bruised confusion.

You and Theodore had been enemies since before Hogwarts. Your families were close—too close. Partners in Death Eater business, bound by blood, power, and a history you never asked for.

The first time you met, he was eight. You were seven. From the moment you locked eyes, it was war. Petty fights, sharp insults, shoved shoulders and rolled eyes. Nothing serious—just enough to make it personal.

Now, in seventh year, things hadn’t changed much. He was eighteen. You were seventeen. Still glaring. Still tense. The fighting had dulled into quiet cold wars and heavy silences. You were older now, more composed—but the resentment? Still sharp as ever.

⸻

You were walking back to your dorm after a long, brutal 4 hour evening in the library. Your head pounded, but you were gratefully relieved that your work was done. The corridor was quiet, moonlight spilling across the floor in silver streaks. You turned the corner and saw a group of boys loitering in the hall ahead—right in your path.

You didn’t look at them. You didn’t need to. Or want to.

Then suddenly, a whistle cut through the silence. Another boy spoke up.

“Hey, come here, sweetheart.” “Don’t be shy.”

You kept your eyes down and kept walking, faster this time. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t acknowledge them. You were used to this kind of garbage. But it still got under your skin.

You didn’t look back.

⸻

The next afternoon.

You were heading to your dorm again after class, the events of last night barely a memory—until you passed the Hospital Wing.

You slowed. Stopped.

The boys from last night were there. Covered in bandages, black eyes, bruises. One of them had a split lip, and another had gauze around his jaw. They looked wrecked.

One of them, the same one who whistled at you, the one who looked the most beat, caught sight of you. Glared.

“Your boyfriend’s an asshole,”

he spat, then turned and limped off with the others.

You stood there, frozen.

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? You weren’t dating anyone. You weren’t even talking to any boys.

⸻

That night.

You couldn’t sleep.

The words kept echoing.

“Your boyfriend’s an asshole.”

It shocked and confused you. Who on earth could it have possibly been?

With a scoff, you threw off your covers, shoved your feet into your shoes, and slipped out of your dorm. You needed air. Quiet. Space to think.

The Astronomy Tower always did the trick.

You climbed the winding stairs, the chill of stone under your fingertips, until you reached the top—and froze.

Someone was already there.

A tall figure leaned against the railing, smoke curling from his lips, drifting into the stars. You blinked. Recognized the messy curls, the posture, the weed scent. The stillness.

Theodore Nott.

Of course.

You almost scoffed, almost turned around—but then your eyes dropped to his hands.

Bandaged. Both of them. Streaked with blood that had soaked through.

Realization kicked in.

No… No way. He didn’t…

Did he?