You weren’t supposed to care.

The betrothal was political—an old pureblood arrangement between your families, inked years ago and dragged into the present like a ghost. Theodore Nott barely acknowledged you beyond the occasional nod in the corridors. Quiet, clever, and wrapped in shadows, he seemed content to pretend you didn’t exist.

But you weren’t content. Not anymore.

You barely knew him. He barely spoke. Always in the back of the classroom, eyes dark and unreadable, robes pristine, posture perfect. A pureblood Slytherin mystery no one ever really questioned.

Now, you were bound to him—by magic and bloodline.

At Hogwarts, the engagement wasn’t public knowledge. Not yet. You moved through the castle like normal, stealing glances across the Great Hall, catching him in the corner of the library, dark hair falling into his eyes as he read thick, ancient books alone.

He never approached you first. Theo wasn’t like that. He was careful. Distant. But you were stubborn.

You started small: sitting nearer to him in the library, “accidentally” partnering with him in Potions, dropping casual comments about books you knew he liked. Theo never said much, but you caught the slight flicker of surprise when you offered to help him brew Amortentia, or when you handed him a stolen Honeydukes chocolate under the table in the Great Hall.

In truth, you were fascinated by him—the way he sat, composed even when the world around him was chaotic. The way he spoke only when it mattered. You wondered what it would be like to have his attention fully, willingly.

One evening, under the charmed ceiling of the Great Hall, as stars glittered overhead, he finally spoke first.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” he murmured, his voice low enough only for you to hear.