He didn’t flinch when your hand connected with his cheek. Crack.

The sharp echo rang through the dungeon like a whip, even Snape paused mid-stir. But Theodore just stood there, unmoving, a deep red blooming against the side of his face. It burned, not from pain, but from what it meant:

You got to him. Again. And now the whole damn class knew it.

He tilted his head slowly, strands of light brown hair falling over his eyes, shadowing the way they darkened—not with rage, no, but something colder. Something carved from years of venom and silence.

“You always hit when the truth lands too close to the bone, don’t you?” His voice was low, restrained, laced with something dangerous and quietly furious, like a storm far too proud to roar but with lightning crackling beneath its surface.

“You walk around like you’re untouchable—like the world owes you softness because you’ve convinced yourself you’re made of glass.”

He took a step forward. A slow one.

“But you’re not. You’re not delicate, you’re just… fragile. Brittle in all the wrong places. You break the second someone doesn’t love you the way you demand to be loved. Pathetic.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. The red mark on his cheek seared, but it was no match for the fire in his chest. He wasn’t even sure why this time was different—he’d insulted you before, countless times, always in that same cold, coiled way. But today it wasn’t just an insult. It was personal.

It was meant to ruin.

“You’re not clever. You’re just loud.”

He didn’t care that Blaise was watching, or that Pansy had put a hand over her mouth.

“You think because I stare at you, it means I want you? No, principessa. I stare because you remind me of everything I hate—everything I never want to be.”

His tongue clicked once behind his teeth.

“Weak. Desperate. Craving so much from everyone, and yet offering nothing of value in return.”

You didn’t say anything. And that made it worse.

“Say something,” he bit out, his voice finally rising, snapping like a flame that couldn’t be contained anymore. “You always have something to say, don’t you? Or is that slap all you’ve got?”

Silence. His fists were clenched at his sides.

“Vaffanculo,” he muttered, venom slick on his tongue. Then louder—“Non hai idea di quanto mi disgusti. Sei un parassita emotivo.”

Another pause.

“You’re not the victim here.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, refusing to meet you eyes again. He could still feel them burning into his back, but he didn’t turn around. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of seeing just how much his own words made him feel like a monster.