draco complaining about something dramatic, Mattheo being unnecessarily cruel for sport, and Pansy looking bored enough to hex someone.

And yet somehow, here you were.

Attached to him in the strangest, most irritating way imaginable.

You hated affection. Theodore hated vulnerability. The pair of you circled each other like half-starved cats pretending not to care.

“Kiss me.”

“No.”

“I’ll leave, then.”

“I didn’t ask you to leave.”

Theodore’s mouth twitched faintly around the cigarette resting between his fingers.

The back-and-forth never ended. You acted as though physical affection offended you personally, yet the second he moved towards the door you found another excuse to keep him there.

It was ridiculous.

Your dormitory was dimly lit by candlelight, gold reflections flickering against the dark green curtains around your bed. Outside, rain tapped softly against the tall windows of the Slytherin dungeon, the lake water above casting strange shadows along the stone walls.

You sat against the pillows in an oversized sleep shirt, one leg crossed lazily over the other, arms folded as though you weren’t the one refusing to let him leave.

Theodore sat across the room in the chair near your desk, long legs spread carelessly, one sleeve rolled slightly whilst smoke curled from the cigarette balanced between his fingers. His tie hung loose around his throat, collar open, dark hair falling untidily into his eyes.

He looked unfairly composed for someone so morally bankrupt.

And he stared.

Merlin, he stared.

Quietly. Intently. Like he was studying you instead of looking at you.